They crossed the broad roadway in open defiance of the traffic, and landed on the island where Dwala stood.
‘Five o’clock!’ cried the old Fence as St. Giles’s clock rang out: ‘time you were home for your teas!’ He grinned, and fumbled in his big yellow pocket. ‘What are you waiting for, you little animals? Your mothers are all drunk by now, and you’ll get what for if you’re late.... Scramble!’ he shouted, suddenly flinging a handful of pink sweatmeats up in the sunshine and down in the dirt, while the children wallowed and fought with cries of joy.
‘Here’s two toffs,’ said one of the knot of elders, drawing off as Dwala and Prosser approached.
‘Mr. Hartopp,’ murmured Prosser, touching his hat.
‘Aha, my sentimental friend, are you there? I smell you. What’s the news? Have you brought something sweet in chiffon for your darling little daughter to drive in to the Opera to-night?’
‘Hoping you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hartopp, I’ve brought Prince Dwala, my employer, who was anxious to see you.’
‘Oho! the “kind master.” Come to see how the “pooah” live, my Lord?’
‘I’ve come to ask if you won’t come and live with me.’
‘Live with you, d—— you?’
‘Yes, live with me, at home.’