"You can't go in there, ma'am," said a man, just within the entrance.
"It's a friend of the lad's," called back the policeman; "let her come on."
She found Sandy already standing in front of a high desk, over which appeared the head of an inspector, who was rapidly asking him questions, as if eager to get through the business, about his mother: where she lived, how she got her living, how often she was drunk, how many children she had had, and what they had died from.
"Was she kind to you and Gip?" he enquired, with his sharp eyes fastened on the boy.
"Not partic'ler," answered Sandy; "she'd knuckle me in the streets, and search me for coppers if she thought I'd got any. She weren't partic'ler kind, you know."
"Did you ever hear her threaten to get rid of her baby?"
"She'd swear at me and Gip when she were in drink," said Sandy, "and wish we was all dead and buried, but she weren't a partic'ler bad mother. I know them as has worse. If she hadn't lost little Gip, I'd not say a word again' her, sir. It was all drink as did it. Nobody couldn't be cruel to little Gip, such a good little thing she were, and so pretty."
"Tell me what Gip was like," said the inspector.
Sandy hesitated and stammered. He could see Gip before his eyes now; but how could he tell what she was like? He had not any words in which he could describe her; and he had never thought of her in that way.
"She were pretty," he answered, pausing between each word, "very pretty and good; and she'd such funny ways. She were like nobody but Gip, sir."