"Get up, I tell you," she reiterated. "You fat, ugly son of Satan, you Beelzebub, you leper, you Judas, you——" she paused a moment in her search for the undesirables from Holy Writ. Then, with inspiration, she added—"Barabbas."
The man made another effort to rise; but Mrs. Bindle brought the end of the mop down upon his head with a crack that sounded like a pistol-shot.
The expression on Charley's face changed. The lower jaw lifted. The loose, vacuous mouth spread. Charley was grinning.
For a moment the man lay still. Mrs. Bindle was standing over him with the mop, a tense and righteously indignant St. George over a particularly evil dragon.
Suddenly he gave tongue.
"'Elp!" he yelled. "I'm bein' murdered. 'Elp! Charley, where are you?" But Charley's grin had expanded and he was actually rubbing his hands with enjoyment.
Mrs. Bindle brought the mop down on the man's mouth. "Stop it, you blaspheming son o' Belial," she cried.
The big man roared the louder; but he made no effort to rise.
"'Ere comes a flatty," cried a voice.
"Slop's a-comin'," echoed another, and a minute later, a clean-shaven embodiment of youthful dignity and self-possession, in a helmet and blue uniform, approached and began to make his way through the crowd towards the Bindles' gate.