Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/450

26, 1859.]



omnibus is passing along a road in the neighbourhood of London.

“Potmus Street, Jack!”

Jack pulls up his horses at the place indicated, and a tall, active-looking old gentleman, with a profusion of grey hair and a pair of remarkably bright blue eyes, steps into the road and turns quickly into Hippopotamus Street. is evidently on the look-out for something or somebody, for as he goes along he keeps turning his eyes alternately to the shop windows on either side of the way. He reaches the end of the street, seemingly without attaining the object of his search. He wheels round, and retraces his steps. Presently he comes to a dead stop before a fishmonger’s shop. Its proprietress, the widow Robinson, a corpulent and cantankerous-looking person, is engaged in sprinkling fresh water upon her stale soles, to the manifest improvement of their appearance in general, and of the orange spots on their backs in particular.

“Perhaps you will be kind enough to inform me where Miss Smith the milliner resides?” asks the stranger, in a conciliatory tone which not more than one woman in a thousand could have resisted.

“Drat the fish!” exclaims the one in a thousand, giving a savage push to an unfortunate half-dead-and-alive lobster which had contrived to jerk itself a little out of its assigned position.

The stranger repeats the question. Then, and only then, does the saver of soles turn round and survey the questioner. She gives a sudden start. What can be the matter with the woman? At last she finds what the neighbours say she is rarely in want of—her tongue.

“You’re inquirin’ arter Smith the dressmaker?”

“Please.”

“I’m told there’s a party o’ that name a livin’