The Yellow Dove

by George Gibbs

“Yus. But they’re arfter ’im. There comes hyviashun. O ’ell!”

The expletive in a final tone of disgust for the fog had fallen again, completely obliterating the air-craft and its pursuers.

“’Oo’s Yaller-belly?” asked a smooth-faced youth who still wore the sallow of London under his coat of windburn.

“You’re one of the new lot, ayn’t yer? You’ll know b——y soon ’oo Yaller-belly is, won’t ’e, Bill? Pow! That’s ’im—them sharp ones.”

“Garn!” said the one called Bill. “’E never ’its anythink but the dirt an’ ’e cawn’t ’elp that.”

“’Tayn’t ’cos ’e don’t try. ’Ear ’em? Nice droppin’s fer a dove, ayn’t they?”

“Dove?” said the newcomer.

“Yus. Tubs the swine calls ’em——”

“Tawb, yer blighter.”