“Wait a bit,” says he, “I’m goin’ with you.”
“Are yer?” I says.
“I just am,” says he.
“Then come on,” says I; and away we went.
On the way I gets a sixpenny Watling at a public, and then at a tater-can a dozen hot mealies, which I shoves in my coat pockets, and the pie in my hat; while the baker he slips into the fust shop we comes to, and picks out a couple of the best crusted cottages as he could find.
Well, sir, we gets at last to Number 99, King’s Court, and afore we goes in I says to the baker, says I—
“Now if this is a do, we’ll just have a friendly supper off what we’ve bought, and a drop of hot.”
“Agreed,” says life.
And we went up the stairs, and knocked at the fust floor front.
“Mrs Graham lodge here?” says I.