"Well," he retorted, picking his teeth. "There's no harm in it. What's the fuss about?"
"I'll tell Mr. Trupp," Ruth answered. "That's all."
Alf turned full face to her, jeering.
"What's old Trupp to me, then?" he cried. "I done with him. I done with em all. I'm me own master, I am—Alfred Caspar, Hesquire, of Caspar's Garridges, Company promoter. Handlin me thousands as you handle coppers."
He folded his arms, thrust out a leg, and looked the part majestically without a snigger. It was clear he was extraordinarily impressive to himself.
Ruth relaxed slowly, deliciously, like an ice-pack touched by the laughing kiss of spring.
She eyed her enemy with the amused indifference of some big-boned thoroughbred mare courted by an amorous pony.
"You're mad," she said. "That's the only why I don't slosh the sauce-pan over you. But I shall tell Ern all the same. And he'll tell em all."
"And who's goin to believe Ern?" jeered her tormentor. "'Old Town Toper,' they call him. Fairly sodden."
"Not to say Archdeacon Willcocks and Mr. Chislehurst," continued Ruth, calmly.