“Was you in want of a ’and, sir?”
“No, I wasn’t,” replied the man, with a glance of contempt.
“Sorry for that,” returned Bobby, “’cause I’m in want of a sitivation.”
“What can you do?” asked the man.
“Oh! hanythink.”
“Ah, I thought so; I don’t want hands who can do anything, I prefer those who can do something.”
Bobby Frog resumed his whistling, at the exact bar where he had left off, and went on his way. He was used to rebuffs, and didn’t mind them. But when he had spent all the forenoon in receiving rebuffs, had made no progress whatever in his efforts, and began to feel hungry, he ceased the whistling and became grave.
“This looks serious,” he said, pausing in front of a pastry-cook’s shop window. “But for that there plate glass wot a blow hout I might ’ave! Beggin’ might be tried with advantage. It’s agin the law, no doubt, but it ain’t a sin. Yes, I’ll try beggin’.”
But our Arab was not a natural beggar, if we may say so. He scorned to whine, and did not even like to ask. His spirit was much more like that of a highwayman than a beggar.
Proceeding to a quiet neighbourhood which seemed to have been forgotten by the police, he turned down a narrow lane and looked out for a subject, as a privateer might search among “narrows” for a prize. He did not search long. An old lady soon hove in sight. She seemed a suitable old lady, well-dressed, little, gentle, white-haired, a tottering gait, and a benign aspect.