"Were the 'ell is the bloomin' ragbag gone ter?" asked one seedy individual. "Don't 'e know 'ee 's keeping us gents waiting?"
"Don't get himpatient, friends," advised Buster. "Bekowsky 's lost 'is wind and the 'all is so dark he can't see fer to find hit. Hi 'll send 'im a bit o' candle in a minute to 'elp 'im."
"He has fell and busted his neck, maybe," suggested a butcher's apprentice, in a tone that seemed to indicate he would not regard such a happening entirely in the light of a calamity.
"Perhaps 'is 'art 'as been touched hand 'ee can't bear to lay 'is 'and in hanger on a poor horphing like me," said Buster, almost tearful at the thought of such tenderness. "Perhaps 'ee 'as a noble nature hin spite o' that 'orrible phisomy."
"What d' ye's mane by congregating in front of me door like this?" cried a harsh voice, flavored by a rich Milesian accent.
"Hit's Mrs. Malone," exclaimed Buster. "Hi'me that glad to lay heyes hon 'er. Come pertect me, Mrs. Malone."
A burly Irishwoman, dressed in her best bib and tucker, as becomes a lady out making a few neighborly calls, elbowed her way through the crowd, sternly exhorting them to disperse.
"Oh, it's you, you satan?" she remarked wrathfully, gazing up at the freckled countenance of the lad. "Wot shenanigans have you been up to now?"
"Hi can't discuss my bizness hin front of a vulgar mob," responded Buster, loftily. "Hif you 'll come hup, Mrs. Malone, Hi 'll be pleased to hinform you. Hotherwise Hi 'll be forced to maintain an 'aughty silence."
"Oh, I 'll come up alright," declared Mrs. Malone, bent on getting to the bottom of the trouble at once.