“Ello!” said Mrs. Larkins.
“Mrs. Polly frying an extra bit of bacon. Bacon singing, cat singing, canary singing. Kettle singing. Mrs. Polly—”
“But who’s Mrs. Polly going to be?” said Mrs. Larkins.
“Figment of the imagination, ma’am,” said Mr. Polly. “Put in to fill up picture. No face to figure as yet. Still, that’s how it will be, I can assure you. I think I must have a bit of garden. Johnson’s the man for a garden of course,” he said, going off at a tangent, “but I don’t mean a fierce sort of garden. Earnest industry. Anxious moments. Fervous digging. Shan’t go in for that sort of garden, ma’am. No! Too much backache for me. My garden will be just a patch of ’sturtiums and sweet pea. Red brick yard, clothes’ line. Trellis put up in odd time. Humorous wind vane. Creeper up the back of the house.”
“Virginia creeper?” asked Miriam.
“Canary creeper,” said Mr. Polly.
“You will ’ave it nice,” said Miriam, desirously.
“Rather,” said Mr. Polly. “Ting-a-ling-a-ling. Shop!”
He straightened himself up and then they all laughed.
“Smart little shop,” he said. “Counter. Desk. All complete. Umbrella stand. Carpet on the floor. Cat asleep on the counter. Ties and hose on a rail over the counter. All right.”