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And the Doctor, who had been seeing patients ever since nine, was sitting at the writing-table, said W. Keyse, with his 'ead upon 'is 'ands. "Like as if 'e was tired, deer, or un'appy? Or tired an un'appy both?" "Stryte, you 'ave it!" admitted W. Keyse, after cautious inspection.
Go or st'y w'ere you are; I don't mind; I'm goin' to see that man and chuck this vitriol in his eyes. If you st'y I'll go alone; the niggers will likely knock me on the 'ead, and a fat lot you'll be the better! But there's one thing sure: I'll 'ear no more of your moonin' mullygrubbin' rot, and tyke it stryte." The captain took it with a blink and a gulp.
But I lay Gawd lets folks do a bit o' blub just once," said Emigration Jane, "before 'E wipes their eyes, becos you don't begin to know wot 'appiness means until you've cried for joy!" "I pretty near did when the Doctor give me this chauffeuring job, and so I tell you stryte," affirmed her lord. "D'you know I 'ad a shy at thankin' 'im agyne, an' got my 'ead bit orf.
But there's one thing sure: I'll 'ear no more of your moonin', mullygrubbin' rot, and tyke it stryte. The captain took it with a blink and a gulp. Memory, with phantom voices, repeated in his cars something similar, something he had once said to Herrick years ago it seemed. 'Now, gimme over your pistol, said Huish. 'I 'ave to see all clear. Six shots, and mind you don't wyste them.
"A' right," her hero would snuffle. One day he added, with a weakly swoop of one lean arm in the direction of her waist: "Mend me an' marry me. That's wot I call a Fair Division o' Labour. Twig?" She crimsoned, gasping: "You don't never mean it?" "Stryte I mean it," declared W. Keyse. "Wot d'you tyke me for?" His bed was in a corner, and a screen baffled prying eyes.
"But seeing you eight sizes more of a toff than what you were when I previously 'ad the pleasure, I 'esitated to tip you the 'Ow Do." She tossed her imitation ostrich plumes in joyous coquetry. "As if I didn't know wot you're after. Garn! You only wants to know if I acted on the stryte about ..." His projecting ears burned crimson. "Well, an' suppose I do. Did she " "Did she wot?"
Do you think ..." The prominent Adam's apple jutting over the edge of the guillotining double collar worked emotionally. "Think she'll send an answer, eh?" "Reckon she will; you watch out an' see!" "You fust-clarss little brick!" "Garn!" "I mean it. Stryte. Next door to a angel that's wot you are. She's the angel. Tell 'er I said so that's if you can, you twig?
You people read the papers and believe what you see in 'em. The papers! I tell you stryte the worst pack of rogues and bookmakers in England." A simple old man of ninety, who had lost his teeth, beckoned to him and paid him a shilling for his tip. The jockey took him aside and whispered impressively into his ear. Then he said, in a loud voice: "Are you satisfied, sir?"
She wrote a letter for me in their rummy lingo to my young man!" "Cripps!" He stared in dismay. "Blessed if I 'adn't forgot. But if an Englishman marries a foreigner," he swelled heroic, "that puts 'er in the stryte runnin'. And 'art an' 'and I'm 'ers, whenever she'll 'ave me! Tell 'er THAT with a double row of crosses from W. Keyse! And can you remember a bit o' poetry?"
"I shall walk past the Convent to-morrer in kit and 'cetras, on the charnce of 'Er seein' me. Two sharp. And, look 'ere, Miss, you've done me a good turn. And no larks! if ever I can do you another trust me. Stryte I mean it! You ask chaps 'oo know me if Billy Keyse ever went back on a pal?" She swayed her hips, and disclaimed all obligation. But, garn! he was gittin' at 'er, she knew!
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