"'Ere, let's 'ave some grub and stow the jaw for a bit," said
Trotter.
He had bread and meat, bought in a hurry at the tail of the village while Bill receded down the road.
As soon as he laid it bare, Bill growled.
"T'row heem some, queeck," cried the Signor.
Bill caught the loaf and settled down to it with an appetite. Trotter stared at him with a gape.
"Well, blow me!" he said. "'Ave we come to feedin' the bloomin' dog before we feeds ourselves? 'As the beggar struck for that? I s'pose 'e'll be wantin' wages next."
"Oh, shutta da gab!" snapped the Signor.
"That's all very well," retorted Trotter. "But I'm an Englishman, I am. You're only a furriner; you're used to bein' put upon. But I'm—."
Bill growled again and rose to his feet. Trotter tossed him a piece of meat.
All that was long ago. Now if you stray through the South of England during the months between May and October, you may yet meet Bill and his companions. Trotter still wears tights, but he is thinner and much more wholesome to see; but the Signor has added a kind of shiny servility to his courtly Italian manner.