“You’re another!” was the prompt reply.
Frederic Pelham stared at the creature who had dared to imply that he—a leader of fashion—was a bundle of rags.
The street-sweeper was apparently about twelve years of age. It was not quite easy to determine whether it was a boy or girl. The head was surmounted by a boy’s cap, the hair was cut short, it wore a boy’s jacket, but underneath was a girl’s dress. Jacket and dress were both in a state of extreme raggedness. The child’s face was very dark and, as might be expected, dirty; but it was redeemed by a pair of brilliant black eyes, which were fixed upon the young exquisite in an expression half-humorous, half-defiant, as the owner promptly retorted, “You’re another!”
“Clear out, you little nuisance!” said the dandy, stopping short from necessity, for the little sweep had planted herself directly in his path; and to step out on either side would have soiled his boots irretrievably.
“Gi’ me a penny, then?”
“I’ll hand you to the police, you little wretch!”
“I aint done nothin’. Gi’ me a penny?”
Mr. Pelham, provoked, raised his cane threateningly.
But Tom (for, in spite of her being a girl, this was the name by which she was universally known; indeed she scarcely knew any other) was wary. She dodged the blow, and by an adroit sweep of her broom managed to scatter some mud on Mr. Pelham’s boots.
“You little brat, you’ve muddied my boots!” he exclaimed, with vexation.