“I was on the point of crossing the road, your worship,” said the tiny woman in her shrill voice, “jest ’esitatin’ on the kerb, when I see the ’bus coming along, and I says to myself, ‘I’ll wait till this great ’ulking thing goes by,’ I says, ‘and then I’ll pop across.’ The thought,” said Miss Threepenny, dramatically, “had no sooner entered my mind than across the road runs the poor creature, under the ’orses’ ’eels she goes, and I,—well, I went off into a dead faint.”
The mite of a creature looked round the room as though anticipating commendation for her appropriate behaviour.
“And you agree with the other witnesses, my good little girl, that—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Miss Threepenny, with great dignity, “I’m not a good little girl; I’m a grown-up woman of thirty-three.”
“Thirty what?” asked the carpenter, his pencil ready to record facts.
“Thirty-three,” she repeated, sharply.
A confirmatory murmur came from the crowd of women at the back of the room. The sergeant told the women to be quiet.
“My mistake,” said the coroner, politely, and waving aside the incredulous carpenter. “The point is—you think it was an accident, don’t you, madam?”
“It were an accident,” said Miss Threepenny, looking round and fixing the nervous ’bus driver with her bright, black little eyes, “that would never have happened if drivers on ’busses was to attend to their business instead of having their heads turned and carrying on conversation with long silly overgrown gels riding on the front seat.”
The little woman, having made this statement, kissed the Testament again as though to make doubly sure, and, with an air of dignity that no full-grown woman would ever have dared to assume, trotted off to take her seat next the ’bus driver. On the ’bus driver whispering something viciously behind his hand, Miss Threepenny replied with perfect calm in an audible voice that it was no use the ’bus driver flirting with her, for she was a strict Wesleyan.