Having cleared up this point, "Joe" began to shuffle again. "Nother thing I sing 'em is th' follerin'," he said.
"'Eave out all yure bones, bottles, tins, fats, boots and shoes,
If yu don't 'eave out you'll be sure to lose—
Cose then I'll pinch th' 'ull blinkin' lot mesel'!"
"An' tyke it frum me, I does pinch 'em too," he added, stopping in front of me again. "Likewise, any other reefoose—like ov'ralls an' such left lyin' roun' wher' it 'adn't ought tu be. Sum times they gets 'em back, an' sum times they duzen't. Serves 'em jolly well rite for bein' keerless."
At this juncture I began to search my pockets for a piece of paper upon which to jot down the burden of "Joe's" cries.
"Never mind, sir," he said cheerily as my hands came up empty, "ther's allus whatev'r yure needin' in th' stayshunary line in my wastepaper dupartment."
He threw back the cover of a huge box, and at almost the first grab brought up a scented sheet of pink note paper which—except where some one had written "Dear Kitty—Just a line to tell you I am in the pink and hoping——" followed by a blot, and a grease-spot in the middle—was just as good as new.
"This dupartment is both my joy an' my sorrer," said "Joe" pensively, digging his arm deep into the soft depths. "I salves the story o' 'Arseen Lupin' an' a Gieves joolry catalog—both compleet—this mornin', an' I've laid by some 'Merican papers (Pittsburg, I b'leeve) fer yu, sir. But th' tantylysin thing about it is what's allus missin'. Jest look at this, fer instance, sir," and he fished a greasy fragment of paper from a pocket of his overall and handed it to me. In a highly appropriate "atmosphere"—with the scent of fat to starboard, the fragrance of bones to port, and the ineffable odours of the "crumbs" grudgingly allotted to the "X. Y. Z.'s" piggery rising from the depths of the tub on the rim of which I sat—I read the following, just this and no word more:—
A SWEET SMELLING SAVOUR
I
Some rave about the subtle scents of Araby and Ind,
Of camphor and of ambergris, of sandal-wood and musk,
The poet chants the praises of the violet and the rose,
And stately lilies standing by the dew-drenched lawn at dusk.