“No; she says you took some fresh butter last time you was here, and you sha’n’t come.”
“Then you sha’n’t stay, Bob; I’ll take you away, my darling. Oh, it’s a wicked, cruel world!”
“Here, I say, mother, stow that. Whatcher want?”
“What, my darling? Yes, that’s it: want—staring want; but you sha’n’t stay here.”
“Get out. I shall.”
“No, you sha’n’t, you ungrateful boy. I won’t be separated from my own child. Bob dear, have you got any money?”
“Eh?”
“Anybody give you anything?” whined the woman. “There ain’t been nothing pass my lips this blessed day.”
“Oho! what a wunner!” cried the boy. “Why, I can smell yer.”
“No, no, my dear; that’s Mrs Billson as you can smell. I’ve been talking to her, and she drink ’orrid. Ain’tcher got a few pence for your poor lone mother, who’s ready to break her heart sometimes because she’s parted from her boy?”