“Twenty-five, Barton Buildings,” whispered little Miss Threepenny. Then, with a quick change of voice and manner, “Who’s got my purse? Who’s stole my purse? Police! Stop thief! ’Elp—’elp—’elp!”
The constable hurried quickly from the doubtful case on which he was engaged to this that appeared more definite. In the commotion, Bobbie, holding his cornet tightly, made swift escape; he had reached Bethnal Green Road before Miss Threepenny—having discovered that her purse had, after all, not been stolen—had apologized to the constable for the unnecessary trouble that she had given. Bobbie was still recovering breath at the entrance to the giant block of model dwellings to which Miss Threepenny had hurriedly directed him, when that excellent little woman trotted up.
“You’re a nice young man,” said Miss Threepenny severely, “I don’t think. Going and getting yourself mixed up in a common street row, and forgetting what you owe to your poor dead mother and—”
Bobbie explained truthfully, and little Miss Threepenny relented.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked, looking up at him with less acerbity.
“Get a bed in a coffee shop, I s’pose,” said the boy. “To-morrow I shall get off to the country to see—to see some friends. This bloomin’ London makes my nut ache.”
The small woman stood on the third step of the stone stairs, so that she came thus face to face with Bobbie. She swung her key round her finger, reflectively.
“You’ll only get into more trouble,” she said.
“Likely as not,” replied the boy recklessly. “I can’t do right, somehow.”
“I’ve nearly ’alf a mind,” said the little woman, “to make you up a bed in my sitting-room.”