She left them packing, assisted by William. William carried the things to them from the sideboard cupboards.
"What's your names?" he asked, as he stumbled over a glass bowl that he had inadvertently left on the hearth-rug. His progress was further delayed while he conscientiously picked up the fragments. "Things do get broken removin'," he murmured.
"Mine is Mister Blake and 'is is Mister Johnson, and 'is is Mister Jones."
"Which is Mr. Jones? The one that walks funny?"
They shook with herculean laughter, so much so that a china cream jug slipped from Mr. Blake's fingers and lay in innumerable pieces round his boot. He kicked it carelessly aside.
"Yus," he said, bending anew to his task, "'im wot walks funny."
"Why's he walk funny?" persisted William. "Has he hurt his legs?"
"Yus," said Blake with a wink. "'E 'urt 'em at the Blue Cow comin' 'ere."
Mr. Jones' sheepish smile broadened into a guffaw.
"Well, you rest," said William sympathetically. "You lie down on the sofa an' rest. I'll help, so's you needn't do anything!"