“Has anybody complained?” she yelled, going up half an octave at each word. “Well! Well! Everybody ’as their rows, don’t they? Move on yourself. Oh! you brute!”
Then we heard a scuffle, more words, a torrent of tears and abuse.
But it was all quiet at last; the short spell of silence between the last cab and the venders of Sunday papers.
“Referee!” “Lloyd’s!” “Weekly Dispatch!”
The men went bawling along the pavements beneath. Jimmy, who had collapsed after the row, opened his eyes again.
“Give me a whisky,” he said. “Fill up. I’ll say when.”
As I was pouring the water, and waiting for him to stop me, he murmured enthusiastically:
“How good Dot and Lottie Mack were in that laughing duet. Lottie married an earl. I wonder what became of Dot.”
When I took the tumbler and whisky and water to the side of the bed, he was dead.
We fetched Mrs. Morey to lay him out. She was ghoulishly curious about the funeral, and kept me half an hour while she told me about her father’s.