“Oh! Oh! Oh! Take 'im away,” cried Mrs. Gibbs. “Go and play your tricks with somebody else's broken 'art.”
“But it's your husband,” said Mr. Brown.
“Take 'im away,” wailed Mrs. Gibbs.
Mr. Kidd, grinding his teeth, tried to think. “'Ave you got any marks on your body, Joe?” he inquired.
“I ain't got a mark on me,” said Mr. Gibbs with a satisfied air, “or a blemish. My skin is as whi—”
“That's enough about your skin,” interrupted Mr. Kidd, rudely.
“If you ain't all of you gone before I count ten,” said Mrs. Gibbs, in a suppressed voice, “I'll scream. 'Ow dare you come into a respectable woman's place and talk about your skins? Are you going? One! Two! Three! Four! Five!”
Her voice rose with each numeral; and Mr. Gibbs himself led the way downstairs, and, followed by his friends, slipped nimbly round the corner.
“It's a wonder she didn't rouse the whole 'ouse,” he said, wiping his brow on his sleeve; “and where should we ha' been then? I thought at the time it was a mistake you making me 'ave my whiskers off, but I let you know best. She's never seen me without 'em. I 'ad a remarkable strong growth when I was quite a boy. While other boys was—”
“Shut-up!” vociferated Mr. Kidd.