“All right.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
In a Fog.
“Look-ye here, old mate,” growled Wriggs to his companion, “I’m getting jolly well sick o’ this here job.”
“Why, yer ungrateful beggar, what are you grumbling about now? You had too much o’ them joosety pigeons, and it’s been too strong for you.”
“’Tarn’t that,” growled Wriggs, in a hoarse whisper. “It’s this here ladder.”
“What’s the matter with the ladder, mate? Seemed to me to be a nice light strong ’un when I carried it.”
“Oh, yes, it’s strong enough, messmate, but it makes me feel like a fool, Tommy.”