“So, Billy,” says she, addressing the boy, “you’ve been made office-boy at Hawk Street, I hear?”
“I are so—leastways I ham so,” replies Billy, who appears to be in some difficulty just now with his mother tongue.
“You mustn’t stand on your head in the office, you know,” says the young lady, with a mischievous smile, “or the junior partner would be horrified.”
The young lady’s brother smiles, as if this observation referred to him, and the elderly lady looks particularly proud, for some reason or other.
“That there bloke—” begins the boy.
“Order, sir,” exclaims the young lady; “haven’t I told you, Billy, that ‘bloke’ is not a nice word? It’s all very well for a shoeblack, but it won’t do for an office-boy.”
“You do jaw me—” again began the boy.
“I what you?”
“Jaw—leastways you tork, you do,” said Billy, who appeared to be as much in awe of the young lady as he was hopeless of attaining the classical English.
“I say, Mary,” laughed the brother, “you might give Billy a holiday to-day, as it’s Christmas Day. You can’t expect him to master the Queen’s English all at once.”