“Where is he?” inquired Alf, who began to be interested.
“Aint here at present, young shaver,” answered the man; “leastways I don’t see him anywhere in the room.”
“And who are those persons?” inquired the boy, nodding towards the group at the table.
“Those? Oh, they are cadgers,” answered the man, with something like contempt in his tone, “only cadgers.”
The waitress of this delectable establishment, “Limpey Meg,” as she was usually termed, now came towards them, flourishing in her hand a brown napkin.
“Well, Meg; still as nimble on your pins as ever?” cried the dark-bearded man. What’s the news, lass? All quiet? Any ‘crushers’ been here?”
“No, never a one,” answered Meg; “all quiet, plenty of business, and no inquiries, that’s the way to say it,” she added with another flourish of the napkin.
In a few minutes after this a yell was raised, the tables were covered with joints and vegetables served up on iron dishes. It was not long before they were all served, and it was a strange sound to hear the noisy clattering of knives and forks upon the iron dishes, and the tinkling of the chains.
Laura and her protégé watched all these proceedings, none of the dinner party taking the slightest notice of them—indeed, they did not appear to be conscious of their presence, albeit, the boy’s companion was known to the majority if not to all of them.
Presently Limping Meg came forward again and spoke in a respectful manner, and in an under-tone to Miss Stanbridge.