“Got ’im there, William,” said a neighbor.
The drayman sniffed, and threw out his stomach.
“Facts is facts. Doctorin’ ain’t drivin’ ’osses.”
“Thank the Lord, Mr. Sweetyer, it ain’t, for our sakes.”
“I say the man blundered.”
“And who ’asn’t run ’is nose into a lamp-post on occasions? Why, look ’ere,” and Mr. Bains stretched out a didactic forefinger, “when my little girl ’ad the diphtheria, who pulled ’er through? And who saved old Jenny Lowther’s leg? And there was young Ben Thompson, who some London joker swore was a dyin’ man!”
“That’s true,” said a bony woman in an old red blouse.
The drayman, finding the neighbors inclined to take the sweep’s view of the matter, began to look hot, and a little nettled.
“Well, what ’ave yer got to say about the booze?” he asked.
“I reckon that’s more your business than mine.”