My pore Bill (that's my 'usband as now
lives in the fine 'Straley) was a'most killed a-fightin' a Irishman.
They brought 'im 'um an' laid 'im afore her werry eyes, an' the sight
throw'd 'er into high-strikes, an' arter that the name of "father"
allus throwed her into high-strikes, an' that's why I told 'em at the
studero never to say that word. An' I know you _must_ 'a' said it,
some o' your cussed lot must, or else why should my pore darter 'a'
'ad the high-strikes? Nothin' else never gev 'er no high-strikes only
talkin' to 'er about 'er father. An' as to me a-sendin' 'er
a-beggin', I tell you she liked beggin'. I gev her baskets to sell,
an' flowers to sell, an' yet she _would_ beg. I tell you she liked
beggin'. Some gals does. She was touched in the 'ead, an' she used to
say she _must_ beg, an' there was nothink she used to like so much as
to stan' with a box o' matches a-jabberin' a tex' out o' the Bible
unless it was singin'. There you are, a-larfin' and a-gurnin' ag'in.
If I wur on'y 'arf as drunk as you are the coppers 'ud 'a' run _me_
in hours ago; cuss 'em, an' their favouritin' ways.
Pages:
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559