“What strange children!” said Miss Scragley to her niece. “They’re not at all like our little knights of the gutter down in the village where we visit. This opens up life to me in quite a new phase. I’m sure Captain Weathereye would be much interested. There is good, in those poor canal children, dear, only it wants developing. I wonder how we could befriend them without appearing officious or obtrusive. Consult the captain, did you say?”
“I did not speak at all, aunt.”
“Didn’t you? However, that would be best, as you suggested.”
Miss Scragley did not call at Hangman’s Hall next day—it looked showery; but about twelve o’clock, while Ransey Tansey was stewing that leveret with potatoes and a morsel of bacon, and Babs was nursing her dolly-bone in the bassinette, where Ransey had placed her to be out of the way, some one knocked sharply and loudly at the door.
The Admiral, swaying aloft in the gibbet-tree, sounded his tocsin, and Bob barked furiously.
“Down, Bob!” cried Ransey, running to the door. He half expected the postman.
He was mistaken, however, for there stood a smart but pale-faced flunkey in a brown coat with gilt buttons.
Now Ransey could never thoroughly appreciate “gentlemen’s gentlemen” any more than he could gamekeepers.
The flunkey had a large parcel under his arm, which he appeared to be rather ashamed of.
“Aw!” he began haughtily, “am I right in my conjecture that this is ’Angman’s ’All?”