"Trouble? No. They can't touch 'im. If it was you or me, now, it 'ud be a case o' the police."
Alf, much relieved, stifled his conscience. The orator continued his fierce harangue.
"Yer mean to tell me," he demanded, "as 'e couldn't say something if 'e wanted to? 'E's in league with 'em, that's what 'e is. Not spies? Not spies? Why, you're as bad as this 'ere Sassiety lady—FitzPeter they call 'er."
"What's she done?" asked Alf sharply.
"Done? Why, she goes about saying in the paper as she don't believe they was spies. All cammyflage, that is. What are they, if not spies?—tell me that. I believe she's mixed up in it 'erself, too. Why, this 'ere feller Wentworth, 'e went to 'er 'ouse to dinner the very same night 'e 'ad to clear out. That makes you think a bit, eh? An' I 'ear she went an' 'ad a talk with 'im in 'is own 'ouse too. It's all Capital an' 'Idden 'And together. These 'ere Sassiety ladies is no good. Wrong 'uns, my boy, that's what they are. If I 'ad me way I'd...."
"If I 'ad my way," said Alf with heat, "I'd 'ave people like you muzzled, I would."
"You ... you ...!"
"'Ow dare you miscall a lady like Miss FitzPeter?"
"Steady, Alf—'old on," said Bill, in an agony lest passion should lead his friend to indiscretion.
"I tell yer," resumed Alf, still at the top of his voice, waking his mother from her comfortable nap, "I tell yer that Miss FitzPeter never 'ad nothing to do with no spies, never in 'er 'ole life she didn't, an' any one 'oo says so is a liar."