“Trixie Bell! Trixie Bell! You come in this minute and look after the shop, you good-for-nothing little terror.”
“I must be off,” said the small girl, going hurriedly. “Wait ’ere till I come out again and I’ll tell you somefing.”
“I don’t waste my time loafin’ about for gels,” said Master Lancaster, as the girl disappeared in a doorway. “Ketch me!”
He sauntered down the court towards Pitfield Street and, noting the crowd, slightly increased his pace. Taking a shilling from his coat pocket he tied it in a blue handkerchief and stuffed the handkerchief inside his waistcoat, being aware apparently that it is in a London crowd that property sometimes changes hands in the most astonishing manner.
“Very well then,” said a fiery faced woman, who, getting the worst of an argument, was looking around for another subject, “if you did ’ave an uncle who was drowned, that’s no reason why you should step on this little kid’s toes.”
“Born clumsy!” agreed Master Lancaster, resentfully rubbing his boot.
“Stand a bit aside, can’t you, and let the youngster pass. ’Aving a uncle who was in the navy don’t entitle you to take up all the room.
“Likely as not the little beggar’s a witness and wants to go upstairs.” The fiery faced woman looked down at the boy. “Are you a witness, dear?”
“Course I’m a witness,” he said, readily.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed the beefy faced woman with triumph. “Constable, ’ere ’s a witness that ’s got to be got upstairs. Make way for him, else he’ll get hisself in a row for being late.”