W'y, she 'ud make
me a most captiwatin' wife some day. Now, Pickles, my boy, wot have you
got in the back o' your 'ead? Is it in love you be--an' you not fourteen
years of age? Oh, fie, Pickles! What would yer mother s'y ef she knew?"
Pickles slapped his hand with a mighty thump against his boyish breast.
"That's the w'y to treat nonsense," he said aloud. "Be'ave o' yerself,
Pickles--fie for shame, Pickles! That 'ere beauteous maid is to be
worshipped from afar--jest like a star. I do declare I'm turnin'
po-ettical!"
"Pickles!" called Connie at this moment. "Stop!"
"Pickles be 'ere," replied the youth, drawing up before Connie and
making a low bow.
"Giles is worse, Pickles," said Connie, "an' wot's to be done?"
Pickles's round face grew grave.
"Is 'e wery bad?" he asked.
"So bad that he'll soon go up to God," said Connie. Her eyes filled with
tears; they rolled down her cheeks.
"Bright as dimants they be," thought the boy as he watched her.
"Precious tears! I could poetise 'bout them."
"Pickles," said Connie again, "I have made Giles a promise. He sha'n't
die without seeing Sue. I'm sartin sure, Pickles, that you could take me
to Sue now--I'm convinced 'bout it--and I want you to do it."
"Why do you think that?" asked Pickles.
"'Cos I do," said Connie. "'Cos of the way you've looked and the way
you've spoken.
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