"But y'ain't goin'?" said Pinkey, anxiously.
"My oath, I am!" cried Chook. "I'm doin' the square thing this time, don't yous fergit, an' no old finger's goin' ter bustle me, even if 'e's your father."
"Yous stop at 'ome while yer lucky," said Pinkey. "Ever since Lil cleared out wi' Marsden, 'e swears 'e'll knife the first bloke that comes after me."
"Ye're only kiddin'," said Chook, cheerfully; "an' wot'll 'e do ter yous?"
"Me! 'E niver rouses on me. W'en 'e gits shirty, I just laugh, an' 'e can't keep it up."
"Right-oh!" said Chook. "Look out fer a song an' dance nex' Sunday."
About five o'clock on the following Sunday afternoon, Chook, beautifully attired in the larrikin fashion, sauntered up to the door and tried the knocker. It was too stiff to move, and he used his knuckles. Then he heard footsteps and a rapid whispering, and Pinkey, white with anxiety, opened the door. Mrs Partridge, half dressed, slipped into the bedroom and called out in a loud voice:
"Good afternoon, Mr Fowles! 'Ave yer come to take Elizabeth for a walk?"
Ignoring Pinkey's whispered advice, he pushed in and looked round. He was in the parlour, and a large china dog welcomed him with a fixed grin.
"W'ere's the old bloke?" muttered Chook.