Last Christmas a middle-aged tinplate-worker married a widow whose acquaintance he had made but a few weeks before while working some little distance away from home.
“Sarrah,” he said nervously, after the guests had departed, “I ’ave a weddin’ present for ye.”
“What is it, John?” said Sarrah with a smirk.
“I ’ope ye won’t be ’fended, Sarrah,” said John, more agitated than ever, “but it is—er—er—it is five of ’em.”
“Five of wat?” asked Sarrah.
“Five children!” blurted out John desperately, anticipating a scene. “I didn’t tell ye I ’ad children—five of ’em.”
Sarrah took the news quite calmly; in fact, she appeared relieved.
“Oh, well, John,” she said, “that do make it easier for me to tell ye. Five is not so bad as me, watever. Seven I ’ave got!”
“Wat!” howled John.
“Seven,” repeated Sarrah composedly. “That is my weddin’ present to ye, John.”