“Oh, go to hell!” said Silas, and kicked open his own unlatched door. A big, frowsy woman with a shock of dyed hair and some remains of a florid beauty, now long over-ripe, looked out from the sitting-room door.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said she.
“Who did you think it was? The Dook of Wellington?”
“I thought it was a mad bullock maybe got strayin’ down the lane, and buttin’ down our door.”
“Funny, ain’t you?”
“Maybe I am, but I hain’t got much to be funny about. Not a shillin’ in the ’ouse, nor so much as a pint o’ beer, and these damned children of yours for ever upsettin’ me.”
“What have they been a-doin’ of?” asked Silas with a scowl. When this worthy pair could get no change out of each other, they usually united their forces against the children. He had entered the sitting-room and flung himself down in the wooden armchair.
“They’ve been seein’ Number One again.”
“How d’ye know that?”
“I ’eard ’im say somethin’ to ’er about it. ‘Mother was there,’ ’e says. Then afterwards ’e ’ad one o’ them sleepy fits.”