“Be'old!” he says.
“Oh, it's easy enough,” he goes on. “Some of 'em's bound to come out right, and when one does, you take it from me, our paper mentions the fact. And when it is a wrong 'un—well, a man can't always be shouting about himself, can 'e?”
He ordered a cup of coffee. He said he was waiting for someone, and we got to chatting about old times.
“How's Carrots?” I asked.
“Miss Caroline Trevelyan,” he answered, “is doing well.”
“Oh,” I says, “you've found out her fam'ly name, then?”
“We've found out one or two things about that lidy,” he replies. “D'yer remember 'er dancing?”
“I have seen her flinging her petticoats about outside the shop, when the copper wasn't by, if that's what you mean,” I says.
“That's what I mean,” he answers. “That's all the rage now, 'skirt-dancing' they calls it. She's a-coming out at the Oxford to-morrow. It's 'er I'm waiting for. She's a-coming on, I tell you she is,” he says.
“Shouldn't wonder,” says I; “that was her disposition.”