“Fire!” exclaimed May, holding up her finger and listening with eager expectation.
“No, little woman,” said Joe, “they would ring loud if it was fire.”
Meanwhile Mrs Dashwood opened the door and found herself confronted by a boy, with his hands in his pockets and his cap thrown in a reckless way half on the side and half on the back of his head.
“Oh, I suppose you are the boy Herring, sent here by Miss Reading,” said Mrs Dashwood.
“Well, as to that, ma’am, you must be guided by taste. I’ve ’eard of men of my years an’ standin’ bein’ styled ’obble-de-’oys. My name, likewise, is open to question. Some of my friends calls me ’Erring—others of ’em, Raw ’Erring—others, again, the Bloater. But I’m in no wise partikler, I did come from Miss Reading to ’ave an interview with Mrs Dashwood—whom—I presoom—”
Here the Bloater laid his hand on his heart and made a courtly bow.
Mrs Dashwood laughed, and said, “come in, boy.”
“I have a pal, ma’am—a chum—a—in fact a friend—may I—”
Without finishing his sentence or waiting for a reply, the Bloater gave a sharp whistle, and Little Jim stood by his side as if by magical influence, looking the embodiment of united innocence and impudence.
“Come in, both of you, and make haste,” said Mary, ushering them into a small empty room. “Now, boy—”