“Here's a gentleman o' the name o' Smith asking arter you,” he ses, looking at Mrs. Pearce.
“Wot d'you want?” ses Mrs. Pearce rather sharp.
“It is 'er,” ses Bill, stroking his long white beard and casting 'is eyes up 'at the ceiling. “You don't remember me, Mrs. Pearce, but I used to see you years ago, when you and poor Charlie Pearce was living down Poplar way.”
“Well, wot about it?” ses Mrs. Pearce.
“I'm coming to it,” ses Bill Flurry. “I've been two months trying to find you, so there's no need to be in a hurry for a minute or two. Besides, what I've got to say ought to be broke gently, in case you faint away with joy.”
“Rubbish!” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I ain't the fainting sort.”
“I 'ope it's nothing unpleasant,” ses George Hatchard, pouring 'im out a glass of whisky.
“Quite the opposite,” ses Bill. “It's the best news she's 'eard for fifteen years.”
“Are you going to tell me wot you want, or ain't you?” ses Mrs. Pearce.
“I'm coming to it,” ses Bill. “Six months ago I was in Melbourne, and one day I was strolling about looking in at the shop-winders, when all at once I thought I see a face I knew. It was a good bit older than when I see it last, and the whiskers was gray, but I says to myself—”