“Bad!” ses Mr. Goodman. “I come up to London for a 'oliday—a change, mind you—and I thought Peter and me was going to 'ave a good time. Instead o' that, he goes about with a face as long as a fiddle. He don't drink, 'e don't go to places of amusement—innercent places of amusement —and 'is idea of enjoying life is to go walking about the streets and drinking cups o' tea.”
“We must try and alter 'im,” ses Sam, arter doing a bit o' thinking.
“Certainly not,” ses Mr. Goodman, laying his 'and on Sam's knee. “Far be it from me to interfere with a feller-creature's ideas o' wot's right. Besides, he might get writing to 'is sister agin, and she might tell my wife.”
“But Peter said she was dead,” ses Sam, very puzzled.
“I married agin,” ses Peter's uncle, in a whisper, 'cos people was telling 'im to keep quiet, “a tartar—a perfect tartar. She's in a 'orsepittle at present, else I shouldn't be 'ere. And I shouldn't ha' been able to come if I 'adn't found five pounds wot she'd hid in a match-box up the chimbley.”
“But wot'll you do when she finds it out?” ses Sam, opening 'is eyes.
“I'm going to 'ave the house cleaned and the chimbleys swept to welcome her 'ome,” ses Mr. Goodman, taking a sip o' whiskey. “It'll be a little surprise for her.”
They stayed till it was over, and on the bus he gave Sam some strong peppermint lozenges wot 'e always carried about with 'im, and took some 'imself. He said 'e found 'em helpful.
“What are we going to tell Peter and Ginger?” ses Sam, as they got near the 'ouse.
“Tell 'em?” ses Mr. Goodman. “Tell 'em the truth. How we follered 'em when they got off the bus, and 'ave been looking for 'em ever since. I'm not going to 'ave my 'oliday spoilt by a teetotal nevvy, I can tell you.”