"Mine? Not by 'arf! A tizzy per workin'-day is wot I pays for the loan of 'er. Nothin' like a babby—specially in narsty weather like this 'ere—to touch the people's 'arts! Lil's mine, though, ain't you, deary?"
A preternaturally bright-eyed, white-faced, wizened little creature peeped out from the shelter of the ostentatiously clean apron, making a sound as of assent.
"Is she ill?" asked P. C. Breagh commiseratingly.
"Not 'er, that's her color!"
"Hungry, perhaps?" he asked.
"Why should she be? ... Wot did yer 'ave fer dinner, Lil? Speak up like a good gal an' tell the gen'lman!"
The small, grimy finger came out of the wide mouth. She lisped confidingly:
"Ay'po'rth o' gin 'ot, an' a stit o' totlit!"
"My God!" gasped P. C. Breagh in horror, "does that baby drink hot gin?"
"When she can get it! an' so does Hi!" explained the lady of the ballads, whom a short female in a plaid shawl and a battered brown bonnet had now relieved of the baby. She added hospitably: "Come an' 'ave two-pennorth o' comfort along o' me now! It's meat and drink both! as you'll find afore long! I'll stand treat—no blarney!"