“P’raps I am; p’raps I ain’t.”
“I wouldn’t live there for something,” remarked the girl, shrugging her shoulders.
“They wouldn’t let you,” replied the boy. “They’re very particular about the kerricter of people they ’ave there.”
“Must they all ’ave a bad kerricter?” asked Miss Bell innocently.
The trams at the junction of roads extricated themselves from the tangle, and people who had been waiting on the kerb went across the roadway. Trixie Bell followed Bobbie, and they walked on opposite sides of the dimly-lighted pavement near St. Luke’s Asylum, continuing their conversation with breaks occasioned by intervening passers-by.
“You’ve no call,” shouted the boy, “to come follering me about. I don’t want no truck with gels.”
“I s’pose you’ve bought the street, ain’t you?” asked Miss Bell loudly. “Seem to think you’re everybody ’cause you’ve got a bowler ’at on. Be wearing a chimney-pot next, I lay.”
“Shan’t ask your permission.”
“All the boys down in the country,” called out the girl, “wash ’emselves twice a day.”
“More fools them,” said Bobbie.