on her 'ips, trembling all over with temper.
"Is my dinner ready?" I ses, easy-like. "'Cos I'm ready for it."
"I—I wonder I don't tear you limb from limb," she ses, catching her breath.
"Wot's the matter?" I ses.
"And then boil you," she ses, between her teeth. "You in one pot and your precious Dorothy in another."
If anybody 'ad offered me five pounds to speak then, I couldn't ha' done it. I see wot I'd done in a flash, and I couldn't say a word; but I kept my presence o' mind, and as she came round one side o' the table I went round the other.
"Wot 'ave you got to say for yourself?" she ses, with a scream.
"Nothing," I ses, at last. "It's all a mistake."
"Mistake?" she ses. "Yes, you made a mistake leaving it in your pocket; that's all the mistake you've made. That's wot you do, is it, when you're supposed to be at the wharf? Go about with a blue 'at with red roses in it! At your time o' life, and a wife at 'ome working herself to death to make both ends meet and keep you respectable!"
"It's all a mistake," I ses. "The letter wasn't for me."
"Oh, no, o' course not," she ses. "That's why you'd got it in your pocket, I suppose. And I suppose you'll say your name ain't Bill next."
"Don't say things you'll be sorry for," I ses.
"I'll take care o' that," she ses. "I might be sorry for not saying some things, but I don't think I shall."
I don't think she was. I don't think she forgot anything, and she raked up things that I 'ad contradicted years ago and wot I thought was all forgot. And every now and then, when she stopped for breath, she'd try and get round to the same side of the table I was.
She follered me to the street door when I went and called things up the road arter me. I 'ad a snack at a coffee-shop for my dinner, but I 'adn't got much appetite for it; I was too full of trouble and finding fault with myself, and I
Prev.
Back
Top