‘I believe you’re a Funk,’ he said. ‘I believe you belong to my family. I’m collecting you. Come on, Master Funk.’
‘I’m not Master Funk,’ said David indignantly. ‘Haven’t got him. My turn.’
Miss Bones threw the remains of her sirloin at the Rhymes. It fell in their ink-bottle and splashed them frightfully, but they were already so covered with ink that a little more didn’t matter. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and sidled a little nearer David.
‘That’s right: it’s your turn,’ she whispered. ‘Remember you’ve got me, Don’t ask for me.’
‘I shouldn’t think of it,’ said David. ‘What I want is the concert. I came here for a concert. I want to sit down and be quiet a little. Nobody knows all the things I’ve been doing.’
‘And nobody cares,’ said Miss Bones.
David felt tired of this contemptuous treatment, and stood up.
‘I won’t have any more rudeness,’ he said. ‘I can do what I choose with you all. I can put you all back in your case, and never open you again till you get mouldy, like the ones I left in the garden. If there’s no concert just tell me so, and I’ll go somewhere else.’
Miss Bones shouted out:
‘Mr. Bradshaw, the Time-table,’ and instantly there was a Bradshaw on her knee. ‘There’s the 11.29,’ she said. ‘You might catch it, or again you mightn’t. It all depends how you feel. If you feel in a hurry, you’ll miss it; if you feel calm, you may catch it. Will you have one taxi or two?’