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Updated: June 4, 2025
And what right 'ad you to arst 'er to darnce, you lop-eared rabbit?" interrupted the larrikin, raising his voice as he warmed to his subject. "I brought 'er 'ere. I paid the shillin'. Now then, you take your 'ook," he went on, pointing sternly to the door, and talking as he would to a disobedient dog. "Go on, now. Take your 'ook." The Englishman said nothing, but his jaw set ominously.
At first it was all congratulations, then Sam, after a short, hard, cough, struck a jarring note. "Don't you wish now as you'd joined the syndikit, Dick?" he asked boldly. "Wot?" said the cook, hastily replacing the coins. "I arst 'im whether he was sorry 'e 'adn't joined us," said Sam, trying to speak calmly.
And while he sat making it, far away in London a respectable-looking man was walking up and down Regent Street among the shoppers and the motors and carriages, with a fluffy little white dog under each arm. And he sold both the dogs. "One was a lady in a carriage," he told Dickie later on. "Arst 'er two thick 'uns, I did. Never turned a hair, no more I didn't.
Just to put before you what I think the Truth. You see" she shook off the pince-nez to which she had recently taken "in a few years we shall be the same age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men are so much nicer than women." "Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?" "I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance." "Has nobody arst you?" "Only ninnies."
"And when this chap married 'er sister 'im and me was great friends what must 'e do but arst me down to Colchester, close by where She lived. Naturally I was introjuced to 'er people, and well, very soon, her and me was engaged." He repeated "engaged."
You can arst them down at Brentford. Kind old Tom Blake, wot wouldn't hurt a fly; and I says, 'Come on, all of yer, and I'll knock yer insides through yer backbones." Sidney Price spoke again. His words were honeyed, but ineffectual. "I'm honest old Tom, I am," boomed Thomas Blake, "and I'm ready for the lot of yer: you and yer free tea and yer errers."
"When when did he write eh?" I cried. "'Ow do I know?" retorted Billy, who evidently misunderstood and failed to appreciate my agitated manner. "I aren't arsked 'im. Arst 'im yourself if you want to know." And he drew himself up in evident dudgeon. I didn't know what to do. It was no time to denounce or lament.
How are you getting on?" "I was arst," said Uncle Pentstemon, and brooded for a moment. "I goes about seeing wonders," he added, and then in a sort of enhanced undertone: "One of 'er girls gettin' married. That's what I mean by wonders. Lord's goodness! Wow!" "Nothing the matter?" asked Johnson. "Got it in the back for a moment. Going to be a change of weather I suppose," said Uncle Pentstemon.
"Come, young cock-sparrow," said Doubleday, returning from announcing the distinguished visitor, "you're wanted inside. They want you, too, Batch." We entered. Billy, as usual, was more at his ease than any one else. "What cheer? Well, what do you want to arst me?" he cried, jauntily.
"Well, but, auntie, he hasn't been here for fifteen years. I heard Mr. Mark telling Mr. Cayley. 'Fifteen years, he says. Mr. Cayley having arst him when his brother was last in England. Mr. Cayley knew of him, I heard him telling Mr. Beverley, but didn't know when he was last in England see? So that's why he arst Mr. Mark." "I'm not saying anything about fifteen years, Audrey.
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