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"Down't mind 'im, 'Enery," said the wife, now weeping audibly. "And down't you tyke on so, Lidjer," said the husband, and they looked as if they were about to embrace. John Storm could stand no more. Going down the court he was thinking with a pang of Glory that she had lived months in the atmosphere of that impostor when somebody touched his arm in the darkness. It was the girl.
There ain't a music-'all chep in London wot down't know the 'Orns. Not one!" "Shakespeare didn't know it," John exclaimed. "Well, 'e didn't know everythink did 'e?" the driver retorted. "P'raps the 'Orns wasn't built then. I dessay not. 'E'd 'ave mentioned it if 'e'd 'ave known abaht it. All these actor cheps know it, so of course 'e'd 'a' known abaht it, too. We'll be at the Elephant presently.
I always sy to Bert we 'ave the most interestin' pubs in London on this route, White 'Orse, the 'Orns, the Elephant an' the Ayngel. Ever 'eard of the Ayngel at Islington?" "Yes," said John, "That's where Paine wrote The Rights of Man." "Did 'e?" the driver answered. "Well, I dessay 'e did. It's a celebrated 'ouse, it is. Celebrated in 'istory. There's a song abaht it. You know it, down't you!...
Something fell on the floor with a sharp tap, and stopped the shriek on the verge of his lips. What was it? Another tap. Something was bobbing briskly across the floor. He picked it up. It was a pebble, and must have come through the window. Cocking his pistol, he rose. "Down't shoot," said a low voice.
"My poor girl," said John, turning to Aggie, "could you carry this child home for me?" "Oh, oh, oh!" said the girl, but she wrapped the shawl about the child and lifted it up sleeping. "Now, you down't!" said the man, putting himself on guard before the door. "That child is worth 'undrids of pounds to me, and "
"Down't ye know I will, mum?" said Liza, with a twinkle of the eye and a wag of the head. Glory dressed hurriedly, went down to the drawing-room, and wrote a letter. It was to Sefton, the manager. "Do not expect me to play to-night. I don't feel up to it. Sorry to be so troublesome." Then Rosa came in with another newspaper in her hand, and, without saying anything, Glory showed her the letter.
Did he send you to fetch me?" "He didn't speak," said Aggie. "Is he unconscious?" "Yes." "I'll go with you at once." Hurrying across the streets by Glory's side, Aggie apologized for her room again. "I down't live thet wy now, you know," she said. "It may seem strange to you, but while my little boy was alive I couldn't go into the streets to save my life I couldn't do it.
Me and my friends were just talkin' of a gentleman of your cloth, sir the pore feller as 'as got into trouble acrost Westminster way." "Oh, you were talking of him, were you?" "Sem 'ere says the biziness pize." "It must py, or people wouldn't do it," said the man leaning over the fire. "Down't you believe it. That little gime down't py. Cause why? Look at the bloomin' stoo the feller's in now.
"That man must have been terribly angry," he said to himself. Lizzie came into the room. "I 'eard you," she said, "syin' poetry to yourself. You're as bad as Mr. 'Inde, you are. 'E's an' awful one for syin' poetry. Why down't you go out for a walk? You 'aven't seen nothink of London yet, an' 'ere you are wystin' the mornin' syin' poetry.
"Good-morning," John said to the driver as he rose from his seat. "Goo'-mornin'!" said the driver. He paused while John got out of the seat into the gangway. "You know," he went on, "you wown't git so excited abaht things after you bin 'ere a bit. You'll tyke things more calm. Like me. I down't go an' lose my 'ead abaht Shykespeare!..." "Good-morning," said John.
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