"I'll tell them she carries poison in 'er finger nails," said the Baker, "and you see they'll be civil. Besides, we'll be rich, old son, and if Kitty's rollin' in gold, she can wear skins and eat lizards if she likes."
And Kitty, who was beginning to get curious about the women of her lover's tribe, inquired about their manners and customs. The Baker got so entangled that Smith fairly screamed.
"'Old your row," said the Baker, "and you an old bushman, too. You'd bring black-fellows from ten mile, you would."
"That's true," said Smith; "I forgot."
But, then, to hear the Baker distinguishing in terms of the East End between a lady and one who was not a lady, was too exquisitely ridiculous, especially when his pupil in the difficult art of social estimation was one to whom every term he used was blank mystery. For, roughly speaking, Baker's definition of a lady amounted to asserting that a woman who could go out on Sunday in a pony-cart was one. And if she or her husband kept a public-house, was no doubt of her status. Smith refrained from upsetting any of the Baker's statements, but the notion of Kitty in Whitechapel, was not to be endured.
"You won't take Kitty to London, will you?" he asked.
"Of course," said the Baker. "D'ye think I'm ashamed of 'er? She'll bang the 'ole crowd."
"But she won't be happy, Baker," said Smith. "If you want to do her a good turn, you'll buy a big cattle station when we land the rhino."
"Do you think so?" asked the Baker.
"I'm sure of it."