'ussey, for you!" nearly bursts the patent non-combustible bootlace
you lent her last night to hang the brass locket round her neck by.

POTTLE says his landlady's different, but then POTTLE always was
a rum 'un, and nobody knows what old rag-and-bone shop he gets his
landladies from. I always get mine only at the best places, and
advise everybody else to do the same. I mentioned this once to BILL
MOSER, who looks after the calico department in the big store in the
High Street, but he only sniffed, and said, "Garne, you don't know
everythink!" which was rude of him. I might have given him one for
himself just then, but I didn't. I always was a lamb; but I made up my
mind that next time I go into the ham-and-beef shop kept by old Mother
MOSER I'll say something about "'orses from Belgium" that the old lady
won't like.

Did you ever go into a ham-and-beef shop? It's just like this. I went
into MOSER'S last week. Just when I got in I tripped over some ribs of
beef lying in the doorway, and before I had time to say I preferred my
beef without any boot-blacking, I fell head-first against an immense
sirloin on the parlour table. Mrs. MOSER called all the men who were
loafing around, and all the boys and girls, and they carved away at
the sirloin for five hours without being able to get my head out.
At last an old gentleman, who was having his dinner there, said he
couldn't bear whiskers served up as a vegetable with his beef. Then
they knew they'd got near my face, so they sent away the Coroner and
pulled me out, and when I got home my coat-tail pockets were full of
old ham-bones. The boy did that--young varmint! I'll ham-bone him when
I catch him next!