"You'd better let me get you a cab or something," he said. "You really ought to go home."
The old man snarled at him. "You let us alone," he said. "We haven't done you any harm."
The impulse persisted.
"I'm going to get you a cab," he said. "Whether you like it or no."
"None of your bloody philanthropy," said the old man. "I know you. M'rier and me's all right."
It was Maria then who took the next step in the affair. Tom, although he was afterwards to have a very considerable knowledge of that old lady, could never definitely determine as to whether the step that she took was honest or no. What she did was to collapse into the sodden pavement in a black and grimy heap. The feather stood out from the collapse with a jaunty, ironical gesture.
"'Ere, M'rier," said the old man, very much as though he were addressing a recalcitrant horse, "you get hup."
No sound came from the heap. Tom bent down. He touched her soiled velvet coat, lifted an arm, felt the weight sink beneath him. "Well," he said, almost defiantly, to the old man, "what are you going to do now?"
"She's always doing it," he answered, "and at the most aggravating moments." Then with something that looked suspiciously like a kick, he repeated: "You get hup, M'rier."
"Look here, you can't do that," Tom cried. "What an old devil you are! We've got to get her out of this."