The boy realized that he was on a horsehair sofa, and that a fine, clean, handsome-looking lady was standing with her mouth open in front of him.
"Goodness gracious, Job!"
"Come all the way from Blackhampton in a truck this morning. By the 5:40 Express."
"Well, I'm blessed if I ever see such a hobject. I'll give him some tea and a bit o' bacon, and some bread and butter, and then I'll get some o' that mud off him."
"Some of it's blood," said the Foreman Shunter.
"Yes, I see it is. Never ... did ... I ... see ... anythink ... like him. I'll make the tea; the kettle's boiling." The voice of Mother was the nearest thing to music the boy had ever heard. It was better even than that of the ladies who sang in the bar of the Wheat Sheaf, the Red Lion, and the Crown and Anchor, outside which places he had always stayed to listen when he could conveniently do so. This room was not in the least like the police station. And he was quite sure that the lady called Mother had nothing whatever to do with....
"Set him a bit nearer to the fire, Job,"—yes, the voice was music—"and put this round him."
"This" was an old coat.
VI