"Made a rare mess of the garding, ain't 'e?" remarked the rag-and-bone man to the woman with the tweed cap and the hat-pin.
"Blinkin' profiteer!" was her comment.
II
"It's all your fault. Look wot they done." Mrs. Bindle surveyed the desolation which, that morning, had been a garden.
The bed was trodden down, the geraniums broken, and the lobelia border showed big gaps in its blue and greenness.
"It's always the same with anything I 'ave," she continued. "You always spoil it."
"But it wasn't me," protested Bindle. "It was that big cove with the pinafore."
"Who put that advertisement in?" demanded Mrs. Bindle darkly. "That's what I should like to know."
"Somebody wot 'ad put the wrong number," suggested Bindle.
"I'd wrong number them if I caught them."