"Well?"
"We was discussin' whether they ought to take it."
"W'y not?"
"Well, you see—Glasson bein' about—"
"After them too, is 'e? Don't mean ter say they've been an' lost their fathers an' mothers? No? Then I don't see."
"Them 'avin' contracted to look after you—"
He paused here, as Tilda, fixing him with a compassionate stare, began to shake her head slowly.
"You don't deserve it—you reelly don't," she said, more in sorrow than in anger; then with a sharp change of tone, "And you three 'ave been allowin', I s'pose, that our best chance to escape notice is travellin' around with a fur coat an' a sixty-foot Theayter Royal? . . . W'y, wot was it put Glasson on our tracks? . . . Oh, I'm not blamin' yer! Some folks—most folks, I'm comin' to think—just can't 'elp theirselves. But it's saddenin'."
"0' course," suggested Sam, "I might take on the job single-'anded. My orders don't go beyond this place; but the beer'll wait, and 'Ucks per'aps won't mind my takin' a 'oliday—not if I explain."
Tilda regarded him for a while before answering. When at length she spoke, it was with a fine, if weary, patience—"Got pen-an'-ink, any of yer?"