Sharpeye (in the Move-on tone) puts in the pertinent inquiry, ‘Then why ain’t you?’
‘Ain’t got no one here, Mr. Sharpeye,’ rejoin the woman and my good man together, ‘but our own family.’
‘How many are you in family?’
The woman takes time to count, under pretence of coughing, and adds, as one scant of breath, ‘Seven, sir.’
But she has missed one, so Sharpeye, who knows all about it, says:
‘Here’s a young man here makes eight, who ain’t of your family?’
‘No, Mr. Sharpeye, he’s a weekly lodger.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
The young man here, takes the reply upon himself, and shortly answers, ‘Ain’t got nothing to do.’
The young man here, is modestly brooding behind a damp apron pendent from a clothes-line. As I glance at him I become—but I don’t know why—vaguely reminded of Woolwich, Chatham, Portsmouth, and Dover. When we get out, my respected fellow-constable Sharpeye, addressing Mr. Superintendent, says: