As he walked down a side-street, his hands in his pockets, his rough fur cap—which he generally wore slouched—well off his eyes, he was suddenly accosted by a red-haired boy, who looked at him with a very innocent face and inquired meekly "ef he were lookin' for a job."
"None o' yer sauce, youngster," said Harris, passing on.
"I don't mean the least sauce in life, master," said the red-haired boy, still in the most humble and gentle tone. "I only thought ef we were goin' in the same direction we might p'rhaps cheer each other up."
"You're a likely youngster, you ere," he said, looking down at him with the grimmest of smiles.
"Yus, my mother says as I'm well grown for my hage," replied Pickles; and then, keeping pace with the tall man, he began to whistle softly.
Harris returned to his interrupted thoughts, and soon forgot the small boy, who had to run to keep up with his long strides. Suddenly the little boy exclaimed in a shrill, eager treble:
"I say, mister!"
"Wot now, young 'un?"
"You ain't of a wery obleeging turn, be yer? You couldn't help me, now, ter find a guilty party?"
"You seems a wery rum chap," said Harris rather crossly.