I stopped short, and answered solemnly, “Where’s that sixpence you stole out of my pocket, you young thief?”
I expected he would be overawed and conscience-stricken by the sudden accusation. But instead of that he fired up with the most virtuous indignation.
“What do yer mean, young thief? I ain’t a-goin’—Oh, my Jemimer, it’s one of them two flats. Oh, here’s a go! Shine ’e boots, mister?”
There were certainly very few signs of penitence about this queer boy. This was pleasant, certainly. Not only robbed, but laughed at by the thief, a little mite of a fellow like this!
“I’ve a great mind to call a policeman and give you in charge,” said I.
He must have seen that I was not in earnest, for he replied, gaily, “No, yer don’t. Ef yer do, I’ll run yer in for prize-fightin’, so now.”
“How much do you earn by blacking boots?” I asked, feeling an involuntary interest in this strange gutter lad.
“Some days I gets a tanner. But, bless you, I ain’t a brigade bloke. I say, though, where’s t’other flat; ’im with the eyes?”
“He’s away ill,” I said. “He’s got smallpox, and says he believes he caught it from you.”
“Get ’long!” replied the boy.