“He’s upstairs,” said the man, with a leer, “sitting in sackcloth and ashes, more ashes than sackcloth. Have you got some clothes for him?”
“Look here,” said Tommy. He was down on his knees with the mouth of the bag open again, quite in the style of the practised hawker. “Give me an old suit of clothes for them. Hurry up. There’s a lovely frock.”
“Blimey,” said the man, staring, “I’ve only got these clothes. Wot d’yer take me for? A dook?”
“Well, get me some somewhere,” said Tommy. “If you don’t the cap’n ’ll have to come in these, and I’m sure he won’t like it.”
“I wonder what he’d look like,” said the man, with a grin. “Damme if I don’t come up and see.”
“Get me some clothes,” pleaded Tommy.
“I wouldn’t get you clothes, no, not for fifty pun,” said the man severely. “Wot d’yer mean wanting to spoil people’s pleasure in that way? Come on, come and tell the cap’n what you’ve got for ’im, I want to ’ear what he ses. He’s been swearing ’ard since ten o’clock this morning, but he ought to say something special over this.”
He led the way up the bare wooden stairs, followed by the harassed boy, and entered a small dirty room at the top, in the centre of which the master of the Sarah Jane sat to deny visitors, in a pair of socks and last week’s paper.
“Here’s a young gent come to bring you some clothes, cap’n,” said the man, taking the sack from the boy.
“Why didn’t you come before?” growled the captain, who was reading the advertisements.