“I 'ad a dream last night,” ses Alf. “I dreamt that a man I know named Bill Flurry, but wot called 'imself another name in my dream, and didn't know me then, came 'ere one evening when we was all sitting down at supper, Joe Morgan and 'is missis being here, and said as 'ow Mrs. Pearce's fust husband was alive and well.”
“That's a very odd dream,” ses his uncle; “but wot was Joe Morgan and his missis in it for?”
“Witnesses,” ses Alf.
George Hatchard fell over a footstool with surprise. “Go on,” he ses, rubbing his leg. “It's a queer thing, but I was going to ask the Morgans 'ere to spend the evening next Wednesday.”
“Or was it Tuesday?” ses Alf, considering.
“I said Tuesday,” ses his uncle, looking over Alf's head so that he needn't see 'im wink agin. “Wot was the end of your dream, Alf?”
“The end of it was,” ses Alf, “that you and Mrs. Pearce was both very much upset, as o' course you couldn't marry while 'er fust was alive, and the last thing I see afore I woke up was her boxes standing at the front door waiting for a cab.”
George Hatchard was going to ask 'im more about it, but just then Mrs. Pearce came in with a pair of Alf's socks that he 'ad been untidy enough to leave in the middle of the floor instead of chucking 'em under the bed. She was so unpleasant about it that, if it hadn't ha' been for the thought of wot was going to 'appen on Tuesday, Alf couldn't ha' stood it.
For the next day or two George Hatchard was in such a state of nervousness and excitement that Alf was afraid that the 'ousekeeper would notice it. On Tuesday morning he was trembling so much that she said he'd got a chill, and she told 'im to go to bed and she'd make 'im a nice hot mustard poultice. George was afraid to say “no,” but while she was in the kitchen making the poultice he slipped out for a walk and cured 'is trembling with three whiskies. Alf nearly got the poultice instead, she was so angry.