Mrs. Carter was busy. She was the maternal parent of Miss Betsy. Her kitchen fire was out, her furniture was heaped one thing upon another; a pail of water stood ready to wash the brick floor, when she should have finished rubbing up the grate, and her hands and face were as grimy as the black-lead.
"There's no Becky here," snapped she.
"I can't find her," returned Mrs. Fisher. "I thought her might be along of your Betsy. I say, here's your husband coming round the corner. There's Mark Mason and Robert East and Dale along of him. And—my! what has that young 'un of East's been doing to hisself? He's black from head to foot. Come and look."
Mrs. Carter disdained the invitation. She was a hard-working, thrifty woman, but a cross one. Priding herself upon her cleanliness, she perpetually returned loud thanks that she was not as the dirty ones around her. She was the Pharisee amidst many publicans.
"If I passed my time staring and gossiping as some does, where 'ud my work be?" was her rebuke. "Shut the door, Suke Fisher."
Suke Fisher did as she was bid. She turned her wrists back upon her hips, and walked to meet the advancing party, having discerned their approach by the light of the gas-lamps. "Be you going to be sold for a blackamoor?" demanded she of the boy.
The boy laughed. His head, face, shoulders, hands, were ornamented with a thick, black liquid, not unlike blacking. He appeared to enjoy the treat, as if he had been anointed with some fragrant oil.
"He is not a bad spectacle, is he, Dame Fisher?" remarked the young man, whom she had called Robert East.
"What's a-done it?" questioned she.
"Him and Jacky Brumm got larking, and upset the dye-pot upon themselves. We rubbed 'em down with the leather shreds, but it keeps on dripping from their hair."