ever you do. Don't stand there gaping, man! Read the paper if you don't believe me. Read it!"
He shook it under Kipps' nose.
Kipps became aware of the second apprentice watching them from the shop. His air of perplexity gave place to a more confident bearing.
"'who was born at East Grinstead.' I certainly was born there. I've 'eard my Aunt say"
"I knew it," said Chitterlow, taking hold of one edge of the paper and bringing his face close alongside Kipps'.
"'on September the first, eighteen hundred and seventy-eight'"
"That's all right," said Chitterlow. "It's all, all right, and all you have to do is write to Watson and Bean and get it"
"Get what?"
"Whatever it is."
Kipps sought his moustache. "You'd write?" he asked.
"Ra-ther."
"But what d'you think it is?"
"That's the fun of it!" said Chitterlow, taking three steps in some as yet uninvented dance, "That's where the joke comes in. It may be anything—it may be a million. If so! Where does little Harry come in? Eh?"
Kipps was trembling slightly. "But" he said, and thought. "If you was me" he began. "About that Waddy?"
