Conscience did all her work by looks alone. She was naturally dumb, but she had a grand majestic countenance with great expressive eyes, and at the mention of one glass of beer she frowned so that poor Mrs Frog almost trembled.
At this point Hetty stepped into the conversation. All unaware of what had been going on in her mother’s mind, she said, suddenly, “Mother, I’m going to a meeting to-night; will you come?”
Mrs Frog was quite willing. In fact she had fairly given in and become biddable like a little child,—though, after all, that interesting creature does not always, or necessarily, convey the most perfect idea of obedience!
It was a rough meeting, composed of rude elements, in a large but ungilded hall in Whitechapel. The people were listening intently to a powerful speaker.
The theme was strong drink. There were opponents and sympathisers there. “It is the greatest curse, I think, in London,” said the speaker, as Hetty and her mother entered.
“Bah!” exclaimed a powerful man beside whom they chanced to sit down. “I’ve drank a lot on’t an’ don’t find it no curse, at all.”
“Silence,” cried some in the audience.
“I tell ’ee it’s all barn wot ’e’s talkin’,” said the powerful man.
“Put ’im out,” cried some of the audience. But the powerful man had a powerful look, and a great bristly jaw, and a fierce pair of eyes which had often been blackened, and still bore the hues of the last fight; no one, therefore, attempted to put him out, so he snapped his fingers at the entire meeting, said, “Bah!” again, with a look of contempt, and relapsed into silence, while the speaker, heedless of the slight interruption, went on.
“Why, it’s a Blue Ribbon meeting, Hetty,” whispered Mrs Frog.