"Not if I can help it—but if I can't help it, sir, I must go to school at Simes's. He teaches lots of gals to get a living!"
Mr. Hinchford shuddered. There was a pause, during which the head of Master Hinchford peered through the door to note how affairs were progressing. The father detected the movement, and when the head was hastily withdrawn, he drew the door still closer, and retained a grip of the handle for precaution's sake.
"You don't know what your next step will be? You'll try to live honestly, you say?"
"I'll try the ingun dodge. You get's through a heap of inguns at a ha'penny a lot, if the perlice will ony let you be."
"And your stock in trade?"
"What's that?"
"How will you begin? Where are the onions to come from?"
"I shall sing for them to-morrow—my woice is comin' round a bit, Mother Watts says."
Mr. Hinchford pulled at his long white moustache—the girl's confidence and coolness induced him to linger there—something in his own heart led him to continue the conversation. He was a philosopher, a student of human nature, and this was a singular specimen before him.
"What could you live and keep honest upon?"