Bill. I'd take all the beaks, an' all the peelers, an' put their own bracelets on 'em, an' feed 'em once a day on scraps o' wittles to bring out the hunger: a cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all.
Jim. He gets what mother calls the squeamishes.
Jack. Well, Bill?
Bill. Well, the worry moment their bellies was as long an' as loose as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin', I'd bring 'em all up to this 'ere winder, five or six at a time—with the darbies on, mind ye—
Jim. And I'm to be there to see, Bill—ain't I?
Bill. If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer prayers.
Jack. My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go it, Bill.
Bill. Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an' Gen'lemen, 'cos as how ye're all good boys, an' goes to church, an' don't eat too many wittles, an' don't take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you shall obswerve me eat."
Jim. Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill.
Bill. No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a 'ungry gift, as the cock said when he bolted the pebbles. Let's sojourn the meetin'.