They entered, and Joe Doughty, seeing that they were well acquainted with the house, followed them.
The landlord of the house looked at his new customers from the door of his small inner room—or bar parlour, as it was termed out of courtesy. He was a man with an eagle eye, but withal a good-humoured cast of features. In a familiar tone and manner, he said to the cadger who had entered—
“Well Mike, what luck old man? Which is it, ‘browns or wedge,’ eh?” Meaning, in plain terms: Well, Mike, what success have you had? Is it halfpence or silver?”
“Not much ‘wedge’” replied the cadger, in a discontented tone. “Browns is the order of the day—people are getting jolly stingy. It’s a selfish world, make the best of it.”
As he made the last observation, the cadger walked towards a large back room on the ground floor, which was the vagrants’ apartment.
Joe Doughty followed, without either a word of civility or salutation with his host or his customers.
He sat himself down on a bench originally rough and uncomely, but which had been polished by the much sitting of the vagrants thereon year after year.
The sight presented to our honest countryman was neither cheery nor inviting, but Joe had made up his mind to take things as they came, and not to murmur under any circumstances.
As long as he was not interfered with he was perfectly content, and did not find fault with the company in which he found himself.
“Come here,” said the man, whom he had followed into the house, addressing himself to his companion and children.