Mrs Cook clicked her tongue compassionately at the sight of the obvious void in the speaker's mouth.
"You'll 'ave to 'ave a forlse one, Mr Linton," said Sergeant Cook with gloomy relish.
The back shop was empty. Dunstable and Linton sat down and began tea. Sergeant Cook came to the door from time to time and dilated further on his grievances.
"Gentlemen from the school they come in 'ere and says ain't it all a joke and exciting and what not. But I says to them, you 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. Glad when it's all over, that's what I'll be."
"'Nother jug of hot water, please," said Linton.
The Sergeant shouted the order over his shoulder, as if he were addressing a half-company on parade, and returned to his woes.
"You 'aven't got to live in it, I says. That's what it is. It's this everlasting worry and flurry day in and day out, and not knowing what's going to 'appen next, and one man coming in and saying 'Vote for Bruce', and another 'Vote for Pedder', and another saying how it's the poor man's loaf he's fighting for—if he'd only buy a loaf, now—'ullo, 'ullo, wot's this?"
There was a "confused noise without", as Shakespeare would put it, and into the shop came clattering Barry and McTodd, of Seymour's, closely followed by Stanning and Attell.
"This is getting a bit too thick," said Barry, collapsing into a chair.
From the outer shop came the voice of Sergeant Cook.