George Hatchard coughed agin. “I 'ope you haven't been going on with that wicked plan you spoke to me about the other night,” he ses.
“Certainly not,” ses Alf, winking to 'imself; “not arter wot you said. How could I?”
“That's right,” ses the old man. “I'm sorry for this marriage for your sake, Alf. O' course, I was going to leave you my little bit of 'ouse property, but I suppose now it'll 'ave to be left to her. Well, well, I s'pose it's best for a young man to make his own way in the world.”
“I s'pose so,” ses Alf.
“Mrs. Pearce was asking only yesterday when you was going back to sea agin,” ses his uncle, looking at 'im.
“Oh!” ses Alf.
“She's took a dislike to you, I think,” ses the old man. “It's very 'ard, my fav'rite nephew, and the only one I've got. I forgot to tell you the other day that her fust 'usband, Charlie Pearce, 'ad a kind of a wart on 'is left ear. She's often spoke to me about it.”
“In—deed!” ses Alf.
“Yes,” ses his uncle, “left ear, and a scar on his forehead where a friend of his kicked 'im one day.”
Alf nodded, and then he winked at 'im agin. George Hatchard didn't wink back, but he patted 'im on the shoulder and said 'ow well he was filling out, and 'ow he got more like 'is pore mother every day he lived.