“Wot did she say?” inquired Mr. Dowson.
Mr. Foss laughed. “Said I was a wrong 'un,” he said, cheerfully, “and would bring my mother's gray hairs to the grave with sorrow. I'm to 'ave bad companions and take to drink; I'm to steal money to gamble with, and after all that I'm to 'ave five years for bigamy. I told her I was disappointed I wasn't to be hung, and she said it would be a disappointment to a lot of other people too. Laugh! I thought I should 'ave killed myself.”
“I don't see nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Dowson, coldly.
“I shouldn't tell anybody else, Charlie,” said her husband. “Keep it a secret, my boy.”
“But you—you don't believe it?” stammered the crestfallen Mr. Foss.
Mrs. Dowson cast a stealthy glance at her daughter. “Its wonderful 'ow some o' those fortune-tellers can see into the future,” she said, shaking her head.
“Ah!” said her husband, with a confirmatory nod. “Wonderful is no name for it. I 'ad my fortune told once when I was a boy, and she told me I should marry the prettiest, and the nicest, and the sweetest-tempered gal in Poplar.”
Mr. Foss, with a triumphant smile, barely waited for him to finish. “There you—” he began, and stopped suddenly.
