“What indeed! But never mind him now. A shilling of mine is going your way to-night, Deputy. You have just taken in a lodger I have been speaking to; an infirm woman with a cough.”
“Puffer,” assents Deputy, with a shrewd leer of recognition, and smoking an imaginary pipe, with his head very much on one side and his eyes very much out of their places: “Hopeum Puffer.”
“What is her name?”
“’Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.”
“She has some other name than that; where does she live?”
“Up in London. Among the Jacks.”
“The sailors?”
“I said so; Jacks; and Chayner men: and hother Knifers.”
“I should like to know, through you, exactly where she lives.”
“All right. Give us ’old.”