“The last tenants ain't out yet, lydy,” said one of them.
Lord Lundie was rapidly improving in technique, though organ-grinding, unlike the Law, is more of a calling than a trade, and he hung occasionally on a dead centre. Giuseppe, I think, was singing, but I could not understand the drift of Sir Christopher's remarks. They were Spanish.
The woman said something we did not catch.
“You might 'ave sub-let it,” the man insisted. “Or your gentleman 'ere might.”
“But I didn't. Send for the Police at once.”
“I wouldn't do that, lydy. They're only fruit pickers on a beano. They aren't particular where they sleep.”
“D'you mean they've been sleeping there? I only had it cleaned last week. Get them out.”
“Oh, if you say so, we'll 'ave 'em out of it in two twos. Alf, fetch me the spare swingle-bar.”
“Don't! You'll knock the paint off the door. Get them out!”
“What the 'ell else am I trying to do for you, lydy?” the man answered with pathos; but the woman wheeled on her mate.