“Murder, my son-red, grim, gory murder!”
“Guilty?”
“Guilty, ya'as. What do you think?”
“Then you may go to hell”.
“'Ell is it? I'm there: and if I linger longer loo in it, you linger, too, swelp me Gawd!”
Hogarth was nonplussed.
“But the foot...”
“Never mind the foot. Foot's still good for a run. Do we go shares?”
“Come along, then”.
“But you ain't 'alf up to snuff, I can see, though you are pretty smart in your own way: I'd 'ave felt the confidence of a son in you, if you 'adn't overlooked that wine—”