"There's no advertisement about this house," said Mrs. Bindle, ignoring the papers, "and you'd better go away. Pity you haven't got something better to do than to come disturbin' me in the midst of my ironin'," and with that she banged the door and disappeared.
A murmur of anger passed along the queue, anger which portended trouble.
"Nice way to treat people," said a little woman with a dirty face, a dingy black bonnet and a velvet dolman, to which portions of the original jet-trimming still despairingly adhered. "Some folks don't seem to know 'ow to be'ave."
There was another murmur of agreement.
"Kick the blinkin' door in," suggested a pacifist.
"I'd like to get at 'er with my nails," said a sharp-faced woman with a baby in her arms. "I know 'er sort."
"Deserves to 'ave 'er stutterin' windows smashed, the stuck-up baggage!" cried another.
"'Ullo, look at all them people."
A big, puffy man with a person that rendered his boots invisible, guided the hand-cart he was pushing into the kerb in front of No. 7 Fenton Street. A pale, dispirited lad was harnessed to the vehicle by a dilapidated piece of much-knotted rope strung across his narrow chest. As the barrow came to a standstill, he allowed the rope to drop to the ground and, stepping out of the harness, he turned an apathetic and unspeculative eye towards the crowd.
The big man, whose clothing consisted of a shirt, a pair of trousers and some braces, stood looking at the applicants for the altar of Mrs. Bindle's life. The crowd returned the stare with interest. The furniture piled upon the barrow caused them some anxiety. Was that the explanation of the unfriendly reception accorded them?