"It isn't his fault 'e's never come to
anything. 'E hadn't half a chance. The truth is, Mary, for all they say
to the opposite, men are harder than women--so unforgiving-like. Just
because Tom made a slip once, they've never let 'im forget it, but tied
it to 'is coat-tails for 'im to drag with 'im through life. Littleminded
I call it.--Besides, if you ask me, my dear, it must have been a case
of six of one and half a dozen of the other. Tom as sedoocer!--can you
picture it, Mary? It's enough to make one split." And with a meaning
glance at her friend, Tilly broke out in a contagious peal of laughter.
As for Johnny--well . . . and she shrugged her shoulders. "A bad egg's
bad, Mary, and no amount o' cooking and doctoring 'll sweeten it. But he
didn't make 'imself, did 'e?--and my opinion is, parents should look to
themselves a bit more than they do."
As she spoke, she threw open the door of the little room where Johnny
housed. It was an odd place. The walls were plastered over with
newspaper-cuttings, with old prints from illustrated journals, with
snippets torn off valentines and keepsakes. Stuck one on another, these
formed a kind of loose wallpaper, which stirred in the draught. Tilly
went on: "I see myself to it being kept cleanish; 'e hates the girl to
come bothering round. Oh, just Johnny's rubbish!" For Mary had stooped
curiously to the table which was littered with a queer collection of
objects: matchboxes on wheels; empty reels of cotton threaded on
strings; bits of wood shaped in rounds and squares; boxes made of paper;
dried seaweed glued in patterns on strips of cardboard.
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