'And what do you do all day long?'
Curly winked his eye at him, then said grandly: 'My occypations are warious. Tomorrer I sweeps my crossin' in the High Street.'
'High Street Kensington?' questioned Bobby. 'Oh, I'll come and see you, and walk across your crossing.'
'The day hafter,' went on Curly, 'if it be fine I may be a hawkin' horinges. I likes a change o' work, and another pal takes my crossin' when I'm elsewhere. Day follerin' I may be out o' town.'
'In the country? I wish you'd take me. How do you go?'
'I rides mostly,' said the boy, with another wink. 'I ain't perticlar as to my wehicle!'
'And when you get into the country what happens?'
Curly gazed up at the ceiling reflectively. 'I takes my holiday. On occasions I brings up hivy, and berries, and 'olly, and hawks 'em round nex' day 'stead of horinges.'
'I'd like to be you,' said Bobby admiringly. 'Have you got a father?'
'No, 'e was dead afore I were twelve months old.'