The Piccadilly Flower-Girls were for diddling the foe, but
“There aren’t enough of you,” said Gypsy.
“P’raps if we kep as still as mice,” said Rags, “they’d jest go away and not notice.”
But the Night Watchman looked at the thousands of children and roses and balloons, and at the luminous sign on the National Gallery, and said,
“Don’t count on it. The London Police have eyes like lynxes.”
“All right,” said Gypsy cheerfully.
We’re discovered. We’re trapped. But you shan’t suffer—it’s all me and Ginger” (he couldn’t be bothered with grammar at the moment), “and I’m going to tell them so. Come along, darling.”
And passing his arm around Ginger’s waist he leaped with her to the head of the Lion who looks towards St. James’s, and stood exposed to the gaze of the London Police.
The Strand Policeman advanced, and pointed with his truncheon to the legend on the National Gallery.
Gypsy gazed steadily down into his questioning eyes, and prepared to confess. As he opened his lips, the Strand Policeman saw a vision of rapid promotion, and Gypsy saw another of Six Months’ Hard.