Mr. Blundell did not believe in allowing the public to suffer in ignorance of who he was. This was not merely due to a desire to advertise himself and his goods. He was genuinely anxious to give the public a treat, and his progress from town to town was a kind of unlimited extension of the free-list. There he sat opposite Bram as if the wooden seat of the third-class compartment were a Mexican saddle, the train a bronco. On the other hand, the Sisters Garibaldi had lost most of their exotic charm now that they were dressed like other women in panniers and bustles instead of the ribbons and sequins of Southern romance. What was left of it vanished for Bram when he heard one of them say to the other in an unmistakably cockney accent:
“Did that masher in front send you the chocolates he promised, dear?”
“No, he didn’t, the wretch.”
“I told you he’d have to pawn his trousers before you ever saw those chocolates, didn’t I, dear?”
“I wouldn’t like to say what you’ve told me and what you haven’t told me, dear. You wag your tongue a good deal faster than what a dog wags its tail.”
Mr. Blundell doffed his sombrero and revealed a head of hair that was ridiculously out of keeping with that haystack of a moustache, for it looked as if somebody had unwound the shining black twine from the handle of a cricket bat and tried to wind it again with less than half the quantity.
“Now, girlies,” he remonstrated in a fruity voice, “don’t make things uncomfortable all around by arguing. Us men don’t like to see little birdies pecking at one another. That’s right, isn’t it?”
This appeal was addressed to Bram, who smiled as politely as he knew how and received in exchange a wink from Mr. Blundell so tremendous as almost to give the impression that he had pulled down the curtain of the compartment window and let it go up again with a snap.
“Going far?” he continued genially.
“Liverpool.”