And then it was I remembered that no one had ever heard Ginger's name.
"We call 'im Ginger, miss; but you mustn't let 'im talk. 'E's some'ow out of the way of it."
"Please Mr. Ginger, tell us what happened?"
Bindle made a motion as if to stop Ginger, who replaced the jug on the table and wiped his lips with the back of his disengaged hand.
"It was down at the yard, miss. Ruddy Bill tied a tin on to Polly's kitten's tail."
"But—but—" said Sallie, "I don't understand." She looked from Ginger to Bindle.
"You are an ole 'uggins," said Bindle to Ginger. "Yer couldn't keep that face of yours shut, could yer? It's like this, miss. There's a little kid down at the yard wot's got a kitten, all fluffy fur, and Ruddy Bill tied a tin on to the poor thing's tail, an' it went almost mad with fright, so—so my foot sort o' came up against Ruddy Bill. 'E wouldn't fight, you see."
"Ruddy Bill's in the 'firmary," rumbled Ginger.
"Yes, an' I'm on the couch."
Never had the Bindles' kitchen witnessed a scene such as that on which the Night Club descended upon it. Even Ginger's gloom was mitigated under the influence of the talk and good fellowship, assisted by unlimited beer. The kitchen floor was covered with men and mugs, glasses and bottles of whisky and syphons of soda. The atmosphere was grey with tobacco smoke, and the air full of the sound of half a dozen separate conversations.