A Girl of the People

L. T. MEADE

You have kept us waiting an age! Come along, Bet, do.
She ain't going to funk it, surely!
No, no, not she,—she's a good 'un, Bet is,—come along, Bet. Joe Wilkins is waiting for us round the corner, and he says Sam is to be there, and Jimmy, and Hester Wright: do come along, now.
Will Hester Wright sing? suddenly demanded the girl who was being assailed by all these remarks.
Yes, tip-top, a new song from one of the music halls in London. Now then, be you coming or not, Bet?
No, no, she's funking it, suddenly called out a dancing little sprite of a newspaper girl. She came up close to Bet as she spoke, and shook a dirty hand in her face, and gazed up at her with two mirthful, teasing, wicked black eyes. Bet's funking it,—she's a mammy's girl,—she's tied to her mammy's apron-strings, he-he-he!
The other girls all joined in the laugh; and Bet, who was standing stolid and straight in the centre of the group, first flushed angrily, then turned pale and bit her lips.
I ain't funking, she said; nobody can ever say as there's any funk about me,—there's my share. Good-night.
She tossed a shilling on to the pavement, and before the astonished girls could intercept her, turned on her heel and marched away.
A mocking laugh or two floated after her on the night air, then the black-eyed girl picked up the shilling, said Bet was a good 'un, though she wor that contrairy, and the whole party set off singing and shouting, up the narrow street of this particular Liverpool slum.