“‘Your wot? asks Henery.
“‘My florist,’ ses Bob.
“‘And who might ’e be when ’e’s at home?’ asked Henery.
“‘’Tain’t so likely I’m going to tell you that,’ ses Bob. ‘Be reasonable, Henery, and ask yourself whether it’s likely I should tell you ’is name. Why, I’ve never seen sich fine geraniums afore. I’ve been nursing ’em inside all the summer, and just planted ’em out.’
“‘About two days arter I threw mine over my back fence,’ ses Henery Walker, speaking very slowly.
“‘Ho,’ ses Bob, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you ’ad any geraniums, Henery. I thought you was digging for gravel this year.’
“Henery didn’t answer ’im. Not because ’e didn’t want to, mind you, but because he couldn’t.
“‘That one,’ ses Bob, pointing at a broken geranium with the stem of ’is pipe, ’is a “Dook o’ Wellington,” and that white one there is wot I’m going to call “Pretty’s Pride.” That fine marigold over there, wot looks like a sunflower, is called “Golden Dreams.”’
“‘Come along, Henery,’ ses Bill Chambers, bursting, ‘come and get something to take the taste out of your mouth.’
“‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a flower for your button-’ole,’ ses Bob, perlitely, ‘but it’s getting so near the Flower Show now I can’t afford it. If you chaps only knew wot pleasure was to be ’ad sitting among your innercent flowers, you wouldn’t want to go to the public-house so often.’