“Tough luck.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, miss,” said Hash, pleased by her sympathy.
“Well, I won’t keep you. ’Devening.”
“’Evening, miss.”
Hash closed the door. Whistling a little, for his visitor had lightened somehow the depression which was gnawing at him, he descended the stairs and entered the kitchen.
Something which appeared at first acquaintance to be the ceiling, the upper part of the house and a ton of bricks thrown in for good measure hit Hash on the head and he subsided gently on the floor.
§ 3
Soapy Molloy came to the front door and opened it. He was a little pale, and he breathed heavily.
“All right?” said his wife eagerly.
“All right.”