“But you’ll make a promise to me too, Abel, won’t you, dear?” said Mrs Bones; “you’ll promise not to do ’im harm of any kind—not to tempt ’im?”
“Yes, Molly, I promise that.”
Mrs Bones knew, by some peculiarity in the tone of her husband’s voice, that he meant what he said, and was also satisfied.
“Now, Molly,” said Bones, with a smile, “I want you to write a letter for me, so get another sheet of paper, if you can; Mr Aspel used up my last one.”
A sheet was procured from a neighbouring tobacconist. Mrs Bones always acted as her husband’s amanuensis (although he wrote very much better than she did), either because he was lazy, or because he entertained some fear of his handwriting being recognised by his enemies the police! Squaring her elbows, and with her head very much on one side—almost reposing on the left arm—Mrs Bones produced a series of hieroglyphics which might have been made by a fly half-drowned in ink attempting to recover itself on the paper. The letter ran as follows:—
“Deer bil i am a-goin to doo it on mundy the 15th tother cove wont wurk besides Iv chaningd my mind about him. Don’t fale.”
“What’s the address, Abel?” asked Mrs Bones.
“Willum Stiggs,” replied her husband.
“So—i—g—s,” said Mrs Bones, writing very slowly, “Rosebud Cottage.”
“What!” exclaimed the man fiercely, as he started up.