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Updated: May 17, 2025
"That's where you and me don't agree," said the policeman. "I came to the conclusion this morning that we don't ask the reason why enough not by 'alf. Now if somebody did as you say, and started collectin' policemen, what would be the reason?" "Reason?" shouted the taxi-man. "Don't arsk me for a reason." He turned to his taxi-cab and jerked the starting handle violently.
"Mark Carrick," was the almost surly answer. "His business?" "Scrivener." "Why did you come to Krovitch?" The question was advanced suddenly, unexpectedly, as if to catch the chauffeur off his guard. "I'm Captain Carter's man; you'd better arsk him." Carrick was displaying renewed signs of impatience. Sobieska paused.
Mebbe 'e'll be better when 'e wykes up. 'E don't talk sense now, that's sure. If you arsk me, I sye 'e's balmy and no 'ope for 'im." Contradictory to the hopeful prognosis of Captain Stryker, his unaccredited passenger was not "better" when, after a period of oblivious rest indefinite in duration, he awoke.
See if he don't bile the peas and make a blooming pudd'n of the cherries. You see if he don't! That's all I say, if you arsk me." A few interchanges on these lines ended in Michael undertaking to deliver the goods personally as a favour, time enough Sunday morning for Aunt Elizabeth Jane herself to make a pudding of the cherries, blooming or otherwise.
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