"Good evenin', guvnor." Then in an undertone he added,
"I say, guvnor, you never did better in your life than takin' that 'ere pretty creetur off the streets. You look well arter her. She's a right good un, I know. Bless you, she ain't no knowledge what wickedness means."
In the warmth of his heart, Mr. Spelt seized the man's hand, and gave it a squeeze of gratitude.
"Come, Jim, ain't your taters done yet?" said Poppie.
"Bustin' o' mealiness," answered Jim, throwing back the lid, and taking out a potato, which he laid in the hollow of his left hand. Then he caught up an old and I fear dirty knife, and split the potato lengthways. Then, with the same knife, he took a piece of butter from somewhere about the apparatus—though how it was not oil instead of butter I cannot think—laid it into the cleft as if it had been a trowelful of mortar, gave it a top-dressing of salt and a shake of the pepper-box, and handed it to Poppie.
"Same for you, sir?" he asked.
"Well, I don't mind if I do have one," answered Spelt. "Are they good?"
"The best and the biggest at the price in all London," said Jim. "Taste one," he went on, as he prepared another, "and if you like to part with it then, I'll take it back and eat it myself."
Spelt paid for the potatoes—the sum of three ha'pence—and Poppie, bidding Jim good-night, trotted away by his side, requiring both her hands now for the management of her potato, at which she was more expert than her father, for he, being nice in his ways, found the butter and the peel together troublesome.