By the time we got into the London river old Bill's leg was getting on fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter 'ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had 'ad a good many talks about the dream, and the old man 'ad invited the cook to come along 'ome with 'em, to be referred to when he told the tale.
“I shall take my opportunity,” he ses, “and break it to 'er gentle like. When I speak to you, you chip in, and not afore. D'ye understand?”
We went into the East India Docks that v'y'ge, and got there early on a lovely summer's evening. Everybody was 'arf crazy at the idea o' going ashore agin, and working as cheerful and as willing as if they liked it. There was a few people standing on the pier-head as we went in, and among 'em several very nice-looking young wimmen.
“My eye, Joseph,” ses the cook, who 'ad been staring hard at one of 'em, “there's a fine gal—lively, too. Look 'ere!”
He kissed 'is dirty paw—which is more than I should 'ave liked to 'ave done it if it 'ad been mine—and waved it, and the gal turned round and shook her 'ead at 'im.
“Here, that'll do,” ses Joseph, very cross, “That's my gal; that's my Emily.”
“Eh?” says the cook. “Well, 'ow was I to know? Besides, you're a-giving of her up.”
Joseph didn't answer 'im. He was staring at Emily, and the more he stared the better-looking she seemed to grow. She really was an uncommon nice-looking gal, and more than the cook was struck with her.
“Who's that chap standing alongside of her?” ses the cook.