—and scared them all, and shook hands with the landlord afterwards—when he put his head out—to soothe him, and said I only wanted to borrow some matches. But that was nothing, for was not I a gent?
I still see the Gypsies dropping in, calling to each other on fine days, and calling for their ale, the hags demanding the funnel-shaped warmer from over the bar, pouring their half-pint into it, and sticking it down amongst the coals. And then hurrying out and on after the caravans.
And old Higgins in the cold sunlight standing outside the door, his bend rather more pronounced than usual, and hands held half hanging, well out and forward—in the attitude of an exhausted pelican, and asking for arf-a-pint to be brought out to him. "Hiff you please, missus." For he's bin fixin' them thundrin' drain pipes at they "Winders" agen, and ain't fit to come in.
And also, on Sunday morning, the brightest time, between church and dinner, a memory glimpse of a bright fair-haired little maid in charge of her jolly, good-natured and rather irresponsible young dad, and her extremely neat and clean but rather "fresh" and equally irresponsible old grandfather.
" Now then, grandfather, if—you— don't—come—home—to—dinner—at—once I'll tell mother you've been drinking more beer agen—so there! There's two bottles at home." Then that quick, inimitable, unexpected, startling little-woman comment, " You're old enough to have more sense if father ain't."
Chorus: "That's a good 'un,"
