"Why, whatever's the matter with you?" she asked.
"Work," says he, in a hollow voice. "Work is the matter. I can't
see a house--and one that used to be a happy home--go to rack and
ruin without some effort to prevent it."
"I wouldn't begin on Regatta Day, if I was you," says Sal cheerfully.
"Has old Smithers been inquiring again about that waistcoat?"
"He have not."
"Then he's a patient man: for to my knowledge this is the third week
you've been putting him off with excuses."
"I thank the Lord," says her husband piously, "that more work gets
put on me than I can keep pace with. And well it is, when a man's
wife takes to wagering and betting and pulling in low boat-races to
the disgrace of her sex. _Someone_ must keep the roof over our
heads: but the end may come sooner than you expect," says he, and
winds up with a tolerable imitation of a hacking cough.
"I took three pairs of soles and a brill in the trammel this very
morning; and if you've put a dozen stitches in that old waistcoat,
'tis as much as ever! I can see in your eye that you know all about
the race; and I can tell from the state of your back that you watched
it from the Quay, and turned into the 'Sailor's Return' for a drink.
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