"Don't say you won't go," said his mother, shrilly, "'cause you've got to earn bread and butter. Not that it's good, for that baker's failin' off awful, and as to the butter, it ain't got nothin' to do with the cows, I'm certin. But bread and butter's butter an' bread, so git out and git it." "I'm goin', I'm goin'!" grumbled Abraham, slowly, putting on his hat, "but I ain't well, mar, I ain't. That corfee's a-repeatin' of itself like 'istory, an' the h'eggs weren't fresh! Poach 'em, fry 'em, or biled, they taste of the chicken." "Pickin'," said Mrs. Wevelspoke, giving her rusty bonnet a hitch, "pickin' up the letters, which you don't do, Abraham. Do 'urry, there's a good boy. Mrs. Wosk is waitin' for that blue un--a bill, maybe--and Mr. Manks is gettin' noos of 'is son from Australy in that thin paper un, an' there's Drip and Pank and Wolf all waitin' to 'ear the 'nocker, so lose no time, my deary." "It's all right as I don't lose no letters, mar," retorted Abraham, going to the door. "I'm orf, I am, mar. I'll be back by six, mar, and do see arter the tripe yourself; it don't agree overcooked." When Abraham had departed, his parent busied herself with sorting the letters and newspapers into their respective pigeon-holes, communing with herself aloud as she glanced at the addresses on each. "Drat 'em!" she said, alluding to the writers of the letters. "Where's their eddication, as they don't write plain? If I were a Board School, which I ain't, I'd school-board 'em, with their curly 'p's' and 'q's,' as like pigs' tails as ever was, to say nothin' of leavin' the 'i's' and 't's' undone for want of dottin'. 'Ow do they expect 'em to be delivered straight wen I ain't no scholard to read their alphabets?" "Mrs. Wevelspoke," said a full, rich voice proceeding from a lady on the outside of the counter. "P-h'o-h's-t," spelt Mrs. Wevelspoke, slowly, not hearing that she was called, and not seeing that any one was present by reason of her back being turned; "that spells post, but it don't look like one. M.--that's for Mary, I dare say; M. J-u-h'l-e-h's; ho, it's for that Judas thing at Wosk's. If 'is name's Judas, why do he call himself G-u--" "Mrs. Wevelspoke," repeated the lady, rapping her umbrella on the counter quickly, "is that letter for me?" The postmistress, having a faint idea that she heard some distant noise, turned round slowly, and saw Miss Varlins leaning forward with an eager look on her face. "Is that letter for me?" she repeated, pointing to the envelope still in Mrs. Wevelspoke's hand. "This un?" said Mrs. Wevelspoke, seeing by the gesture what was meant. "Oh dear, no, Miss Varlins. Your name ain't Mary--nor July, I take it." "But it's Judith." "What?" asked Mrs. Wevelspoke, deafly. "Judith," said Miss Varlins, very loudly. "Oh, your fust name, miss. You speak so muddled like, mum, as I can't make out your 'ollerin', miss. But if your fust name's Judith, mum, your last ain't--ain't G-u-i-h'n-h'a-u-d."