“That won’t do, you fool,” said the landlord; “why here’s only three browns.”
“He hasn’t got another, I’ll take my davy of that,” observed the woman; “it’s just as I expected.”
“Well, it’s only a matter of a penny,” implored Alf, in his most persuasive tones; “don’t be hard upon a cove. I’ve had a bad day of it ’cos of the wet. Trust me for this once. I will pay you to-morrow—indeed I will.”
“To-morrow be blowed,” exclaimed the man; “that game won’t do here. You know our prices, you know our rules; we don’t give credit. If we did we should be in the union in quick sticks.”
“Well, that’s right enough, master, I daresay, but look here,” said Alf, showing his basket, “this is how I make my living. Will you take some of these and keep them till I pay you the penny back again?”
“Umph, well I don’t know—they are not ugly,” said the housekeeper, looking at them curiously and turning them over in his hands; “you’re a country lad, eh? Who’d have thought of seeing birds’ eggs in a back slum in Westminster? Well, London is a place, surely.”
“It’s hard lines to be walking about all day in the wet without even so much as one customer,” said the boy. “You can take the cuckoos if you like—that’s the best one—or you can take any of the others, whichever you please.”
“I used to go arter them myself years and years ago, when I was a kinchin. Ah, it puts me in mind of brighter and happier days. They minds me of my old mother, and how she used to scold me, because it was so cruel, she said—bless her dear heart.”
“Don’t get sentimental, you old fool,” cried the woman, in a tone of disgust. “Them days are past wi’ both of us.”
“Right you are, missus—long since past,” returned the man. “Well, hand us over an egg, and here’s the ticket for a fourpenny room.”