The upshot of it all being the admittance a fortnight later of young Wal. Hickle, attired in his best and primed with her family history, into the presence of the terrified woman.
He had simply asked for twenty pounds on the nail in return for his silence.
And she, scared out of her wits, instead of threatening him with the law, had given him a cheque—yes! a cheque—and he, with a flash of that cunning which was to lead him eventually to a seat amongst the plutocrats, had pocketed it and grinned.
"I doan' wan' mor' 'en twenty uv the best, lidy, jus' to mike a start—an' I doan' wanter part wiv yer 'and-writin' niver. So jes' yer send two rustlers, wot means notes, of ten pun each, rigistered, to W. 'ickle spelt wiv a haitch, 2 H'apple Blossom Row, Coving Gardin, afore this toime ter-morrer. An' jes yer remember that h'as long as yer lives I've got yer bit of 'andwritin.' I ain't goin' ter use it, but some dye it might come in 'andy. 'Ardly loikly as 'ow yer'd buy twenty pun wurf of veg from Wal 'ickle eh, lidy?—it 'ud want some h'explanation."
Then this soul made in the image and likeness of his God and found good, but hidden under the civilising process of the twentieth century which had given him the morals of a jackal and the status of a pariah dog, sighed as he looked round the dainty room.
"S'welp me," he said, as he touched a satin cushion with his coarse, broken-nailed finger-tips, "h'if oi h'understand wye a woman the loikes uv you, wiv h'everyfink she wants, cawn't run strite!"
"Oh! but," whimpered the woman, "it was all the fault of the fog, really it was!"
"Garn!" replied the young ruffian as he opened the door and slammed it behind him.
CHAPTER XIV
"Surely I am more brutish than any man!"—The Bible.