She knew well that Dick would never have courage to say to Jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers.
Accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light Jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, Flo, rising softly, for fear of waking Dick, followed him.
“Jenks,” she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, “I wants fur to speak to you.”
Jenks turned round with merry eyes.
“I’m yer ’umble servant, my Lady, the Hearl’s wife,” he said, with a mock bow to Flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. “Why, wot hever ails you, young ’un? You is all of a tremble. Come along and ’ave a drop of ’ot coffee at the stalls.”
“No, Jenks, I doesn’t want to. Jenks, I come fur to say as you, and me, and Dick mustn’t be pardeners no more. You mustn’t come no more to this yere cellar, Jenks.”
Jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone.
“My Lady, you is alwis werry perlite—you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too ’igh and mighty to speak to a chap. Might a poor and ’umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin’ as to tell ’im the reason of this ’eart-breakin’ horder.”
Here Jenks pretended to whimper.
“Yes, Jenks, I’ll tell you,” said Flo; “’tis because Dick and me isn’t never goin’ to be thiefs, Jenks. Dick did prig the purse yesterday, but ’ees never, never goin’ to do so no more.”