"I never talks tosh, Missy," replied the British soldier, in an injured tone.
"It isn't every one who can," agreed Boodle. "Tell us what really happened when your mother took you visiting in the 'districts'."
"Wot I said, Missy, was that my ole muvver took me Districk-visitin' onct, an' so she did. Tracks an' all. All proper an' reggler. She Districk-visited the bloomin' clergy an' is 'oly missus—you know, sorter civvy's chapling, 'e wos. It were like this 'ere. My farver was a snob. . . ."
"Cocky? Stuck-up?" inquired the puzzled young lady.
"Naow, Missy—you know, a mochi, a cobbler. That's wot 'e was when 'e was sober, but as 'e was only sober a Sundays, trade weren't brisk so ter speak. . . . Love us! 'E were a terror, an' 'e lived 'appy fer years on meffylated sperrits, 'e did—flavioured, when luck was in, by beer, gin, rum an' other sech condimensions. Real sportin' Henglishman 'e were, an' 'ad 'is bob each way on hevery race as was run in the year. . . ."
"This is rather a putrid sort of story, Bobball,"
