“He’s light enough surely,” added Tommy; “but I warrant we didn’t chuck him on the cart with the snow in Belgrave Square.”
“Where do you put up at night?” asked one of the policemen suddenly. He had been ruminating on the mystery.
“In the yard there, behind that there hoarding,” answered Tommy, pointing to a breached and battered palisade near the corner of the public-house.
At the back of this ricketty plank fence, with its particolored tatters of damp and torn advertisements, lay a considerable space of waste ground. The old houses that recently occupied the site had been pulled down, probably as condemned “slums,” in some moment of reform, when people had nothing better to think of than the housing of the poor.
There had been an idea of building model lodgings for tramps, with all the latest improvements, on the space, but the idea evaporated when something else occurred to divert the general interest. Now certain sheds, with roofs sloped against the nearest walls, formed a kind of lumber-room for the parish.
At this time the scavengers’ carts were housed in the sheds, or outside the sheds when these were overcrowded. Not far off were stables for the horses, and thus the waste ground was not left wholly unoccupied.
“Was this cart o’ yours under the sheds all night or in the open?” asked the policeman, with an air of penetration.
“Just outside the shed, worn’t it, Bill?” replied Tommy.
Bill said nothing, being a person disinclined to commit himself.
“If the cart was outside,” said the policeman, “then the thing’s plain enough. You started from there, didn’t you, with the cart in the afternoon?”