“An’ wot principles may you ’old on by, my turnip?” asked the Slogger.
“It would puzzle me, rather, to tell that,” returned Robin, “’specially talkin’ down to the level of my own toes on the top of a ’bus; but I’ll tell you what, Villum, if you’ll come to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square, just back of Hoboy Crescent, w’ere my master lives, on Sunday next at seven in the evenin’, you’ll hear an’ see somethin’ as’ll open your eyes.”
“Ah! a meetin’-’ouse’?” said the Slogger, with a slight smile of contempt.
“Music-’alls and publics is meetin’-’ouses, ain’t they?”
“Ah, but they ain’t prayer-meetin’ ’ouses,” rejoined the Slogger.
“Not so sure o’ that Villum. There’s a deal o’ prayer in such places sometimes, an’ it’s well for the wisitors that their prayers ain’t always answered. But our meetin’-’ouse is for more than prayer—a deal more; and there’s my young missus—a real angel—comes in, and ’olds forth there every Sunday evening to young fellers like you an’ me. You just come an’ judge for yourself.”
“No thankee,” returned the Slogger.
As he spoke a lady with a lap-dog made powerful demonstrations with her umbrella. The ’bus stopped, and the conductor attended to his duties, while Robin, who really felt a strong desire to bring his old comrade under an influence which he knew was working a wonderful change in himself, sat meditating sadly on the obstinacy of human nature.
“I say, Robin,” said the Slogger, on resuming his perch, “d’you know I’ve found traces o’ that young gal as you took such a interest in, as runned away from the old ’ooman, an’ was robbed by Brassey an’ me?”
“You don’t mean that!” exclaimed Robin eagerly.