The sound of Blink gnawing her bone beneath the bed alone broke the
silence.
"I could do with a pint o' bitter," thought Joe; and, noticing the form
of the weekly gardener down below, he said softly:
"'Ello, Bob!"
"'Ello?" replied the gardener. "'Ow's yours?"
"Nicely."
"Goin' to 'ave some rain?"
"Ah!"
"What's the matter with that?"
"Good for the crops."
"Missis well?"
"So, so."
"Wish mine was."
"Wot's the matter with her?"
"Busy!" replied Joe, sinking his voice. Never 'ave a woman permanent;
that's my experience.
The gardener did not reply, but stood staring at the lilac-bush below
Joe Petty's face. He was a thin man, rather like an old horse.
"Do you think we can win this war?" resumed Joe.
"Dunno," replied the gardener apathetically.
"We seem to be goin' back nicely all the time."
Joe wagged his head. "You've 'it it," he said. And, jerking his head
back towards the room behind him, "Guv'nor's got it now."
"What?"
"The new disease."
"What new disease?"
"Wy, the Run-abaht-an-tell-'em-'ow-to-do-it."
"Ah!"
"'E's copped it fair. In bed."
"You don't say!"
"Not 'alf!" Joe sank his voice still lower. "Wot'll you bet me I don't
ketch it soon?"
The gardener uttered a low gurgle.
Pages:
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57