I was
reg'lar overcome by it. I left a thing in that cellar--I left a
thing . . . . It'll be a bit ork'ard for me to-mower. [Drinks
from his mug.]
MRS. L. [Placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk]
What thing?
LEMMY. Wot thing? Old lydy, ye're like a winkle afore yer opens
'er--I never see anything so peaceful. 'Ow dyer manage it?
MRS. L. Settin' 'ere and thenkin'.
LEA. Wot abaht?
MRS. L. We-el--Money, an' the works o' God.
LEMMY. Ah! So yer give me a thought sometimes.
MRS. L. [Lofting her mug] Yu ought never to ha' spent yore money on
this, Bob!
LEMMY. I thought that meself.
MRS. L. Last time I 'ad a glass o' port wine was the day yore
brother Jim went to Ameriky. [Smacking her lips] For a teetotal
drink, it du warm 'ee!
LEMMY. [Raising his mug] Well, 'ere's to the British revolution!
'Ere's to the conflygrytion in the sky!
MRS. L. [Comfortably] So as to kape up therr, 'twon't du no 'arm.
LEMMY goes to the window and unhooks his fiddle; he stands with
it halfway to his shoulder. Suddenly he opens the window and
leans out. A confused murmur of voices is heard; and a snatch
of the Marseillaise, sung by a girl. Then the shuffling tramp
of feet, and figures are passing in the street.
LEMMY. [Turning--excited] Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy? There it is
--there it is!
MRS.
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