“She means wot she says,” replied the small baker’s boy with the dignified reticence of superior knowledge, “she knocked the constable down.”
“Wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?—walk-er!”
“Very good; you’ve no call to b’lieve it unless you like,” replied the baker’s boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, “but she did it, though—an’ that’s six month with ’ard labour, if it ain’t five year.”
At this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. He was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic.
“My child! my darling! my dear Di!” he gasped.
“Papa!” responded Diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug.
“Oh! I say,” whispered the small butcher, “it’s a melly-drammy—all for nuffin!”
“My!” responded the small baker, with a solemn look, “won’t the Lord left-tenant be down on ’em for play-actin’ without a licence, just!”
“Is the pony killed?” inquired Sir Richard, recovering himself.
“Not in the least, sir. ’Ere ’e is, sir; all alive an’ kickin’,” answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, “but the hinsurance offices wouldn’t ’ave the clo’se-baskit at no price. Shall I order up the remains of your carriage, sir?”