"Sling that!" 'e sez; but I goes on:
"Ole Jim won't blame yeh when she's gone.
'E knows, the same as me an' you.
These silly tarts, they can't keep true."
I piles it on until I've got
'Im where I want 'im—jumpin' 'ot.
An' then 'e sez, "'Ere, sling that talk!
I might be groggy in me walk;
But if yeh say them things to me
I'm man enough to crack yeh; see?"
"Righto," sez I. "That was me plan.
Now wot about this 'arf a man?"
'E stares at me, an' then sez, slow,
"Wot is yer game? Wot do yeh know?"
"Nothin'," I tells 'im, "only this:
When there's a waitin' tart to kiss
Yeh're only 'arf a man; but when
There's blokes to fight, yeh're twenty men."
"Wot tart?" 'e asks. "Yeh mean this Flo?"
"P'raps not," I sez. "You ought to know." . . .
I waits to let me words sink in.
An' then—'e beats me with that grin.
"Match-makin', Bill?" 'e laughs. "Oh, 'Ell!
You take up knittin' for a spell."
