Henri walked along jauntily, practising slang to himself.
“Oh, ze Crumbs ... oh, ze Crikey ... ze jolly well ... righto ... git out ... ze bash on the mug....”
General Moult—fat and important-looking—came breezily down the road.
“Ah, Henri ... how are you getting on?”
“Ze jolly well,” said Henri.
“Been for a walk?” said the General yet more breezily.
“Non.... I been to Jasmine Villas.... Oh, ze Crumbs.... I see ole Meester Burwash go—’ow you say it?—off ze head—out of ze chump.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes,” said Henri, “an’ the policeman ’e come an’ try to take ’im away an’ ’e fight an’ fight, an’ ze policeman ’e go for ’elp——”
The General’s mouth was hanging open in amazement.