“A floower in front garden!” ironically responded Holgate, the Yorkshire engineer, as he lay on his back on the lower deck of the Osiris, waiting for Fielding Pasha’s orders to steam up the river.
“‘E was the bloomin’ flower of the flock,” said Henry Withers, with a cross between a yawn and a sigh, and refusing to notice Holgate’s sarcasm.
“Aw’ve heerd on ‘em, the floowers o’ the flock—they coom to a bad end mostwise in Yorkshire—nipped in t’ bood loike! Was tha friend nipped untimely?”
“I’d give a bloomin’ camomile to know!”
“Deserted or summat?”
“Ow yus, ‘e deserted—to Khartoum,” answered Withers with a sneer.
“The ‘owlin’ sneak went in ‘idin’ with Gordon at Khartoum!”
“Aye, aw’ve heerd o’ Gordon a bit,” said Holgate dubiously, intent to further anger the Beetle, as Henry Withers was called.
“Ow yus, ow verily yus! An’ y’ve ‘eard o’ Julius Caesar, an’ Nebucha’nezzar, an’ Florence Noightingyle, ‘aven’t you—you wich is chiefly bellyband and gullet.”
“Aye, aw’ve eaten too mooch to-day,” rejoined Holgate placidly, refusing to see insult. “Aw don’t see what tha friend was doin’ at Khartoum wi’ Goordon.”