"You ain't got over yer fright yet," she began.
"Don't talk of it," said Connie.
"I guess as I won't—yer do look piquey. 'Ow's the other kid?"
"I dunno."
Agnes laughed and winked. After a minute she said,
"Yer needn't tell me. 'E's with Mrs. Anderson, mother o' the fireman. The fireman—'e's a real 'andsome man—I can tike to that sort myself. The kid's wery bad, he is. Wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional."
"Perfessional?" said Connie.
"Yus—ef he lives 'e'll be one. Simeon Stylites 'ull see to that. You'll be a perfessional, too. There's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread."
"I don't understand," said Connie.
"Sakes! you be stupid. It's good to open yer heyes now. Wot do yer think Mammy Warren wanted yer for?"