“Yes, he’s a friend of my father’s,—Mr Clayhanger, printer,” said Edwin, behind her.
The old man stood blinking in the glare.
The policeman, ignoring Hilda, glanced at Edwin, and touched his cap.
“His friends hadn’t ought to let him out like this, sir. Just look at him.” He sneered, and added: “I’m on point duty. If you ask me, I should say his friends ought to take him home.” He said this with a peculiar mysterious emphasis, and looked furtively at the louts for moral support in sarcasm. They encouraged him with grins.
“He must be got on to the platform, somehow,” said Hilda, and glanced at Edwin as if counting absolutely on Edwin. “That’s what he’s come for. I’m sure it means everything to him.”
“Aye!” the old man droned. “I was Super when we had to teach ’em their alphabet and give ’em a crust to start with. Many’s the man walking about in these towns i’ purple and fine raiment as I taught his letters to, and his spellings, aye, and his multiplication table,—in them days!”
“That’s all very well, miss,” said the policeman, “but who’s going to get him to the platform? He’ll be dropping in a sunstroke afore ye can say knife.”
“Can’t we?” She gazed at Edwin appealingly.
“Tak’ him into a pub!” growled the collier, audacious.
At the same moment two rosettes bustled up authoritatively. One of them was the burly Albert Benbow. For the first time Edwin was conscious of genuine pleasure at the sight of his brother-in-law. Albert was a born rosette.