“A errand boy,” echoed Bobbie amazedly. “Work at that bloomin’ ’ole in the wall?’
“She’ll give you eighteen-pence a week and see that you ’ave good schooling, and arrange so that you grow up respectable.”
Bobbie, recovering from his astonishment, placed his cigarette on the seat in order that he might laugh without restraint.
“Of all the dam bits of cheek!” he declared exhaustedly.
“Make a lot of difference to you,” said the wise young woman. “If you don’t grow up respectable you’ll simply—”
“Me, respectable,” said the amused boy. “Why, you silly little ijiot, d’you think I don’t know a trick worth fifty of that. I ain’t going to work for my bloomin’ livin’.”
“Won’t ’ave a chance to if the police get ’old of you.”
“Is that another one of your Mar’s remarks? ’Cause, if so, you tell her from me, that she’s a—”
“Let’s get down ’ere,” said Trixie Bell. She interrupted the string of adjectives by rising; there were tears in her eyes. “This is ’Oxton Street.”
“You can,” said the boy. “I’m goin’ on to Shoreditch.”