“Quite so,” said I, “the wickedest old thief unhung.”
Pasquale shook me by the arm.
“Are you a man or a phonograph? What on earth has happened to you?”
I think I envied the laughter in his handsome, dark face, and the careless grace of the fellow as he stood beneath the dripping umbrella debonair as a young prince, in perfectly fitting blue serge-he wore no overcoat; mine was buttoned up to the chin, and immaculate suede gloves.
“What is it?” he repeated, gaily.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” said I, “my breakfast disagreed with me, and it’s raining in the most unpleasant manner.”
Even while I was speaking he left my side and darted across the road. In some astonishment I watched him for a moment from the kerb, and then made my way slowly to the other side. I found him in conversation with an emaciated, bedraggled woman standing by an enormous bundle, about three times her own cubic bulk, which she had rested on the slimy pavement. One hand pressed a panting bosom.
“You are going to carry that in your arms all the way to South Kensington?” I heard him cry as I approached.
“Yes, sir,” said the woman.
“Then you shan’t. I’m not going to allow it. Catch hold of this.”