There was a murmur of approval from the others, which was interrupted by Mrs. Bindle's clear-cut, incisive voice.
"Get out of my garden, and be off, the lot of you," she cried, taking a half-step in the direction of the big woman, to whom she addressed herself.
"Is it let?" enquired the rag-and-bone man from the rear.
"Is what let?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"The 'ouse, mum," said the rag-and-bone man, whose profession demanded tact and politeness.
"This house is not to let," was the angry retort, "never was to let, and never will be to let till I'm gone. Now you just be off with you, or——" she paused.
"Or wot?" demanded she of the tweed cap and hat-pin, desirous of rehabilitating herself with the others.
"I'll send for a policeman," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder. She still restrained her natural instincts in a vice-like self-control. Her hands shook slightly; but not with fear. It was the trembling of the tigress preparing to spring.
"Then wot about this advert?" cried the man with the little girl, extending the newspaper towards her.
"Yes, wot about it?" demanded the woman in the foulard blouse, extending her paper in turn.