"There now," she said when the race was over, "that's what's called a dead 'eat, and that's a way of winnin' as saves the expense of givin' a prize."
With complete disregard for the theorising of science, she then stuck the poker up in front of the bars to keep the fire bright.
"Now, Alfred," she said, "you mind out for baby cryin', and if she should 'appen to want for anythink, just give a call to Mrs. Thomas through the next door."
"Right you are," said Alfred, feeling as important as a 'bus conductor.
Mrs. Reeve hurried towards the City to her work. Office cleaning was the first thing that had offered itself, and she could arrange the hours so as to look after the children between whiles. Late at night and again early in the morning she was in the offices, and she earned a fraction over twopence an hour.
"You're not seemin' exackly saloobrious to-night, my dear," said the old woman who had lately come to the same staircase, as they began to scour the stone with whitening. "I do 'ope 'e ain't been layin' 'is 'and on yer."
"My 'usband didn't 'appen to be one of them sort, thankin' yer kindly," said Mrs. Reeve.
"Oh, a widder, and beggin' yer pardon. And you'll 'ave children, of course?"
"Four," said Mrs. Reeve, and she thought of them asleep in the firelight.
The old woman—a mere bundle with a pair of eyes in it—looked at her for a moment, and pretending out of delicacy to be talking to herself, she muttered loud enough to be heard: "Oh, that's where it is, is it? There's four, same as I've buried. And a deal too many to bring up decent on ten shillin' a week. Why, I'd sooner let the Poor Law 'ave 'em, though me and the old man 'ad to go into the 'Ouse for it. And that's what I said to Mrs. Green when Mrs. Turner was left with six. And Mrs. Turner she went and done it. An uncommon sensible woman, was Mrs. Turner, not like some as don't care what comes to their children, so long as they're 'appy theirselves."