Generally he was the merriest little fellow in the world, but to-night, even while partaking of a supper that would have rejoiced any heart, even while eating those exasperatingly delicious morsels, he had been grave, subdued, and his laugh (for through it all he laughed constantly) had no true ring in it. He was also the bravest little boy possible; he had never in all his life funked any one or anything, and yet to-night at the sight of a policeman even in the far distance he had got in the most cowardly way behind Jenks.
There was some cause for this. There was also something else to be accounted for.
How was that supper bought? Where had the money come from? Flo knew well that ’ot roast goose, with sage and onions, with taters and gravy, not to make any mention of the bowl that held them, had not been purchased for a few pence; so where, where had the money come from?
Dick had it not, and Jenks, though werry liberal, liberal to the amount of now and then presenting her with a whole red herring for their supper, was to all appearance as poor and as hard up as themselves.
True, Flo did not know how Jenks made his living; his trade—for he told her he had a trade—was a secret, which he might enlighten her about some time, but certainly not at present.
Jenks got his money, what little money he had, in some mysterious way, of that there was no doubt.
She thought over it all to-night, and very grave were her fears and suspicions.
Was it possible that Jenks was a bad boy, and that he was teaching Dick to be a bad boy?
Was it possible that Jenks was not honest, and that the delicious supper they had just eaten was not honestly come by?
What a pity if this was so, for ’ot roast goose was so good. Perhaps Dick had helped some old lady to find a cab, and she had given him a shilling, and perhaps Jenks, who was werry good-natured, had kindly assisted some other body, and thus earned ’arf-a-crown; this sum would pay for their supper, good as it was!