“Popper’s goin’ ter have stike, Jinnie; m’yby Mr. Perkins’ll give yer lots o’ gryvy. Hit i’n’t time fer the kikes.”
Perhaps I ought to say to those who have not studied dialect as “she is spoke” that the word m’yby is the Seven Dials idiom for maybe, itself more or less an Americanism, signifying “perhaps,” while “kikes” is a controvertible term for cakes.
After breakfast, as a matter of course, the senior members of both families attended divine service, then came dinner, and after dinner the usual matching of the children began. The hopefuls of Perkins were matched against the scions of Bradley. All four were brought down-stairs and into the parental presence in the library.
“Your Harry is a fine fellow, Mrs. Bradley,” said Thaddeus.
“Yes, we think Harry is a very nice boy,” returned Mrs. Bradley, with a fond glance at the youth.
“Wot djer si about me, mar?” asked Harry.
“Nothing, dear,” replied Mrs. Bradley, raising her eyebrows reprovingly.
“Yes, yer did, too,” retorted Harry. “Yer said as ’ow hi were a good boy.”
“Well, ’e i’n’t, then,” interjected Jennie. “’E’s a bloomin’ mean un. ’E took a knoife an’ cut open me doll.”
“’Ush, Jinnie, ’ush!” put in the nurse. “Don’t yer tell tiles on ’Arry. ’E didn’t mean ter ’urt yer doll. ’Twas a haxident.”