“What am I to do?” said Sybil, taking out her purse.
“The best thing the young lady can do,” said the dustman, in a hoarse voice, “is to stand something to us all.”
“That’s your time o’day,” squeaked a young thief.
“I’ll drink your health with very great pleasure my dear,” hiccupped the woman.
“How much have you got there?” said the young thief making a dash at the purse, but he was not quite tall enough, and failed.
“No wiolence,” said one of the ruffians taking his pipe out of his mouth and sending a volume of smoke into Sybil’s face, “we’ll take the young lady to Mother Poppy’s, and then we’ll make a night of it.”
But at this moment appeared a policeman, one of the permanent garrison of the quarter, who seeing one of her Majesty’s carriages in trouble thought he must interfere. “Hilloa,” he said, “what’s all this?” And the cabman, who was a good fellow though in too much trouble to aid Sybil, explained in the terse and picturesque language of Cockaigne, doing full justice to his late fare, the whole circumstances.
“Oh! that’s it,” said the policeman, “the lady’s respectable is she? Then I’d advise you and Hell Fire Dick to stir your chalks, Splinter-legs. Keep moving’s the time of day, Madam; you get on. Come;” and taking the woman by her shoulder he gave her a spin that sent her many a good yard. “And what do you want?” he asked gruffly of the lads.
“We wants a ticket for the Mendicity Society,” said the captain of the infant hand putting his thumb to his nose and running away, followed by his troop.
“And so you want to go to Silver Street?” said her official preserver to Sybil, for she had not thought it wise to confess her ultimate purpose, and indicate under the apprehended circumstances the place of rendezvous to a member of the police.