“Who to?” ses one of the draymen, sticking his face into mine. “You go ’ome to your wife and kids. Go on now, afore I put up my ’ands to you.”
“That’s the way to talk to ’im,” ses the pot-man, nodding at ’em.
They all began to talk to me then and tell me wot I was to do, and wot they would do if I didn’t. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. When I reminded the mate that when he was up in London ’e always passed himself off as a single man, ’e wouldn’t listen; and when I asked the skipper whether ’is pore missus was blind, he on’y went on shouting at the top of ’is voice. It on’y showed me ’ow anxious most people are that everybody else should be good.
I thought they was never going to stop, and, if it ’adn’t been for a fit of coughing, I don’t believe that the scraggy little woman could ha’ stopped. Arter one o’ the draymen ’ad saved her life and spoilt ’er temper by patting ’er on the back with a hand the size of a leg o’ mutton, the carman turned to me and told me to tell the truth, if it choked me.
“I have told you the truth,” I ses. “She ses I’m her ’usband and I say I ain’t. Ow’s she going to prove it? Why should you believe her, and not me?”
“She’s got a truthful face,” ses the carman.
“Look here!” ses the skipper, speaking very slow, “I’ve got an idea, wot’ll settle it p’raps. You get outside,” he ses, turning sharp on the two little boys.
One o’ the draymen ’elped ’em to go out, and ’arf a minute arterwards a stone came over the gate and cut the potman’s lip open. Boys will be boys.
“Now!” ses the skipper, turning to the woman, and smiling with conceitedness. “Had your ’usband got any marks on ’im? Birth-mark, or moles, or anything of that sort?”
“I’m sure he is my ’usband,” ses the woman, dabbing her eyes.