"Yes—I remember. Are you going?"
"If you won't let a gal stay, o' course I am. They've got a jolly kick-up here—that gal with the blue frock's birthday—old Wesden's gal, as I just told you about—I wish I was her! Did you ever see her of a Sunday?"
"Not that I know on."
"Just like the little gals at the play—spruce as carrots—and gloves on, and such boots! Fust rate, I can tell you."
"I wouldn't jaw any more, but go home," suggested the policeman.
"All right, master. I say, don't you twig how the fog has got on my chest?"
"Well, you are hoarse-ish."
"Spilt my woice yesterday, and made it wus by tryin' it on in Union Street to-day. Gave it up, and bought a haporth of lucifers, and got the boxes in my pocket now. Hard lines to-night, mate."
Familiarity breeds contempt and engenders rebuke—the loquacity of the child offended the official, who drew her from the doorway with a jerk, totally unexpected upon her side, and placed her in the roadway.
"Now be off from here—I've had enough of you."