With an activity of which his previous movements had given no indication, Charley climbed the railings to the comparative safety of the street.
Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon the big man.
"'Ere, come along, let me get in," he cried, pushing his way through the crowd, which showed no inclination for resistance. The little man who had first arrived was already well outside, talking to the woman with the tweed cap and hat-pin, while she of the foulard blouse was edging down the path towards the gate. None showed the least desire to protest against the big man's claim to the house by right of conquest—and he passed on to his Waterloo.
"I taken this 'ouse," he cried, as he approached the grim figure on the doorstep. "Fifteen an' a kick a week, an' cheap at 'alf the price," he added jovially.
"'Ere, get on wiv it, Charley," he called out over his shoulder.
Charley, however, stood gazing at his parent with a greater show of interest than he had hitherto manifested. He seemed instinctively to grasp the dramatic possibilities of the situation.
"Thought I'd bring the sticks wiv me, missis," said the man genially. "Nothink like makin' sure in these days." He stopped suddenly. Without a word, Mrs. Bindle had turned and disappeared into the house.
"May as well pay a deposit," he remarked, thrusting a dirty hand into his trouser pocket. He glanced over his shoulder and winked jocosely at the woman with the foulard blouse.
The next thing he knew was that Drama with a capital "D" had taken a hand in the game. The crowd drew its breath with almost a sob of surprised expectancy.
Into Charley's vacant eyes there came a look of interest, and into the big man's mouth, just as he turned his head, there came a something that was wet and tasted odiously of carbolic.