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“Wot d’ye think of me for a understudy?” he ses, laughing. “They all thought it was you. There wasn’t one of ’em ‘ad the slightest suspicion –not one.”

“And wot about my character?” I ses, folding my arms acrost my chest and looking at him.

“Character?” he ses, staring. “Why, there’s no ‘arm in dancing; it’s a innercent enjoyment.”

“It ain’t one o’ my innercent enjoyments,” I ses, “and I don’t want to get the credit of it. If they hadn’t been sitting in a pub all the evening they’d ‘ave spotted you at once.”

“Oh!” he ses, very huffy. “How?”

“Your voice,” I ses. “You try and mimic a poll-parrot, and think it’s like me. And, for another thing, you walk about as though you’re stuffed with sawdust.”

“I beg your pardon,” he ses; “the voice and the walk are exact. Exact.”

“Wot?” I ses, looking ‘im up and down. “You stand there and ‘ave the impudence to tell me that my voice is like that?”

“I do,” he ses.

“Then I’m sorry for you,” I ses. “I thought you’d got more sense.”

He stood looking at me and gnawing ‘is finger, and by and by he ses, “Are you married?” he ses.

“I am,” I ses, very short.

“Where do you live?” he ses.

I told ‘im.

“Very good,” he ses; “p’r’aps I’ll be able to convince you arter all. By the way, wot do you call your wife? Missis?”

“Yes,” I ses, staring at him. “But wot’s it got to do with you?”

“Nothing,” he ses. “Nothing. Only I’m going to try the poll-parrot voice and the sawdust walk on her, that’s all. If I can deceive ‘er that’ll settle it.”

“Deceive her?” I ses. “Do you think I’m going to let you go round to my ‘ouse and get me into trouble with the missis like that? Why, you must be crazy; that dancing must ‘ave got into your ‘ead.”

“Where’s the ‘arm?” he ses, very sulky.

“‘Arm?” I ses. “I won’t ‘ave it, that’s all; and if you knew my missis you’d know without any telling.”

“I’ll bet you a pound to a sixpence she wouldn’t know me,” he ses, very earnest.

“She won’t ‘ave the chance,” I ses, “so that’s all about it.”

He stood there argufying for about ten minutes; but I was as firm as a rock. I wouldn’t move an inch, and at last, arter we was both on the point of losing our tempers, he picked up his bag and said as ‘ow he must be getting off ‘ome.

“But ain’t you going to take those things off fust?” I ses.

“No,” he ses, smiling. “I’ll wait till I get ‘ome. Ta-ta.”

He put ‘is bag on ‘is shoulder and walked to the gate, with me follering of ‘im.

“I expect I shall see a cab soon,” he ses. “Good-bye.”

“Wot are you laughing at?” I ses.

“On’y thoughts,” he ses.

“‘Ave you got far to go?’ I ses.

“No; just about the same distance as you ‘ave,” he ses, and he went off spluttering like a soda-water bottle.

I took the broom and ‘ad a good sweep-up arter he ‘ad gorn, and I was just in the middle of it when the cook and the other two chaps from the Saltram came back, with three other sailormen and a brewer’s drayman they ‘ad brought to see me DANCE!

“Same as you did a little while ago, Bill,” ses the cook, taking out ‘is beastly mouth-orgin and wiping it on ‘is sleeve. “Wot toon would you like?”

I couldn’t get away from ’em, and when I told them I ‘ad never danced in my life the cook asked me where I expected to go to. He told the drayman that I’d been dancing like a fairy in sea-boots, and they all got in front of me and wouldn’t let me pass. I lost my temper at last, and, arter they ‘ad taken the broom away from me and the drayman and one o’ the sailormen ‘ad said wot they’d do to me if I was on’y fifty years younger, they sheered off.