“And how is Mrs Winks?” said Harry.
“There ain’t no such person living here at all now, sir,” said D. Wragg, pulling up his collars, and speaking with dignity. “Don’t you make no mistake, sir. Mrs Winks is no more; and busy as a bee has she been this very week, marking all her linen over again in big letters—W, r, a, g, g—though I kep’ on telling her—such is the beautiful, clean, tidy, mending natur’ of that woman—as there wasn’t a rag among ’em.”
“What! married?” ejaculated Harry, with real surprise.
“Married it is, sir. Don’t you make no mistake. We both found the place awful lonely as soon as our lodgers had gone; and what with the theayter getting unpleasant on account of Mrs Winks being stouter than she used to, and people’s knees getting a deed in her way when she went round with her basket, and me having so much natur’ in hand to attend to, we agreed between ourselves as she should give the theayter up, and take a share in this here business, sir, and all under one name, sir.”
“And a very wise act too,” said Harry, smiling.
“Twenty years did I know her, sir, before I made the venter; and I don’t mind tellin’ you, sir, as is a gent I respex, if Mrs D. Wragg wasn’t quite so stout, she’d be an angel. But there, sir, don’t you make no mistake. I’m as happy as the day’s long; and talk about people’s pussonal appearance! why, look at me!”
In his modest self-disparagement, D. Wragg again became quite mechanical in his fits and starts, ending by crumpling up the newspaper, and sweeping an empty cage from the counter with his turnip-sowing arm.
“Looks are nothing, Mr Wragg, if the heart is right,” said Harry, smiling; “but I must be going. I thought I would look in as I passed.”
“Thanky, sir, thanky, which it’s very kind; but just a minute, sir. I wanted to tell you as I’ve quite done with the dorg business, and refused lots of commissions; and now, though I say it, as didn’t oughter, there ain’t a squarer shop in all London than this here. You’d hardly believe it, sir, but if I didn’t sell that there Sergeant Falkner a canary bird and cage last week, I’m a Dutchman. Brings his missus with him to choose it, he does, and calls agen yesterday—no, the day afore—to say as it sings splendid, and shook hands when he went, quite friendly. But won’t you take just a taste o’ something before you go, sir? The missus will be put out at not seeing you; stepped out, she has, for a few potatoes. And how we have talked about you, surely! Look here, sir, here’s the werry thing as I hung up in that winder as soon as he was found—and none too soon neither, for I was obligated to have my shutters up for a week, and they did smash half a dozen of the first-floor panes as it was. ‘There,’ says I to the people, ‘don’t you make no mistake: I ain’t burked the gent as took it into his head to dress up and come to see—’ But there! I won’t say no more—and I hung out that, sir.”
As D. Wragg spoke, he produced a dusty, smoke and fly-stained card, upon which, in large type, was printed—