"Let's go a good way off," said Ginger; "somewhere where they won't know us."
They walked down a few streets, till William said: "We'll go into the first house round the corner." William was looking pale, but resolved. Having embarked upon the dangerous venture, he was determined to carry it through. They came to the next house round the corner, and walked up an overshadowed, neglected drive. They slackened speed considerably as they neared the door.
"You'd better do the talkin'," said Ginger faintly, with a propitiatory air. "You're better at talkin' than wot I am."
"Oh, I am, am I!" said William irritably. "Yes, you think so, don't you? Oh, yes, you think so when it's a kind of talkin' you don't want to do! Oh, yes! Huh!"
They stood apprehensively on the front doorstep and gazed at the milk-jug that was standing there.
"Looks as if they was out," said Ginger.
"Oh, yes," said William, scathing but relieved. "You don't mind doin' the talkin' now, do you? You don't think I'm better at talkin' than wot you are now, do you? You don't mind talkin' to a milk-jug. Oh, no!"
"You think you're so clever," said Ginger bitterly. "Who thought of makin' 'em slaves first of all, anyway. Jus' tell me that."
"Well, wot good's it done?" retorted William. "Nobody'll buy 'em. Takin' 'em to an ole empty house, wot good's that done? You tell me that!"
The argument would have pursued its normal course to physical violence had not George raised his voice plaintively.