“My mother says,” began Trixie Bell, panting, “that you—.”
“I don’t talk to gels,” said the boy, marching on.
“Says that you ain’t in—.”
“Be off, I tell you. Don’t let me ’ave to speak twice.”
“That you ain’t in good ’ands where you are now.”
“Ain’t what?”
Miss Bell, persistent, repeated the statement.
“You’ll pardon me,” said the boy laboriously, “if I ast a rude question. Is your mother still kerryin’ on her business?”
“She is,” said Trixie.
“Very well, then,” he said, going on, “tell her to jolly well mind it.”