“Copper,” said Tom, as the object fell with a pat on the pavement. “Come along.”
“Yes, halfpence,” whispered his lordship, nervously, as he tottered on; “but I do wish Maudey wouldn’t be so free with her money to those vagabonds. That scoundrel makes quite an income out of our house.”
“Never mind, gov’nor, it won’t last long. Poor girl, the game’s nearly up. Now for what the Yankees call a good square meal.”
“With a drop of port, Tom, my boy.”
“Yes; you shall have a whole bottle. Barker’s, Jermyn Street,” he cried to the cabman, who drew up; and then as the cab drove off—“There, gov’nor, we’ll forget home troubles for one night.”
“Yes, my boy, we will,” said the old man, eagerly.
“I do wish Tryphie wouldn’t be so hard again,” sighed Tom, “and just too when she was growing so soft. Sympathy for Maudey, I suppose.”
“What say, Tom, my boy?”
“Thinking aloud, gov’nor.”
“What about, Tom?”