Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. Daughters were not like sons.
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