"Naw! Bin ticklin' the till, more like."
"Bli-me, don't 'e look sick!"
They ran and buzzed around him like wasps, stinging most bitterly with coarse words and coarser laughter. An omnibus slowed its pace to let them cross the road, and Philip knew that the people on top craned their necks to have a good look at him. When nearing the viaduct steps, the policeman growled something at the pursuing crowd. Another constable strode rapidly to the entrance and cut off the loafers, sternly advising them to find some other destination. But the respite was a brief one. The pair reached Farringdon Street, and had barely attracted attention before they passed the restaurant where Philip had lunched. The hour was yet early for mid-day customers, and the bald-headed proprietor saw them coming. He rushed out. The greengrocer, too, turned from his wares and joined in the exclamations of his friend at this speedy dénouement of the trivial incident of twenty minutes earlier.
The restaurant keeper was made jubilant by this dramatic vindication of the accuracy of his judgment.
"The thievin' young scamp!" he ejaculated. "That's right, Mr. Policeman. Lock 'im up. 'E's a reg'lar wrong 'un."
The constable stopped. "Hello!" he said. "Do you know him?"
"I should think I did. 'E kem 'ere just now an' obtained a good blowout on false pretencies, an'——"
"Old 'ard," put in the greengrocer, "that's not quite the ticket. 'E asked you to trust 'im, but you wouldn't."
The stout man gurgled.
"Not me. I know 'is sort. But 'e 'ad you a fair treat, Billy."