“Follow me,” said Berty, suddenly setting off toward the city, and the man sauntered after her.
When they reached River Street, she opened the gate leading into the yard and beckoned to him.
“I can’t take you in the house,” she said, in a low voice, as he followed her. “My grandmother is ill, and then our house is very clean.”
“And I am very unclean,” he said, jocularly surveying himself, “though I’m by no means as bad as an ash-heap tramp.”
“But I’ll put you into the shed,” continued Berty. “There are only a few guinea-pigs there. They are quiet little things, and won’t hurt you.”
“I hope you won’t give me husks for supper,” murmured the tramp.
Berty eyed him severely. His condition to her was too serious for jesting, and she by no means approved of his attempts at humour.
“I’ll bring you out something to eat,” she said, “and if you want to stay all night, I’ll drag you out a mattress.”
“I accept your offer with thankfulness, lady,” he replied.