HOPPITY JACK'S STALL
When Chippy left the station and gained Skinner's Hole, he put away his patrol flag carefully behind the tall clock, which was the only ornament of the poor squalid place he called home, and then turned to and helped his mother with a number of odd jobs.
'There ain't much supper for yer,' she said—'on'y some bread an' a heel o' cheese.'
'That's aw' right,' said Chippy. 'Gie it to the little uns. I don't want none.'
He left the house and strolled towards a corner of Quay Flat, where on Saturday nights and holidays a sort of small fair was always held. One or two shooting-galleries, a cocoa-nut 'shy,' and a score or more of stalls laden with fruit, sweetmeats, and the like, were brilliantly lighted up by naphtha flares. Towards this patch of brightness all loungers and idlers were drawn like moths to a candle, and Chippy, too, moved that way. It was now about half-past nine, and the little fair was at its busiest.
As he went he was joined by an acquaintance, who held out a penny packet of cigarettes.
'Have a fag, Chippy?' he said.
'Not me, thenks,' replied Chippy. 'I've chucked 'em.'
'Chucked 'em!' replied his friend in amazement. 'What for?'
'They ain't no good,' said Chippy. 'There ain't one in our patrol as touches a fag now. If he did, I'd soon boot 'im. 'Ow are yer goin' to smell an enemy or a fire or sommat like that half a mile off if yer spoil yer smell wi' smokin'?'