"Vell, then, young feller, you've put your foot into a good thing, and
if you plays your cards right, you'll make a swell of yourself in just
no time. Reg'lar swell, you know; keep yer own wally, private barber,
and shoeblack brigade, yer know, to keep you all square--some one to
swear at when yer outer sorts. Ony think; have yer chockely brought to
you in bed; and then come down arterwards in a red dressin'-gownd with
gold flowers on it, and a fancy cap with a big torsel! And there yer
sits, big as a Lord Mayor, and has yer breakfass outer chany. Ah, it's
a fine thing to be a swell, my lad! Arterwards yer goes out, fust
chalk--all noo clothes--and when wun o' us pore chaps says, `Keb, sir!'
`Yes!' sez you, and you goes down to yer club and reads the papers, and
drinks champagne all day till dinner-time, when yer goes back to dinner
with the missus, and finishes off every night by going to the oprer.
Swell's life's a first-rate 'un, my lad.
"Niste gals them missuses o' yourn. I should stick up ter the little
'un if I was you." [Mrs Scribe.] "I likes the looks on her. Can't say
much for t'other. She's rayther too scraggy for my taste." [Miss
Bellefille.] "Howsumever, it depends a good deal on which has most
ochre. Though, mind yer, I wouldn't marry a gal altogether for her tin;
I'd rayther hev a good-tempered fat 'un with six thousan' than wun o'
yer thin, razor-backed, sour-tempered 'uns with twiste as much. Tain't
no use havin heaps o' tin if yer can't enjoy it and do what yer likes.
There's some chaps as I knows as is spliced and dursent say as their
soul's their own; and no more durst send out for a pot o' porter than
fly. Lor' bless you, every drop o' drink they swallers is 'lowanced out
to 'em. Ony let the missus ketch 'em with the long clay and the backer,
and then see how soon all the fat's in the fire. Gets told as they
makes the parly curtains smell wuss nor a tap-room, and keeps a buzzin'
about their ears till the pipe's reg'lar put out, and them too, werry
often.
"You take my adwice, young man, and don't you go and throw yourself
away. Don't you go and make a martyr o' yourself, and get a ring o'
bitter haloes round your head--sure sign o' rain, you know, and the
wife's eyes a runnin' over. I rather takes to that little 'un inside,
though; she looks good-tempered. I s'pose she ain't above
five-and-twenty, is she?"