That one act of Mrs. Bindle's had saved from entire annihilation the faith of a child. For the first time in his existence, Charley realised that there was a God of retribution.
Murmurs of approval came from the crowd.
"Give it to 'im, missis, 'e done it," shouted one. "It warn't the kid's fault, blinkin' 'Un."
"Dirty profiteer," cried the thin woman. "Look at 'is stummick," she added as if in support of her words.
"Get up!" Again Mrs. Bindle's hard, uninflected words sounded like the accents of destiny.
She accompanied her exhortation by a jab from the mop-end of her weapon directed at the centre of that portion of the big man's anatomy which had been advanced as proof of his profiteering propensities.
He raised himself a few inches; but Mrs. Bindle, with all the inconsistency of a woman, dashed the mop once more in his face, and down went his head again with a crack.
"Charley!" he roared; but there was nothing of the Paladin about Charley. Between him and his father at that moment were eleven years of heavy-handed tyranny, and Charley remained on the safety-side of the railings.
"Get up! You great, hulkin' brute," cried Mrs. Bindle, reversing the mop and getting in a stroke at his solar-plexus which would have made her fame in pig-sticking.
"Grrrrumph!" The fat man's exclamation was involuntary.