"Halloa!" she said, carelessly.
"Wot--wot does this mean?" demanded her husband.
Mrs. Porter smiled with conscious pride. "I made it come out of my nose
just now," she replied. "At least, some of it did, and I swallowed the
rest. Will it hurt me?"
"Where's my breakfast?" inquired the other, hotly. "Why ain't the
kitchen-fire alight? Wot do you think you're doing of?"
"I'm not doing anything," said his wife, with an aggrieved air. "I'm on
strike."
Mr. Porter reeled against the door-post. "Wot!" he stammered. "On
strike? Nonsense! You can't be."
"O, yes, I can," retorted Mrs. Porter, closing one eye and ministering to
it hastily with the corner of her apron. "Not 'aving no Bert Robinson to
do it for me, I made a little speech all to myself, and here I am."
She dropped her apron, replaced the cigarette, and, with her hands on her
plump knees, eyes him steadily.
"But--but this ain't a factory," objected the dismayed man; "and, besides
--I won't 'ave it!"
Mrs. Porter laughed--a fat, comfortable laugh, but with a touch of
hardness in it.
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