“Wants bakers’ boys and blackamoors, he does,” answered his wife, jerking her elbow towards the fallen man. “Pushes in, he does, and upsets my washtub; clumsy, I call it.”
“He does, does he!” said the waterman, licking his hands as he stepped out on to the grass. “Bakers’ boys, and blackamoors, and washtubs, does he? Pushes in, does he? I’m thinking it’s black eyes what he really wants.”
With every sentence he had drawn a step nearer to the discomfited intruder, who, spluttering with soapsuds, was still recumbent in the swamp, half-hidden by the tub.
“Get up!” cried Boulter.
The man pushed the tub off, and rose slowly to his feet.
“Out you go, after that,” the waterman continued, kicking the man’s hat over the fence into the yard.
The man slunk through the gateway, leaving a trail of soapsuds.
“Messing up my garden!” growled Boulter, close on his heels. “Pick up your hat.”
As soon as the man had recovered his dripping hat he set off to run to the alley-way. But Boulter took a stride forward, seized him by the collar, and marched him down the yard, prodding him on with regular applications of a bony knee.
“I’ll learn you to come pushing into decent folk’s gardens!” said the waterman. “On a Saturday too! After bakers’ boys and blackamoors! And washtubs! Spilling the water! You get out!”