“If I dreamt it fifty times it wouldn't make any difference,” ses George Hatchard. “Here! wot are you up to? 'Ave you gone mad, or wot? You poke me in the ribs like that agin if you dare.”
“Her fust 'usband's alive,” ses Alf, smiling at un.
“Wot?” ses his uncle.
“He floated away on a bit o' wreckage,” ses Alf, nodding at 'im, “just like they do in books, and was picked up more dead than alive and took to Melbourne. He's now living up-country working on a sheep station.”
“Who's dreaming now?” ses his uncle.
“It's a fact,” ses Alf. “I know a chap wot's met 'im and talked to 'im. She can't marry you while he's alive, can she?”
“Certainly not,” ses George Hatchard, trembling all over; “but are you sure you 'aven't made a mistake?”
“Certain sure,” ses Alf.
“It's too good to be true,” ses George Hatchard.
“O' course it is,” ses Alf, “but she won't know that. Look 'ere; you write down all the things that she 'as told you about herself and give it to me, and I'll soon find the chap I spoke of wot's met 'im. He'd meet a dozen men if it was made worth his while.”