The History of Mr. Polly

by H. G. Wells

Mr. Polly had never felt less witty. “How’s it your beat?” he asked.

Uncle Jim thrust his face forward and shook his open hand, bent like a claw, under Mr. Polly’s nose. “Not your blooming business,” he said. “You got to shift.”

“S’pose I don’t,” said Mr. Polly.

“You got to shift.”

The tone of Uncle Jim’s voice became urgent and confidential.

“You don’t know who you’re up against,” he said. “It’s a kindness I’m doing to warn you. See? I’m just one of those blokes who don’t stick at things, see? I don’t stick at nuffin’.”

Mr. Polly’s manner became detached and confidential—as though the matter and the speaker interested him greatly, but didn’t concern him over-much. “What do you think you’ll do?” he asked.

“If you don’t clear out?”

“Yes.”

“Gaw!” said Uncle Jim. “You’d better. ’Ere!”