Heye us henvious; nuts to me, my lad. 'Ampstead! 'Ampton! Which is it to be? Fan—no flat—prefers the Crystal P. Nobby togs, high jinks, and lots o' lotion. That's the style to go it. I've a notion!
May! The month o' flowers. Spooney sell! 'Rum 'ot with,' is wot I likes to smell. Beats yer roses holler. A chice weed. Licks all flowers that ever run to seed. Nobby button 'oler very well. When one wants to do the 'eavy swell; Otherwise don't care not one brass farden. For the best ever blowed in Covent Garden. Fan, though, likes 'em, costs a pretty pile. Rayther stiff, a tanner for a smile. Blued ten bob last time I took 'er out. Left my silver ticker up the spout. Women are sech sharks! If I don't drop 'er. Guess that I shall come a hawful cropper!
June! A jolly month; sech stunning weather! Fan and I have lots of outs together: Rorty on the river, sech prime 'unts. Foul the racers, run into the punts. Prime to 'ear the anglers rave and cuss. When in quiet 'swims' we raise a muss. Snack on someone's lawn upon the quiet. Won't the owner raise a tidy riot When he twigs our scraps and broken bottles? Cheaper this than rusty-rongs or hottles. Whitsuntide 'ud be a lot more gay If it warn't so near to Quarter-day. Snip turns sour, pulls 'county-courting' faces. Must try and land a little on the races.
At July! just nicked a handy fiver, (Twenty-five to one on old 'Screw-driver'![** ) here?] New rig-out. This mustard colour mixture Suits me nobly. Fan appears a fixture. Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em. But good show of ochre,—that's what fetches 'em. Wimbledon! I'm not a wolunteer. Discipline don't suit this child—no fear! But we 'ave fine capers at the camp. Proper, but for that confounded scamp: Punched my 'ead, because I guyed his shooting. Fan I fancied rather 'igh faluting; Ogled the big beggar as he propped me. Would 'a licked 'im if she 'adn't stopped me.
August! Time to think about my outing. No dibs yet, though, so it's no use shouting. Make the best of the Bank 'Oliday. Fan 'engaged'! Don't look too bloomin' gay. Drop into the bar to do a beer. Twig her talking to that volunteer. Sling my 'ook instanter sharp and short. Took Jemimer down to 'Ampton Court. Not [** ']arf bad that gurl. Got rather screwed. Little toff complained as I was rude. 'It 'im in the wind, he went like death; Weak, consumptive cove and short o' breath. Licked 'im proper, dropped 'im like a shot'— Only wish that Fan had seen that lot.
'Ere's September! 'Oliday at last! Off to Margit—mean to go it fast. Mustard-coloured togs still fresh as paint. Like to know who's natty, if I ain't. Got three quid; have cried a go with Fan. Game to spend my money like a man. But stickin' tight to one gal ain't no fun,— Here's no end of prime 'uns on the run Carn't resist me somehow, togs and tile All A1—make even swell ones smile. Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubt I could cut no end of big pots out. Call me cad? When money's in the game. Cad and swell are pooty much the same.
Now October! Back again to collar. Funds run low, reduced to last 'arf dollar. Snip on rampage, boots a getting thin, 'Ave to try the turf to raise some tin. Evenings getting gloomy; high old games; Music 'alls look up the taking names. Proper swells them pros! If I'd had my choice. There's my mark. Just wish I'd got a voice; Cut the old den to-morrow, lots o'cham. Cabs and diamonds—ain't that real jam? Got the straight tip for the Siezerwitch. If I honly land it. I'll be rich. Guess next mornin' wouldn't find me sober— Allays get the blues about October.
Dull November! Didn't land that lot. Fear my father's son is going to pot. Fan jest passed me, turned away 'er eyes. Guess she ranked me with the other guys. Nobby larks upon the Ninth, my joker But it queers a chap to want the ochre.
