“Wot ’ave you been such a long time for?” ses Ginger, in a low, fierce voice, as Isaac stopped underneath the winder and nodded up to ’em.
“I met a old friend,” ses Isaac.
“Met a old friend?” ses Ginger, in a passion. “Wot d’ye mean, wasting time like that while we was sitting up ’ere waiting and starving?”
“I ’adn’t seen ’im for years,” ses Isaac, “and time slipped away afore I noticed it.”
“I dessay,” ses Ginger, in a bitter voice. “Well, is the money all right?”
“I don’t know,” ses Isaac; “I ain’t got the clothes.”
“Wot?” ses Ginger, nearly falling out of the winder. “Well, wot ’ave you done with mine, then? Where are they? Come upstairs.”
“I won’t come upstairs, Ginger,” ses Isaac, “because I’m not quite sure whether I’ve done right. But I’m not used to going into pawnshops, and I walked about trying to make up my mind to go in and couldn’t.”
“Well, wot did you do then?” ses Ginger, ’ardly able to contain hisself.
“While I was trying to make up my mind,” ses old Isaac, “I see a man with a barrer of lovely plants. ’E wasn’t asking money for ’em, only old clothes.”