“Sitting by the fire,” he confirmed. “Getting a bit warm. It’s cold to-night. Is there any noos, Alf Rylett?”
“Lots of it!” roared Alf, speaking as if it had been to a deaf man or a foreigner. “They say this fire at Southwark means ten thousand pounds damage. Big factory there—gutted. Of course, no outside fire escapes. As usual. Fully insured, though. It’ll cost them nothing. You can’t help wondering what causes these fires when they’re heavily insured. Eh? Blazing all night, it was. Twenty-five engines. Twenty-five, mind you! That shows it was pretty big, eh? I saw the red in the sky, myself. Well,’ I thought to myself, ‘there’s somebody stands to lose something,’ I thought. But the insurance companies are too wide to stand all the risk themselves. They share it out, you know. It’s a mere flea-bite to them. And ... a ... well then there’s a ... See, then there’s a bigamy case.”
“Hey?” cried Pa sharply, brightening. “What’s that about?”
“Nothing much. Only a couple of skivvies. About ten pound three and fourpence between the pair of them. That was all he got.” Pa’s interest visibly faded. He gurgled at his pipe and turned his face towards the mantelpiece. “And ... a ... let’s see, what else is there?” Alf racked his brains, puffing a little and arching his brows at the two girls, who seemed both to be listening, Emmy intently, as though she were repeating his words to herself. He went on: “Tram smash in Newcastle. Car went off the points. Eleven injured. Nobody killed....”
“I don’t call that much,” said Jenny, critically, with a pin in her mouth. “Not much more than I told him an hour ago. He wants a murder, or a divorce. All these little tin-pot accidents aren’t worth printing at all. What he wants is the cross-examination of the man who found the bones.”
It was comical to notice the change on Alf at Jenny’s interruption. From the painful concentration upon memory which had brought his eyebrows together there appeared in his expression the most delighted ease, a sort of archness that made his face look healthy and honest.
“What’s that you’re doing?” he eagerly inquired, forsaking Pa, and obviously thankful at having an opportunity to address Jenny directly. He came over and stood by the table, in spite of the physical effort which Emmy involuntarily made to will that he should not do so. Emmy’s eyes grew tragic at his intimate, possessive manner in speaking to Jenny. “I say!” continued Alf, admiringly. “A new hat, is it? Smart! Looks absolutely A1. Real West End style, isn’t it? Going to have some chiffong?”
“Sit down, Alf.” It was Emmy who spoke, motioning him to a chair opposite to Pa. He took it, his shoulder to Jenny, while Emmy sat by the table, looking at him, her hands in her lap.
“How is he?” Alf asked, jerking his head at Pa. “Perked up when I said bigamy,’ didn’t he!”
“He’s been very good, I will say,” answered Emmy. “Been quiet all day. And he ate his supper as good as gold.” Jenny’s smile and little amused crouching of the shoulders caught her eye. “Well, so he did!” she insisted. Jenny took no notice. “He’s had his—mustn’t say it, because he always hears that word, and it’s not time for his evening ... Eight o’clock he has it.”