“’Cause you said suthin’ about my ways that looks suspicious.”
“Did I, Robin? I didn’t mean to. But as I was saying, I’d like to call you Robin because it reminds me of my little darling who is now in heaven. Ah! Robin was so gentle, and loving, and tender, and true, and kind. He was a good boy!”
A wheezing, which culminated in another feeble sneeze, here silenced the poor old thing.
For some minutes after that Slidder devoted himself to vigorous stirring of the gruel, and to repressed laughter, which latter made him very red in the face, and caused his shoulders to heave convulsively. At last he sought relief in occasional mutterings.
“On’y think!” he said, quoting Mrs Willis’s words, in a scarcely audible whisper, “‘so gentle, an’ lovin’, an’ tender, an’ true, an’ kind’—an’ sitch a good boy too—an’ my kindly ways is like his, are they? Well, well, Mrs W, it’s quite clear that a loo-natic asylum must be your native ’ome arter this.”
“What are you muttering about, Robin?”
“Nuffin’ partikler, granny. On’y suthin’ about your futur’ prospec’s. The gruel’s ready, I think. Will you ’ave it now, or vait till you get it?”
“There—even in your little touches of humour you’re so like him!” said the old woman, with a mingled smile and sneeze, as she slowly rose to a sitting posture, making a cone of the bedclothes with her knees, on which she laid her thin hands.
“Come now, old ’ooman,” said Slidder seriously, “if you go on jokin’ like that you’ll make me larf and spill your gruel—p’raps let it fall bash on the floor. There! Don’t let it tumble off your knees, now; I’d adwise you to lower ’em for the time bein’. Here’s the spoon; it ain’t as bright as I could wish, but you can’t expect much of pewter; an’ the napkin—that’s your sort; an’ the bit of bread—which it isn’t too much for a ’ealthy happetite. Now then, granny, go in and win!”
“So like,” murmured the old woman, as she gazed in Slidder’s face. “And it is so good of you to give up your play and come to look after a helpless old creature like me.”