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Updated: May 11, 2025
It was late, and Arthur was gone home; so, indeed, was everybody, except one young subordinate, who was putting up the shutters. "Sir," said she, "can you tell me where old Mr. Penfold lives?" "Somewhere in the subbubs, miss." "Yes, sir; but where?" "I think it is out Pimlico way." "Could you not give me the street? I would beg you to accept a present if you could."
"The vagabins said y' had left the town; but y' had only flitted from the quay to the subbubs; 'twas a pashint put me on the scint of ye. And how are y' all these years? an' how's Sawmill?" "Sawmill! What is that?" "It's just your husband. Isn't his name Sawmill?" "Dear no! Have you forgotten? David." "Ou, ay. I knew it was some Scripcher Petrarch or another, Daavid, or Naathan, or Sawmill.
You just go around in the subbubs tellin' thet you've only been out of the 'orspittal two days an' you walked all this way to get work an' couldn't get it, an' you want five cents to get back see?
Bekaze ef dey er foun' a stray nigger layin' 'roun' loose, wid 'is bref gone, den I wanter go home an' git my brekfus' an' put on some clean cloze, an' 'liver myse'f up ter wunner deze yer jestesses er de peace, an git a fa'r trial." "Why, have you killed anybody?" "Dat's w'at's I'm a 'quirin' inter now, but I wouldn't be sustonished ef I ain't laid a nigger out some'rs on de subbubs.
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