"Bless your good 'art, my dear," the globular lady was wheezing into the ear of the mock bride. "Married to-day, was you? I'm sure you look it, both of you—every inch you do. But we 'aven't got the stuff in the place for 'arf that lot."
"How soon could you get it?"
"I could send a couple of the men out. Do it in ten minutes—or less, if Prickets around the corner's not sold out."
"How much will it cost—something for each of them—cake if not buns—sweets if not cake—?"
The round woman made a swift mental calculation and announced the result.
She who looked so much like a bride turned to him who seemed her bridegroom. "Give me some money, please, will you?"
Money changed hands, and changed again.
"Now, lookee 'ere," said the round one, "you let me manage this 'ere for you. If you don't you'll be giving three times over to the pushing ones, and the quiet ones won't get nothing but kicked shins and elbows in the pit of stomachs. I know every man jack of them 'cept the hinfans in arms, and even them I knows the ones as is carrying of them. Wait till I send the chaps off for the rest of the stuff."
The crowd outside surged excitedly, and the frail arms still waved to the tune of, "Me next, teacher!" All along the street the faces of the houses changed features as slatternly women and shirt-sleeved men leaned out of the windows to watch and wonder. When the baker's wife rolled back into the shop she found the girl silent, with lips that trembled.
"There, don't you upset yourself, my pretty," said the round one. "You'll like to give it to 'em with your own hands, I lay. Take and begin on what's before you—let 'em come in one door and out of the other, and I'll see as they don't come twice."