“Well, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, without looking up.
“Phee-ew!” whistled Joe, softly, as he took up the pipe laid ready beside the old, grey, battered, leaden tobacco-box, filled the bowl, and lit up before speaking again, Mrs Banks meanwhile making a cup of tea for him to have with his supper.
“Why didn’t you come home to tea, Joe—didn’t you know there was some pig cheer?”
“Bit of a row up at the works. Didn’t you know?”
“Bless us and save us, no!” cried Mrs Banks, nearly dropping the teapot, and hurrying to her husband’s side. “You’re not hurt, Joe?”
“Not a bit, lass. Give us a buss.”
Mrs Banks submitted ungraciously to a salute being placed upon her comely cheek, and then, satisfied that no one was hurt, she proceeded to fill up the pot, and resumed her taciturn behaviour.
“Owd woman’s a bit popped,” said Joe to himself. Then aloud, “Wheer’s Daisy?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said Mrs Banks, tartly. “Wheer’s Daisy? There’s no keeping the girl at home now-a-days, gadding about.”
“Is she up at the House?” said Joe. “I suppose so,” said Mrs Banks; “and, mark my words, Joe, no good ’ll come of it. It’s your doing, mind.”