“P'r'aps it's dying,” ses Ginger, as the dog let off a 'owl like a steamer coming up the river. “Stop it, you brute!”
“He'll wake the 'ouse up in a minute,” ses Peter. “Take 'im downstairs and kick 'im into the street, Sam.”
“Take 'im yourself,” ses Sam. “Hsh! Somebody's coming upstairs. Poor old doggie. Come along, then. Come along.”
The dog left off his 'owling, and went over and licked 'im just as the landlady and one or two more came to the door and called out to know wot they meant by it.
“It's all right, missis,” ses Sam. “It's on'y pore Ginger. You keep quiet,” he ses in a whisper, turning to Ginger.
“Wot's he making that row about?” ses the landlady. “He made my blood run cold.”
“He's got a touch o' toothache,” ses Sam. “Never mind, Ginger,” 'e ses in a hurry, as the dog let off another 'owl; “try and bear it.”
“He's a coward, that's wot 'e is,” ses the landlady, very fierce. “Why, a child o' five wouldn't make such a fuss.”
“Sounds more like a dog than a 'uman being,” ses another voice. “You come outside, Ginger, and I'll give you something to cry for.”
They waited a minute or two, and then, everything being quiet, they went back to bed, while old Sam talked to Ginger about wot 'e called 'is “presence o' mind,” and Ginger talked to 'im about wot he'd do to 'im if 'e wasn't a fat old man with one foot in the grave.