"Do you know wot you're a-doing of?" I ses, turning on her.

"Oh, Bill dear," she ses, "don't talk to me like that. Do you want to
break my 'art? Arter all these years!"

She pulled out a dirt-coloured pocket-'ankercher and stood there dabbing
her eyes with it. One eye at a time she dabbed, while she looked at me
reproachful with the other. And arter eight dabs, four to each eye, she
began to sob as if her 'art would break.

"Go away," I ses, very slow. "You can't stand making that noise outside
my wharf. Go away and give somebody else a treat."

Afore she could say anything the potman from the Tiger, a nasty ginger-
'aired little chap that nobody liked, come by and stopped to pat her on
the back.

"There, there, don't take on, mother," he ses. "Wot's he been a-doing to
you?"

"You get off 'ome," I ses, losing my temper.

"Wot d'ye mean trying to drag me into it? I've never seen the woman
afore in my life."

"Oh, Bill!" ses the woman, sobbing louder than ever. "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

"'Ow does she know your name, then?" ses the little beast of a potman.