"Hullo, Jim; yer are 'ome a bit earlier to-day. I'm not quite ready with yer supper."
"I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice, what you're cooking for me, missus. What is it?"
"Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender."
"That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, and
I'm that 'ungry."
Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for some days, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle; around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his blue jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. He threw his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed against the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay sniffing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed. Suddenly a whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his rough hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken.
"What's this?" he exclaimed; "a pint of porter! Yer are doing me pretty well this evening, I reckon. What's up?"
"Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thought we'd try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she 'as been doing pretty well, and can afford it."
Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, and feeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said——
"Well, 'ere's to your good health!" and he took a long pull at the jug.
"Where did you get this?"
"In Durham street, at the 'Angel.'"