“Not that; a funny one.”
And when I told him a fairy tale, he snapped up and said he didn’t like it.
It ended in my telling him the “The Three Bears” over and over again. It was about the sixty-fifth time of telling that we got to Vauxhall, and had to give up tickets.
“Now, young ’un, look out for your governor when we get in—I don’t know him, you know.”
The young ass didn’t know what I meant.
“Look out for daddy, then,” I said.
He promptly stuck his head out of the window and said the ticket-collector was daddy; then that the porter was; then that a sweep on the platform was.
It wasn’t very hopeful for spotting the real daddy at Waterloo. I told him to shut up and wait till we got there.
When we got there, I stuck him up at the window, as large as life, for his governor to see. There were a lot of people about; but I can tell you I was pretty queer when no one owned him. We hung about a quarter of an hour, asking everybody we met if they’d come to meet a kid, and watching them all go off in cabs, till we had the platform to ourselves.
“Here’s a go, kid!” said I; “daddy’s not come.”