This master-stroke of strategy turned public opinion dead against Number Seven, who retired amidst a murmur of disapproving voices.
"It's 'ard if I can't go out to see a dyin' wife an' child, without 'im a-comin' usin' 'ot words like that," grumbled Bindle, as he proceeded to investigate the cases of the other tenants and their minions.
Number One was expecting a parcel. Had it arrived?
No, it had not, but Bindle would not rest until it did.
Number Twelve, a tall, melancholy-visaged man, had lost Fluffles. Where did Bindle think she was?
"P'raps she's taken up with another cove, sir," suggested Bindle sympathetically. "You never knows where you are with women."
The maid from Number Fifteen giggled.
Number Twelve explained in a weary tone that Fluffles was a Pekinese spaniel.
"A dog, you say, sir," cried Bindle, "why didn't you say so before? I might 'ave advertised for—well, well, I'll keep a look out."
"Wot's that?" he enquired of the maid from Number Eight. "No coal? Can't fetch coal up after six o'clock. That's the rules," he added with decision.