"Wotcher chuck my spoon at 'im for, then? 'E ain't done you no 'arm."
"Yus 'e _'as_," was the soldier's surprising retort.
"No 'e ain't."
"Yus 'e _'as_."
"No 'e 'ain't. 'E ain't done you no 'arm."
To which the derelict chimed in (he had retrieved the spoon and now
advanced timidly with it under the awning): "I ain't done _you_ no
'arm"--a husky, whimpering chorus to his fat patron.
The soldier fixed the derelict with a fierce glare. "Yus you _'ave_," he
reiterated.
I was wondering how the dispute might develop, but evidently my ear is
unattuned to the nuances of these dialectics. The soldier's glare and
the soldier's tone must have betrayed themselves to the two other men as
factitious; the derelict, anyhow, lost his nervousness and, approaching
nearer, scanned the soldier with dim, peering eyes; then broke into a
joyous grin and exclaimed:
"Lumme, if it ain't ol' Bert!"
And the fat man, leaning on his counter, and likewise examining the
soldier, cried, "Ol' Bert it is!"
"Knew you in two ticks," grunted Bert. "Same ol' 'Arry." (This was the
derelict.) "Same ol' 'Erb.
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