While getting our lunch one Sunday at the east end of the long room in
the Sir John Falstaff Inn, Gadshill, we overheard some waterside-looking
dwellers in the neighbourhood talking among themselves. I wrote down the
following:—
_Bill_: Oh, yes. I’ve got a mate that works in my shop; he’s chucked the
Dining Room because they give him too much to eat. He found another
place where they gave him four pennyworth of meat and two vegetables and
it was quite as much as he could put up with.
_George_: You can’t kid me, Bill, that they give you too much to eat, but
I’ll believe it to oblige you, Bill. Shall I see you to-night?
_Bill_: No, I must go to church.
_George_: Well, so must I; I’ve got to go.
So at Trapani, I heard two small boys one night on the quay (I am sure I
have written this down somewhere, but it is less trouble to write it
again than to hunt for it) singing with all their might, with their arms
round one another’s necks. I should say they were about ten years old,
not more.