“Weren't you thinking of the nice little story of the cat you told me this morning?”
No answer.
“It's about a stray cat that came into his mother's house half dead, you know, and this boy was so kind to it—like a dear little girl——”
“Yer lie!” cried the boy, starting to his feet. “Oi told yer Oi killed 'er. I lammed her bloomin' 'ed open with a chopper. I 'ates cats!”
“Voilà!” said Clytie. “That's the real Jack. That's the Jack I'd like to startle Peckham Rye with.”
And then turning to the boy:
“That will do for to-day, Jack. Here's your shilling; give it to your mother.”
“Shan't,” said Jack.
“Oh, but you must,” said Winifred; “look how hard your poor mother has to work to keep you, Jack.”
“She's bloomin' well got ter,” said Jack. “I aint going to give 'er no money. She never gives me none.”