That was a ’ard conundrum for a woman like that, who ’ad fleeced abart every pal she ever ’ad, an’ the money was a snug bit for anybody who was as ’ard up as she was then. I thought I’d mark the price darn a bit so’s to myke the sacrifice easier for ’er. I didn’t dyre to trust her with a offer of the tharsand Ikey ’ad flashed at me. Besides, I thought I see a charnst to myke a bit meself withart lyin’. Sure enough, I ’ad read the weather in ’er fyce all right, an’ she was gyme to lose five ’underd just to sye “thank you,” as yer might sye. I farncy I’d found abart the only spot in ’er ’eart as wa’n’t rotten. “I guess I’d rather ’ave ’er know I ain’t quite so bad as they think,” she says, an’ she gulluped an’ rubbed ’er eyes. “You go to Ikey, an’ you tell ’im ’e’s a—” Well, I won’t sye wot she called ’im. “But Bertha Wolfstein is the on’y lydy in tarn, an’ it’s on’y for ’er syke I’m givin’ up the license.” Then she kerflummuxed again, an’ if yer think I left her time to think it over, yer don’t know old John. I took the pyper before the words was feerly art of ’er marth, an’ in ’arf an’ ’our I was pullin’ Ikey Behn’s door-bell. When ’e seen me, ’e grinned like a cat in a cream-jug, an’ ’e arsked me into the li’bry like I was a rich uncle just ’ome from the di’mond fields. Nar, yer might think as I was a-goin’ to try to sell ’im the pyper on me own account, leavin’ ’im to think that Becky was gettin’ the price of it, an’ me a percentage. Not much I wa’n’t; not on yer blessed life! I was too clever for thet! I’ve seen reel toffs before, an’ I knew Ikey for best clarss when I piped ’im off. ’Ave yer ever watched the bootblacks in Piccadilly Circus? D’yer think they has a trades-union price for a shine? Nar! W’en a bleedin’ swell comes along an’ gits a polish an’ arsks ’ow much, it’s “Wot yer please, sir,” an’ “I leave it to you, sir,” an’ the blackie gits abart four times wot ’e’d a-dared to arsk, specially if the toff’s a bit squeegee. That’s the on’y wye to treat a gentleman born, an’ I knew it. So I tipped ’im off the stryte story, leavin’ nothing art to speak of, an’ ’e listens affable. I ’ands ’im over the license at the end. W’en ’e’d stuck the pyper in a candle ’andy, an’ ’ad lighted a big cigar with it, offerink the syme an’ a drink to me, ’e says, as cool as a pig before Christmas, says ’e, “Nar, me man, wot d’yer want for yer trouble? Yer done me a fyvor, an’ no dart abart _thet_!” “No trouble at all,” I says. “I’m proud to oblige such a perfeck gentleman as you be,” an’ with that I picks up me ’at an’ walks toward the door.