ing about with them. I don’t like it—they are a loose lot, rather common, and poor enough now.
“Well, I thought I’d wait and see Georgie. He came about half-past five. Meg had been fidgeting about him, wondering where he was, and how he was, and so on. Bless me if I’d worry and whittle about a man. The old grandma heard the cart, and before he could get down she shouted—you know her room is in the front—‘Hi’, George, ma lad, sharpen thy shins an’ com’ an’ a’e a look at ’em—thee’r’s two on ’em, two on ’em!’ and she laughed something awful.
“ ’Ello Granma, what art ter shoutin’ about?’ he said, and at the sound of his voice Meg turned to me so pitiful, and said:
“ ‘He’s been wi’ them Mayhews.’
“ ‘Tha’s gotten twins, a couple at a go ma lad!’ shouted the old woman, and you know how she gives squeal before she laughs! She made the horse shy, and he swore at it something awful. Then Bill took it, and Georgie came upstairs. I saw Meg seem to shrink when she heard him kick at the stairs as he came up, and she went white. When he got to the top he came in. He fairly reeked of whisky and horses. Bah, a man is hateful when he reeks of drink! He stood by the side of the bed grinning like a fool, and saying, quite thick:
“ ‘You’ve bin in a bit of a ’urry, ’aven’t you Meg. An’ how are ter feelin’ then?’
“ ‘Oh, I’m a’ right,’ said Meg.
“ ‘Is it twins, straight?’ he said, ‘wheer is ’em?’
“Meg looked over at the cradle, and he went round the bed to it, holding to the bed-rail. He had never kissed her, nor anything. When he saw the twins,
