ay with a flea in your ears,
cuss you for a lot of wicious warm exits, young and old," sez I, "an'
if you don't get out," sez I--"My good woman, you mistake my
attentions," sez 'e. "Oh no, I don't," sez I, "not a bit on it. It's
sich ole sinners as you in your shiny black coats," sez I, "as I
never _do_ mistake, and if you don't git out there's a pump-'andle
behind this werry door, as my poor bor Bob brought up from the
country for me to sell for him--" "My good woman," sez 'e, "I am a
hartist," sez 'e. "What's that?" sez I. "A painter," sez 'e. "A
painter, air you? you don't look it," sez I. "P'raps it's holiday
time with ye," sez I, "and that makes you look so varnishy. Well,
and what do painters more nor any other trade want with pore women's
pootty darters?" sez I,--"more nor plumbers nor glaziers, nor
bricklayers, for the matter of that?" sez I. "But I ain't a
'ousepainter," sez 'e; "I paints picturs, and I want this gal to set
as a moral," sez 'e. "A moral! an' what's a moral?" sez I. "You ain't
a-goin' to play none o' your shiny-coat larks wi' my pootty darter,"
sez I. "I wants to paint her portrait," sez 'e, "an' then put it in a
pictur." "Oh," sez I, "you wants to paint her portrait 'cause she's
such a pootty gal, an' then you wants to make believe you drawed it
out of your own 'ead, an' sell it," sez I. "Oh, but you're a downy
one, you are, an' no mistake," sez I. "But I likes you none the wuss
for that. I likes a downy chap, an' I don't see no objection to that;
but how much will you give to paint my pootty darter?" sez I. "P'raps
I'd better come in," sez he. "P'raps you 'ad, if we're a-comin' to
bisniss," sez I; "so jest make a long leg an' step over them
dirty-nosed child'n o' Mrs. Mix's, a-settin' on my doorstep, an' I
dessay we sha'n't quarrel over a 'undud p'un' or two," sez I. An'
then I bust out a-larfin' agin--I shall die a-larfin'.' And then she
added suddenly in the same tone of sadness, 'if I don't die
a-cryin'.'

'Really, mother,' said Cyril, 'it is very egotistical of you to
interrupt your story with prophecies about the mood in which you will
probably shuffle off the Gudgeon coil and take to Gudgeon wings. It
is the shiny Quaker we want to know about.'

'And then the shiny Quaker comes in,' said the woman, 'and I shets
the door, being be'ind 'im, and that skears _'im_ for a moment, till
I bust out a-larfin': "Oh, you needn't be afeard," sez I;--"when we
burgles a Quaker in Primrose Court we