The carpenter’s obstinacy necessitated the clearing of the court now that the time had arrived for the jury to consider their verdict, and Master Lancaster, much to his annoyance, found himself borne out of the room in the middle of the crowd of women. He doubted the probability of getting back into the room to hear the verdict, because it seemed scarce likely that he would again have the good luck to slip in unobserved by the policeman at the door. He went to the first landing and looked out on the upturned faces in the court below. A long youth with pince-nez, who had been taking notes upstairs, came down, and, in opening an evening paper, brushed unintentionally against Bobbie’s face.
“That’s my dial,” said the boy, truculently, “when you’ve done with it.”
“I’m sorry,” said the young reporter.
“You’re clumsy,” said Bobbie.
“What are you doing at an affair of this kind?”
“Answerin’ silly questions what are put to me.” The reporter laughed, and, striking a match, lighted a cigarette. “After you,” said Bobbie, producing another fag-end of a cigar, “after you with the match.”
“Like smoking?” asked the young man.
“Perfect slive to it,” said the boy, puffing the smoke well away in a manner that belied the assertion.
“Queer little beggar!” said the young man. “Where d’you live?”
“’Ome!” said the boy, promptly. “Where d’you think, cloth-head?”