Uncle NOBBS, a Cat's-butcher at Clapton, who's bin in luck's way, and struck ile,
Is dead nuts on Yours Truly. Old josser, and grumpy, but he's made his pile.
Saw me settin' about in the garden, jest like a old saffron-gill'd ghost
A-waiting for cock-crow to 'ook it, and hanxious to 'ear it—a'most.
Sez he, "Wy, the boy is a bone-bag! Wot's that? Converlescent? Oh, fudge!
He's a slipping his cable, and drifting out sea-wards, if I'm any judge.
I was ditto some twenty year back, BOB, and 'Arrygate fust set me up.
Wot saved the old dog, brother ROBERT, may probably suit the young pup.
"Carn't afford it? O'course yer carn't, JENNY; but—thanks be to 'orse-flesh—I can—"
Well, he tipped us a fifty-quid crisp 'un—and ROOSE sent me 'ere; he's my Man!