“Always the way in dreams,” remarked his friend philosophically.
“Yes—ain’t it jolly convenient?” continued the other. “Well, w’en I got to the ’ouse I set to work, made a rousin’ fire, put on the kettle, cooked the wittles as if I’d bin born and bred in a ’otel, and in less than five minutes ’ad a smokin’ dinner on the table, that would ’ave busted an alderman. In course the Wilkins axed no questions. Father, mother, five kids, and self all drew in our chairs, and sot down—”
“What fun!” exclaimed Stumpy.
“Ay, but you spoilt the fun, for it was just at that time you shoved your fist into my ribs, and woke me before one of us could get a bite o’ that grub into our mouths. If we’d even ’ad time to smell it, that would ’ave bin somethink to remember.”
“Howlet,” said the other impressively, “d’ye think the Wilkins is livin’ in the same place still?”
“As like as not.”
“Could you find it again?”
“Could I find Saint Paul’s, or the Moniment? I should think so!”
“Come along, then, and let’s pay ’em a wisit.”
They were not long in finding the place—a dirty court at the farther end of a dark passage.