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"'E ain't got no more life in 'im than a sick cat," said one. "The Bellair folks will beat us 'oller; every one o' their blooming hentries is as fit as fiddles." "Ain't we worked on 'im for four mortal hours?" demanded another. "Wot more can we do?" "Send for old 'Awkins an' tell 'im, that's all." A shudder seemed to shake the group in the stall. It was clear that Mr.
"Oh, I was up before the Baron," he answered. 'Awkins; and as the man's a poor man, we can't mark much of a fee." The usual complaint with quarter sessions solicitors. Such were my instructions. I was young in practice at that time, and took a great deal more in I mean in the way of credulity than I did in after life. Nor was I very learned in the ways of solicitors' clerks.
'Th' Irish rig'mints, he says, 'th' Kerry Rifles, th' Land Leaguers' Own, an' th' Dublin Pets, commanded be th' Pop'lar Irish sojer Gin'ral Sir Ponsonby Tompkins wint into battle singin' their well-known naytional anthem: "Mrs. Innery Awkins is a fust-class name!" Th' Boers retreated, he says, 'pursued be th' Davitt Terrors who cut their way through th' fugitives with awful slaughter, he says.
"Never mind him let him escape," replied Hawkins, faintly. "Just get my wife before I go. Good-by, old friend, good-by." "Mr. 'Awkins!" gasped the butler, his senses returning. "What!" shrilled the inventor, sitting bolt upright, black eyes, swelled face, and all completely forgotten. "Is that you, William?" "Yes, sir," stammered the man. "Was was it you I hit, sir?"
The noises in the street were now tumultuous. People were shouting and laughing. Some of them were singing. At one moment it was the Salvation chorus, at the next a music-hall ditty. First "At the Cross, at the Cross," then "Mr. 'enry 'awkins," and then an unfamiliar ditty.
The Bruiser watched him furtively with little piglike eyes. "And who might ye be, stranger?" he asked when Benito set down his glass. "'Awkins that's as good a nyme as another," said Benito, essaying the cockney speech. "And what ye daon't know won't 'urt you, my friend." He threw down a silver piece, took the bottle and glass with him and sat down at a table near the corner.
"Seems to me I've heard it," said Thaddeus. "As I remember it, Harry, it was very pretty." "It is," said Bradley. "It's the one you mean 'Oh, 'Lizer! dear 'Lizer! Mrs. 'Ennery 'Awkins. Harry sings it well, too; but I say, Thad, you ought to hear the nurse sing it. It's great." "I should think it might be." "She has the accent down fine, you know." "Sort of born to it, eh?"
It was nine o'clock by this time, and he was in the Whitechapel road, going along with a motley troop of Jews, Polish Jews, Germans, German Jews, and all the many tribes of Cockneydom. Two costers behind him were talking and laughing. "Lor' blesh you, it's jest abart enneff to myke a corpse laugh." "Ain't it? An acquyntince uv mine d'ye know Jow 'Awkins?
'Captain 'Awkins, says my valet for I was a swell pirate, gents, an' never travelled nowhere without a man to keep my clothes brushed and the proper wrinkles in my trousers 'this 'ere twelve millions, says he, 'is werry light, says he, carryin' the bag ashore.
"Yes; you can't cultivate that accent and get it just right." "I'll do 'Dear Old Dutch' for yer," suggested Harry. "Hi likes thet better 'n 'Mrs. 'Awkins." So Harry deserted "Mrs. 'Awkins" and sang that other pathetic coster-ballad, "Dear Old Dutch," and, to the credit of Harriet, the nurse, it must be said that he was marvellously well instructed.
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