tude of an enraged fishwife, for a few moments made the room ring with foul abuse, that vituperative vernacular of the nether world, which has never yet been exhibited by typography, and presumably never will be.
“Go it, Clem!” cried her husband, pushing his chair a little back. “Go it, my angel! When you’ve eased your mind a little, I’ll explain how it happens.”
She became silent, glaring at him with murderous eyes. But just at that moment Mrs. Peckover put her head in at the door, inquiring “What’s up?”
“Come in, if you want to know,” cried her daughter. “See what you’ve let me in for! Didn’t I tell you as it might be all a mistake? Oh yes, you may look!”
Mrs. Peckover was startled; her small cunning eyes went rapidly from Clem to Joseph, and she fixed the latter with a gaze of angry suspicion.
“Got a bit of news for you, mother,” resumed Joseph, nodding. “You and Clem were precious artful, weren’t you now? It’s
