"A what?" I asked.
"Wot Goliath 'as, a girl at home."
"That's it, is it? Why do you think of such a thing?"
"I was trying to write a letter to-day to St. Albans," said Bill, and his voice became low and confidential. "But you're no mate," he added. "You were goin' to make some poetry and I haven't got it yet."
"What kind of poetry do you want me to make?" I asked.
"Yer know it yerself, somethin' nice like!"
"About the stars—"
"Star-shells if you like."
"Shall I begin now? We can write it out later."
"Righto!"