“That’s right,” said Mr. Tridge. “You leave it to me and Peter. We’ll convince ’er all right.”
That same evening Mr. Dobb lay fretfully in bed, suffering from a vague ailment which, he averred, was not serious enough to demand a doctor, but too serious to permit of Mrs. Dobb’s ministrations as a nurse. In these circumstances, two visitors who called to see Mr. Dobb were about to be sent away by his wife, when Mr. Dobb, who happened to be standing at his open bedroom door, gave orders that they should ascend to his apartment.
“Well,” he asked, breathlessly, as Mr. Tridge and Mr. Lock entered, “’ave you convinced ’er? Is she gone?”
“No, she ain’t,” said Mr. Tridge, regretfully. “She’s looking for a situation in the town. And, do you know, I don’t believe she quite took in what we told ’er about mistaking Peter for you. I believe she’s sharper than we think.”
“But you’ve got to make ’er believe it!” wrathfully snapped Mr. Dobb.
“I doubt if she’s the sort you can make do anything,” said Mr. Lock.
“A most determined young person,” said Mr. Tridge. “When she makes up ’er mind, I should say—”
“She ain’t half bitter against you, ’Orace,” remarked Mr. Lock. “You ought to hear the things she said about you! What was that bit she told us about the bag of sweets, Joe?”
“I don’t want to ’ear about sweets!” exclaimed Mr. Dobb, impatiently. “I want to ’ear about ’er plans!”
“Well, she said she was going to try for two ’undred and fifty,” replied Mr. Tridge. “Soon as ever she knew where to find you, she said, she was coming round to—”