“’Ullo!” said Mr. Clark, awkwardly.
“Why ain’t you at the ferry?” asked Mr. Dobb.
“That’s my business, ’Orace,” stated Mr. Clark, restively.
“I know it is!” retorted Mr. Dobb. “That’s why I’m asking you why you ain’t there!” He apprehended the gala nature of Mr. Clark’s attire, and started in surprise. “You—you ain’t been love-making, ’ave you, Sam—not on your wages?” he asked.
“No such luck!” replied Mr. Clark, ruefully. “But,” he added, “I know where she lodges, anyway.”
“’Oo?”
“Why, Miss Margureety Delafayne,” replied Mr. Clark, voicing the name in cadences of mournful satisfaction.
“Oh, ’er!” said Mr. Dobb, with scant interest. “I’d forgot all about that, and I thought you ’ad, too. You generally does.”
“I’ve been watching ’er go in and out of ’er front door these last two days,” stated the love-lore Mr. Clark. “Watched, unbeknown, from the corner of the road, I ’ave. I’ve just come from there now. Are you going to the theayter to-night?”
Mr. Dobb’s reply was pietistic in form.