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Henery Walker used to get that riled he didn’t know wot to do with ‘imself, and as time went on, and he began to be afraid that ‘is uncle never would come back to England, he used to get quite nasty if anybody on’y so much as used the word “uncle” in ‘is company.

It was over six months since he ‘ad had the letter from ‘is uncle, and ‘e was up here at the “Cauliflower” with some more of us one night, when Dicky Weed, the tailor, turns to Bob Pretty and he ses, “Who’s the old gentleman that’s staying with you, Bob?”

Bob Pretty puts down ‘is beer very careful and turns round on ‘im.

“Old gentleman?” he ses, very slow. “Wot are you talking about?”

“I mean the little old gentleman with white whiskers and a squeaky voice,” ses Dicky Weed.

“You’ve been dreaming,” ses Bob, taking up ‘is beer ag’in.

“I see ‘im too, Bob,” ses Bill Chambers.

“Ho, you did, did you?” ses Bob Pretty, putting down ‘is mug with a bang. “And wot d’ye mean by coming spying round my place, eh? Wot d’ye mean by it?”

“Spying?” ses Bill Chambers, gaping at ‘im with ‘is mouth open; “I wasn’t spying. Anyone ‘ud think you ‘ad done something you was ashamed of. ”

“You mind your business and I’ll mind mine,” ses Bob, very fierce.

“I was passing the ‘ouse,” ses Bill Chambers, looking round at us, “and I see an old man’s face at the bedroom winder, and while I was wondering who ‘e was a hand come and drawed ‘im away. I see ‘im as plain as ever I see anything in my life, and the hand, too. Big and dirty it was. ”

“And he’s got a cough,” ses Dicky Weed—“a churchyard cough—I ‘eard it. ”

“It ain’t much you don’t hear, Dicky,” ses Bob Pretty, turning on ‘im; “the on’y thing you never did ‘ear, and never will ‘ear, is any good of yourself. ”

He kicked over a chair wot was in ‘is way and went off in such a temper as we’d never seen ‘im in afore, and, wot was more surprising still, but I know it’s true, ‘cos I drunk it up myself, he’d left over arf a pint o’ beer in ‘is mug.

“He’s up to something,” ses Sam Jones, starting arter him; “mark my words. ”

We couldn’t make head nor tail out of it, but for some days arterward you’d ha’ thought that Bob Pretty’s ‘ouse was a peep-show. Everybody stared at the winders as they went by, and the children played in front of the ‘ouse and stared in all day long. Then the old gentleman was seen one day as bold as brass sitting at the winder, and we heard that it was a pore old tramp Bob Pretty ‘ad met on the road and given a home to, and he didn’t like ‘is good-‘artedness to be known for fear he should be made fun of.

Nobody believed that, o’ course, and things got more puzzling than ever. Once or twice the old gentleman went out for a walk, but Bob Pretty or ‘is missis was always with ‘im, and if anybody tried to speak to him they always said ‘e was deaf and took ‘im off as fast as they could. Then one night up at the “Cauliflower” here Dicky Weed came rushing in with a bit o’ news that took everybody’s breath away.

“I’ve just come from the post-office,” he ses, “and there’s a letter for Bob Pretty’s old gentleman! Wot d’ye think o’ that?”

“If you could tell us wot’s inside it you might ‘ave something to brag about,” ses Henery Walker.

“I don’t want to see the inside,” ses Dicky Weed; “the name on the outside was good enough for me. I couldn’t hardly believe my own eyes, but there it was: ‘Mr. Josiah Walker,’ as plain as the nose on your face. ”

O’ course, we see it all then, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of it afore; and we stood quiet listening to the things that Henery Walker said about a man that would go and steal another man’s great-uncle from ‘im. Three times Smith, the landlord, said, “Hush!” and the fourth time he put Henery Walker outside and told ‘im to stay there till he ‘ad lost his voice.