“'What's up?' I says. 'Got the shove?'
“'Yes,' he answers; 'but, as it happens, it's a shove up. I've been taken off the yard and put on the walk, with a rise of two bob a week.' Then he took another pull at the beer and looked more savage than ever.
“'Well,' I says, 'that ain't the sort of thing to be humpy about.'
“'Yes it is,' he snaps back; 'it means that if I don't take precious good care I'll drift into being a blooming milkman, spending my life yelling “Milk ahoi!” and spooning smutty-faced servant-gals across area railings.'
“'Oh!' I says, 'and what may you prefer to spoon—duchesses?'
“'Yes,' he answers sulky-like; 'duchesses are right enough—some of 'em.'
“'So are servant-gals,' I says, 'some of 'em. Your hat's feeling a bit small for you this morning, ain't it?'
“'Hat's all right,' says he; 'it's the world as I'm complaining of—beastly place; there's nothing to do in it.'
“'Oh!' I says; 'some of us find there's a bit too much.' I'd been up since five that morning myself; and his own work, which was scouring milk-cans for twelve hours a day, didn't strike me as suggesting a life of leisured ease.
“'I don't mean that,' he says. 'I mean things worth doing.'