"Wot's the matter with yer eye?" she said, abruptly.

"Nuthin'," said Mrs Swadling, and coloured.

The eye she was shading was black from a recent blow, a present from her
husband, Sam the carter, who came home for his tea, fighting drunk,
as regular as clockwork.

"I thought I 'eard Sam snorin' after tea," said Mrs Jones.

"Yes, 'e was; but 'e woke up about twelve, an' give me beans 'cause
I'd let 'im sleep till the pubs was shut."

"An' yer laid 'im out wi' the broom-handle, I s'pose?"

"No fear," said Mrs Swadling. "I ran down the yard, an' 'ollered
blue murder."

"Well," said Mrs Yabsley, reflectively, "an 'usband is like the weather,
or a wart on yer nose. It's no use quarrelling with it. If yer don't
like it, yer've got ter lump it. An' if yer believe all yer 'ear,
everybody else 'as got a worse."

She looked down the street, and saw Jonah and Chook, with a few others
of the Push, sunning themselves in the morning air. Her face darkened.

"I see the Push 'ave got Jimmy Sinclair at last. Only six months ago
'e went ter Sunday school reg'lar, an' butter wouldn't melt in 'is mouth.
Well, if smokin' cigarettes, an' spittin', and swearin' was 'ard work,