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Updated: June 13, 2025
We were unanimous in our approval, The Seraph expressing his by a somersault. "But," said Angel, "there's just one thing, Mary Ellen; if there's going to be a party you and Mr. Watlin have got to have yours in the dining-room the same as us. It'll be ever so much jollier, and more like a real party."
An' they look that 'andsome that they bring a penny more a bunch. An' to fancy you know 'im well I never! Wot nime was it you said?" "Harry." "Ow, I meant your surnime." "Smith," said Harry, shortly. "Smith," meditated Mr. Watlin, "I know several Smiths in Kent. You're likely one on 'em. Well, I must shake 'ands with you for the sake of Carrot Bill."
"He's as mild mannered as can be and an old friend of the Bishop's, so they say. 'Twas him that brung him home in his pony trap." "The Bishop! I must see the Bishop instantly." As she spoke a stentorian shout of "Butcher!" came from the regions below. "There," she said, to Mary Ellen, "is young Watlin. Call him up instantly; and he shall guard the door while I dress.
"It beats all," said Mary Ellen, leaning on her broom, "what kapes me in a dull place like this, whin there do be sich wild goin's on just around the corner like. I'd give a month's wage to see thim folks." "Come around with me," suggested Angel, "and I'll introduce you." "Oh, no, Masther Angel. Misther Watlin, me young man, wouldn't want me to be goin' into mixed company widout him.
"Guard nothink," said Mr. Watlin, belligerently, "I'll go right in and tackle him single-handed." With one accord The Seraph and I flung ourselves before the door. "You shan't hurt him," we cried, "he's our own Granfa! We'll fight you first." Mr. Watlin made some playful passes at our stomachs. "Let's all have a fight," he chaffed.
She brought him up, and from what I can find out, he turned out pretty bad." "Tck, tck." Mr. Watlin was moved. "It was very sad for the lidy, but 'e's dead now, poor chap! We must speak no ill of the dead." "It's a vewy bad fing to be dead," interposed The Seraph, sententiously, "you can't eat, you can't dwink, an' you just fly 'wound an' 'wound, lookin' for somefing to light on!"
"Right-o, young gentleman!" said Mr. Watlin, "and put as couldn't be better. And the moral is, mike the most of our time wot's left!" "Well, fer my part," sighed Mary Ellen, "I've et so hearty, I feel like as though I'd a horse settin' on my stomick! Sure I don't know how to move." "A little pinch of bi-carbonate of soder will hease that, my dear," said her lover.
Watlin, the butcher's young man, an' it makes me blush wid shame, whin I think that after all the pippermints, an' gum drops, an' jawbone breakers he's give me, not to speak of minsthral shows an' rides on the tram-cars, an' I've niver given him so much as a cup o' tay in this kitchen. Not wan cup o' tay, mind ye!" We shook our heads commiseratingly. Angel flicked his last caraway seed at her
Mary Ellen was wild for a dance, she said. "Get up and 'ave a gow, then," encouraged Mr. Watlin, "you and 'Arry there!" But she, for some reason, would not, and Harry was not urgent. "I can play da fiddle a little," said Tony, as our artist paused for a rest. Mr. Watlin clapped him good-humouredly on the shoulder. "Go to it then, my boy, give us your little tune! I'm out of form tonight, anyw'y."
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