Pop! imperfectly located.

Mr. Johnson at large: "Ain't the beer up! It's the 'eated room."

Bessie: "Scuse me, sir, passing so soon again, but--" Rest

inaudible. Mr. Polly, accommodating himself: "Urr-oo! Right? Right

O."

The knives and forks, probably by some secret common agreement, clash

and clatter together and drown every other sound.

"Nobody 'ad the least idea 'ow 'E died,--nobody.... Willie, don't

golp so. You ain't in a 'urry, are you? You don't want to ketch a

train or anything,--golping like that!"

D'you remember, Grace, 'ow one day we 'ad writing lesson...."

Nicer girls no one ever 'ad--though I say it who shouldn't."

Mrs. Johnson in a shrill clear hospitable voice: "Harold, won't Mrs.

Larkins 'ave a teeny bit more fowl?"

Mr. Polly rising to the situation. "Or some brawn, Mrs. Larkins?"

Catching Uncle Pentstemon's eye: "Can't send you some brawn, sir?"

The History of Mr Polly