“It's bigamy,” ses Joe Morgan.
“You'd get six months,” ses his wife.
“Don't you worry, dear,” ses Mrs. Pearce, nodding at George Hatchard; “that man's made a mistake.”
“Mistake!” ses Bill Flurry. “Why, I tell you I talked to 'im. It was Charlie Pearce right enough; scar on 'is forehead and a wart on 'is left ear and all.”
“It's wonderful,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I can't think where you got it all from.”
“Got it all from?” ses Bill, staring at her. “Why, from 'im.”
“Oh, of course,” ses Mrs. Pearce. “I didn't think of that; but that only makes it the more wonderful, doesn't it?—because, you see, he didn't go on the Evening Star.”
“Wot?” ses George Hatchard. “Why you told me yourself—”
“I know I did,” ses Mrs. Pearce, “but that was only just to spare your feelings. Charlie was going to sea in her, but he was prevented.”
“Prevented?” ses two or three of 'em.