ON the Duchess and Mr. Leigh, her husband, leaving Pimlico Walk somewhat
hurriedly the next morning with two barrow-loads of furniture and Bobbie
Lancaster, Pimlico Walk, led by Mrs. Rastin, did not hesitate to give
them verbal testimonials as to character. The husband, Mrs. Rastin
suggested, had robbed her of someone else’s hard-earned savings; the
Duchess was condemned severely by those to whom she had in effusive
moments given her confidence. The Duchess’s husband was a quiet,
resigned-looking man, with a fringe of whiskers that met underneath his
chin; his behaviour conveyed the impression that he only desired to be
let alone in order that he might do good in a quiet, unobtrusive way. He
seemed, in regard to conversation, curt; he never used superfluous words,
and before he spoke he always drew in a whistling breath looking around
cautiously, as one anxious above all things not to incriminate himself.
He for his part took the attacks of the neighbours quite calmly, and when
the Duchess, so indignant that she dropped a glass candlestick with
lustres, essayed to reply, he begged her to hold her tongue and to come
on.
“Least said,” remarked the Duchess’s husband, “soonest mended. Give us a
pound with this barrer.”
“And I ’ope,” screamed Mrs. Rastin, “that the money’ll prove a curse to
you if so be that you’re the party as took it. What’ll become of the
poor kid don’t bear thinking of.”
“You thought you was going to have a ’igh old time,” retorted the
Duchess, “and you’re disappointed. Moment the money was spent you were
going to turn the poor boy out neck and crop.”
“Don’t you measure other ladies by yourself, ma’am,” shouted Mrs. Rastin.
“You’re nothing more nor less than—”
“Come on,” said the Duchess’s husband.
“But,” urged the trembling Duchess, “did you ’ear what she called me?”
“What’s it matter?” remarked the man.
Bobbie, helping to push one of the barrows through the Walk, had the
happy feeling that he had really been the cause of the disturbance, and
that he was engaged in making history very fast. Trixie Bell’s mother,
standing at the door of her small bonnet shop, shook her head dolefully
as she saw him; Bobbie make a grimace at her that checked the excellent
woman’s sympathy. Behind the shop window Trixie Bell herself looked out
between the ostrich-feathered hats with round, astonished eyes.
“What’s the number, Leigh?”
Mr. Leigh gave the information as the two barrows turned from Hoxton
Street into Ely Place. Ely Place had more breadth than Pimlico Walk, but
it was a grim, mysterious thoroughfare, it had none of the shops which
served to make Pimlico Walk interesting; certainly a few of the cottages
had a plot in front with a slate-coloured lawn, but these were in every
case flagged with imperfect drying linen that destroyed any pretence of
rusticity. Before one of these the barrows stopped.
A long young woman with sleeves folded back high above her elbow, her red
hair in a single knot, swept the step casually with a bald broom.
“’Ullo,” she said, “you’ve arrived, then?”
Mr. Leigh seemed about to reply in the affirmative, but stopped himself
leaving the confession to the Duchess.
“Bat’s gone out in the Kingsland Road,” went on the red-haired young
woman.
“What for?” asked the Duchess, unloading the barrows.
“To get change,” said the young woman.
This reply amused the Duchess so much that, casting away resentment
against the world in general and Pimlico Walk in particular, she rested a
chair-bedstead in the dim passage and sat down upon it to enjoy the
laugh. Bobbie, anxious to show himself as one of the family, laughed
too, and Mr. Leigh almost smiled.
“You are a caution,” said the Duchess exhaustedly.
“What ’ave I said now?” asked the young woman, with all a humorist’s
assumption of gravity.
“It isn’t so much what you say as your manner.”
“This your tenth?” asked the girl, resting her chin on the broom and
nodding her head in the direction of Bobbie.
“He’s a little chap,” explained the amused Duchess, “that’s left without
a parent, and we’re going to look after him. Ain’t we, Leigh?”
“Don’t ast me,” begged Mr. Leigh.
“He’ll come in useful,” whispered the Duchess.
“Bat don’t care for kids about the place.”
“He’s as knowing,” urged the Duchess, “as a grown-up.”
“This is only our town ’ouse,” explained the red-haired young woman to
Bobbie. “Rather ’andsome, palatial sort of mansion, don’t you think?”
“Tell better,” said Bobbie, looking round, “when someone’s give it a good
clean down. What’s in the room at the back?”
“You ask my ’usband that question when he comes ’ome,” said the young
woman with sudden acerbity, “and he’ll strap you till he’s tired.”
“Shan’t ask him, then,” said Bobbie.
“Never pry, Bobbie,” counselled the Duchess warningly. “Little boys that
go prying never come to no good. Carry that lamp upright, and don’t
upset the oil, or I’ll upset you.”
Bobbie, submitted to Mr. Bat Miller upon that gentleman’s return from
obtaining change in Kingsland Road, was so fortunate as to obtain favour,
and Bat Miller after telling the young woman, who seemed of a jealous
disposition, exactly how his time had been occupied, ruffled the boy’s
head of hair, telling him that if he behaved himself he should learn in
that house everything worth knowing. But none of your tricks mind, said
Mr. Bat Miller. As a first test Mr. Miller took a bright two
shilling-piece from an inside pocket of his waistcoat, and, spite of the
protests of the two women, dispatched him with it to a certain shop in
Hackney Road to purchase one ounce of shag. When Bobbie returned,
panting, with the tobacco in a screw of paper and the change safely in
his fist, Bat Miller first tested the coins by trying them with his
teeth, and then gave Bobbie for himself a penny, some of the tobacco, and
commendation in congratulatory but lurid terms. The two men went out
together, and the Duchess and young Mrs. Bat Miller exchanged grievances,
Mrs. Miller complaining a good deal of her husband’s irregular behaviour,
and presently they too, finding themselves in agreement on several
questions, went out, locking the boy in that he might look after the
house. They promised to be absent for not more than two seconds, but by
some error they made it two hours, and during that time Bobbie prowled
over the house and went into every room, excepting only the locked-up
room at the back of the ground floor.
At the door of this locked-up room he listened very carefully. The
keyhole being plugged, he could see nothing, but he kept his ear to the
door for some time. It seemed to him that a sound of heavy breathing
came from within.
The two couples came home in admirable temper. Even Mr. Leigh’s attitude
to the world seemed less guarded, and several times he appeared inclined
to sing with the rest. They brought in with them fried potatoes, fish,
and a large bottle; Bobbie, to his astonishment and great satisfaction,
being allowed to help himself. The Duchess repeated the anecdotes of
high life in the sixties that Bobbie had heard before, Mr. Leigh watching
her with pride as she assumed her accent of refinement, and ordering her
to tell more than one account of a past evening twice over. Later, young
Mrs. Miller let down her knot of red hair, and recited a touching poem
about a Russian mother who being torn from her family to endure
punishment in Siberia, apparently objected to it very much and pleaded
with the soldiers, but with no avail until presently her youngest born
argued with them, and then the officer in charge relenting, kissed the
babe and said, “Your mother’s safe, my darling child. To you she owes
her life; For I, too, have an infant mild, Also a loving wife.” At which
pleasing point the recital finished, leaving the hearers content, with
perhaps a slight fear that the tender-hearted officer might have had some
trouble in explaining his conduct to his superior officers. Then Mr. Bat
Miller, a little sleepy, sang a long, long song, relating vaguely to the
sea, with a refrain of “What ho for the rolling wave, me boys, And a life
on the vasty deep,” and when he had finished, the Duchess consented,
after a good deal of pressing, to give her imitation of a well-known
serio-comic lady whose star had been high some twenty-five years
previously, a performance requiring a hiccough that the Duchess had no
difficulty in repeating. Bobbie had seldom enjoyed an afternoon so much.
“Time for the Fright’s ’alf pint, ain’t it?” said Mr. Leigh.
The wooden clock on the mantel-piece had just struck twelve, as
notification that it was six o’clock.
“Enough left in the jug, ain’t there?” asked Mrs. Miller.
“Bit flat.”
“He don’t care whether its flat or round,” said the humorous young woman.
“It’s all one to the Fright. Bat, wake up and look after your lodger.”
Bat Miller awakened, took the large bottle, and went out into the
passage.
“Come back, Bobbie,” cried the Duchess, sharply. The boy did not obey,
being indeed accustomed to persist in doing anything that he was told not
to do. Mr. Leigh rushed out, and catching him, swung him back into the
room. The two women boxed his ears.
“Stiddy,” said the boy resentfully. “Three to one’s plenty.”
“I’ve told you before not to pry,” said the Duchess.
“Who was prying?”
“Look ’ere,” said Mr. Leigh, as peacemaker, “come out ’long o’ me.”
“Where you goin’, Leigh?”
“Station,” he said.
“Ain’t you reported yourself yet?”
“I ain’t,” said Mr. Leigh, finding his cap.
“You’ll get yourself into trouble some day,” remarked the Duchess.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” interposed young Mrs. Miller.
“Got the ticket with you?”
“Course I ’ave.”
Mr. Leigh took from his inside pocket a sheet of paper about the size of
an ordinary letter; he replaced it in an envelope and led Bobbie out of
the house. In Kingsland Road they turned to the right. Opposite were
the low almshouses standing in their own grounds and protected by a low
iron spiked wall. The two went towards Shoreditch.
“Where are we going to book to?” asked Bobbie, “when we get to the
station?” Mr. Leigh did not answer. “Going for ride in the train, ain’t
we?”
“No!”
“What station are we going to, then?”
“Police station.”
“’Ere,” said the boy, stopping. “None of your ’alf larks.’
“You’re all right, kiddy.”
“What’s the row, then?”
“No row,” said Mr. Leigh. “Slight fermality, that’s all.”
Bobbie’s fears proved groundless. Mr. Leigh went up the steps of the
police station, where one or two uniformed men and a few men in plain
clothes stood under the blue lamp, and these nodded to Mr. Leigh. Bobbie
waited in the hall in order that, necessity arising, he might make swift
escape, and Mr. Leigh, taking off his cap respectfully, tapped at a
wooden window. The window opened; the face of an inspector appeared.
“Evenin’, sir,” said Mr. Leigh.
“Well, me man?”
“Nice bright, cold autumn weather, sir,” said Mr. Leigh, holding his cap
between his teeth and finding the sheet of paper. “Soon be ’aving winter
on us now.”
“I thought it had turned warmer,” said the inspector, taking a book down.
“P’raps you’re right, sir,” said Mr. Leigh obsequiously.
“I ought to remember your name,” said the inspector, turning over the
pages of the book. “Begins with an L, don’t it?”
“You’re right again, sir. Name of Leigh—Abraham Leigh.”
“I’ve found it,” said the inspector, who had been running his finger down
the page. “Got the ticket?”
Mr. Leigh passed in the sheet of letter paper, and the inspector,
comparing it with the entry in the book, endorsed it.
“Seems all right,” said the inspector.
“Slight alteration of address,” remarked Mr. Leigh humbly. “Now residing
at 112, Ely Place.”
“Rum quarter,” said the inspector, as he made a note.
“Must live somewhere, sir,” submitted Mr. Leigh.
“Going on straight now?” asked the inspector, as he handed the note back.
“Rather,” answered Mr. Leigh complacently. “Turned over a new leaf, I
’ave.”
“Good!”
“Other bisness don’t pay, sir,” said Mr. Leigh, replacing the folded
sheet of paper in his pocket. “It’s a mug’s game, that’s what I call it.
Good day, sir.”
“Good day, me man.” Shutting the window to with a decisive snap.
Mr. Leigh, coming down the steps with Bobbie, was spoken to casually by
one of the plain clothes men, who in an uninterested way asked Mr. Leigh
some questions concerning (it appeared to the boy) mutual acquaintances,
but Mr. Leigh seemed unable to give the plain clothes man any of the
information desired, complaining as excuse of decaying powers of memory.
“I think it must be I’m getting old, Mr. Thorpe, sir.”
“That’ll grow on you,” said the plain clothes man, “if you aren’t
careful.”
“I can’t remember names,” declared Mr. Leigh, complainingly; “I can’t
remember faces; I can’t remember any mortal thing.”
“Ah,” said the detective, “pity!”
To Bobbie, as they walked home to Ely Place, Mr. Leigh appeared slightly
more communicative, counselling the boy to behave decorously if ever he
should find himself in trouble.
“Inside or outside,” declared Mr. Leigh, “it pays in the long run.”
At Ely Place everything was in train, the day being special and the
evening also out of the ordinary, for a visit to the theatre. Some
question arose in regard to the wisdom of leaving the house alone, but
young Mrs. Miller said that she wasn’t going to be left out of it if Bat
were going, the Duchess said it wasn’t often she got the chance, Mr.
Leigh said he didn’t see no particular harm in going to the play, Bat
Miller said that too much work told on a man; that the Fright would be
safe enough, and it would make a nice change for all of them. So they
all went. Bat Miller locked the door with great care, and in five
minutes they were finding their way up the broad stone stairs of the
Britannia with a struggling, anxious, noisy, good-tempered crowd.
“Right sort,” suggested Mr. Leigh, in a whisper to Bat Miller, as they
forced their way to the pay box.
“I’m sure,” agreed Bat Miller. “Don’t want no fuss ’ere.” He pinched
the ear of a dark young woman in front of him.
“I’ll have your black eyes,” he said admiringly.
“You’ll get two of your own if you ain’t careful,” retorted the girl, not
displeased.
“Shouldn’t mind being punched by you,” said Bat Miller. “Let me keep
these others from scrouging you.”
“Bat,” cried a voice behind him.
“Now begin agin.”
“Leave off talkin’ to that nigger gel,” commanded young Mrs. Miller.
“Who are you callin’ a nigger gel,” inquired the dark young woman across
the heads of the surging crowd, “carrots?”
“You,” replied Mrs. Miller frankly, “Miss Tar Brush.”
“Don’t answer her,” begged Mr. Bat Miller to his new acquaintance.
“She’s so jealous she can’t see straight.”
“I pity you,” said the dark young woman.
“So do I,” said Mr. Miller softly. “Lemme get your ticket for you.”
A roaring noisy crowded gallery, like the side of a mountain going from
the base with strong iron rods protecting up to the topmost point, where
patrons had to bend their backs to escape the ceiling. General
discardment of coats by men and boys, universal doffing of hats and
bonnets, and loosening of blouses by ladies. Bobbie, perched on the
rolled-up coats of the two men, saw at a distance of what seemed at first
to be several miles below, the tightly-wedged people on the floor of the
theatre packed closely to the very footlights, and leaving just
sufficient room for a small orchestra. Mrs. Bat Miller, still trembling
with annoyance, bought oranges, and selecting one over ripe, stood up and
threw it, and more by luck than skill, managed to hit the dark young
woman, seated below, well on the side of the face, where it burst
shell-like and caused annoyance. Having done this, young Mrs. Miller
seemed more content, and twisting up her rope of red hair, settled down
to unrestrained enjoyment of the evening.
“I wouldn’t ’ave your dispisition,” said Mr. Bat Miller to her,
wistfully, “for a bloomin’ pension.”
Bobbie felt pleased to see the two boys from Drysdale Street far above
him; they would require all the austerity that a railway arch could give
to prevent them from feeling envious of him. He held up a piece of apple
and shouted above the babel of voices, “’Ave ’alf?” and when they
screamed back “Yus!” he ate it all calmly; thus goading them to a state
of speechless vexation. Everybody called to everybody else; the enormous
theatre filled with appeals for recognition. Presently through the
uproar could be heard the discordant tuning up of the violins, and,
holding the Duchess’s thin arm, he looked down again and saw that the
orchestra had come in.
The footlights being turned up, the violins began to play. The Duchess
said it was nothing to the Alhambra in the old days, but Bobbie felt this
could not be true. When the curtain ascended and the uniformed men
posted in various quarters of the large theatre bawled for silence,
Bobbie held tightly to the Duchess for fear that he might be tempted to
jump over.
It was not easy to discover at first the true intent of the play, because
the gallery did not at once become quiet; two fights and a faint were
necessary before quietude could be obtained. When the words from the
far-off stage came up more distinctly to Bobbie’s quick ears, he realized
that a plot was being arranged by two gentlemanly men in evening dress to
rob the bank of the sum of fifty thousand pounds, and it seemed that they
wished to do this unobtrusively, and indeed desired that any credit for
its success should be placed to the account not of themselves, but of the
manager of the bank. The manager came on just then to a majestic air
from the orchestra; the audience seemed to know him, for they cheered,
and he stood in the centre of the stage bowing condescendingly before he
commenced to interest himself in the drama. He was rather a
noble-looking young man, a little stout perhaps, with a decided way of
speaking; you could hear every word he said, and when he had to make any
movement the orchestra played briskly, as though to intimate that
whatever misfortune might cross his path, he had always the support of
four fiddlers, two bass viols, a cornet, a pianist, and a trombone. The
two villains intimated their desire to open an account at the bank. The
manager asked for references. The two villains, first looking cautiously
off at the wings to make sure that no one observed them, suddenly flung
themselves on the bank manager. They were engaged in binding him with
ropes, when a ragged boy (who the Duchess said was not a boy but a girl)
jumped in at the window, and said,—
“What price me!”
Upon which the two villains instantly decamped; the ragged boy summoned
the clerks (who, reasonably speaking, should have heard the struggle, but
apparently did not), and the manager ordered that the ragged boy should
he offered a highly responsible post in the bank, for, said the manager
to the gallery, of what use is sterling honesty in this world if it be
not liberally rewarded? a sentiment with which the gallery found itself
able to express cordial agreement. In the next scene the two gentlemanly
villains, undeterred by their rebuff, were seen in a vague light,
drilling with caution the cardboard door of an immense safe of the bank.
They had but just succeeded when voices were heard. Plaintive music and
entrance of heroine. Dressed in white, she had come to bring a posy of
flowers to the manager, whom, it appeared, she was to marry on the
morrow. This visit seemed unnecessary, and it was certainly indiscreet;
after the manager had surprised her and had given to the gallery a few
choice opinions on the eternal power of Love, which made Mrs. Bat Miller
so agitated that her rope of red hair became untied, the heroine went,
after an affectionate farewell, leaving a note on the floor.
“You’ve dropped something, Miss,” shouted Bobbie.
“’Ush,” warned the Duchess. “That’s done a purpose.”
This note the villains found, after a struggle with the girl boy, who,
demanding of them, “What price me?” was clubbed on the head, and left
insensible. The note only required a slight alteration with the tearing
off of one page to be construed into evidence of complicity in the crime;
so that when, in the next scene, a cheerful wedding party in secondhand
clothes came out of the church door, bells ringing, villagers strewing
flowers, and wedding march from the orchestra, two constables suddenly
pushed their way through the crowd and placed hands on the shoulders of
the astonished bride, causing so much consternation that the bells
stopped, the wedding march changed into a hurried frantic movement, what
time the bride clutched at her bodice, and assured the gallery (but this
they knew full well) that she was innocent. A boy inspector, with a
piping voice, stepped forward and proceeded to act in accordance with
stage law. Woman, I arrest you. Oh, sir, explain. This letter (said
the inspector) in your handwriting was found in the bank after the
robbery. Sir, said the tearful bride, ’tis true I wrote that letter,
but—. Woman (said the stern boy inspector), prevarication is useless;
who were your accomplices? You decline to answer? Good! Officers, do
your duty. Scoundrels (shouted the bridegroom bank manager), unhand her,
before God she is innocent as the driven snow, I swear it. Ho, ho
(remarked the boy inspector, acutely putting two and two together), then
this can only mean—here the orchestra became quite hysterical—that you
yourself are guilty. Officers, arrest him also! May Heaven, begged the
bride emotionally, addressing the gallery, may Heaven in its great mercy,
protect the innocent and the pure. It seemed that Heaven proved somewhat
tardy in responding to the heroine’s appeal, for from a quarter to eight
until a quarter to eleven, she and the hero found themselves in a
succession of the direst straits, which, apportioned with justice, would
have been more than enough for fifty young couples. It did seem that
they could not by any dexterity do the right thing; whereas, the two
villains, on the contrary, prospered exceedingly, to the special
annoyance of Mr. Bat Miller, who, constituting himself leader of a kind
of vigilance committee in the hot perspiring gallery, led off the hisses
whenever either or both appeared, and at certain moments—as, for
instance, when in the hospital ward they lighted their cigarettes, and
discussed cynically the prospect of the injured boy’s speedy departure
from life—hurling down at them appropriate and forcible words of reproof,
that did credit alike to his invention and to the honesty of his
feelings.
It is only fair to add that the gallery gave to Mr. Miller ready and
unanimous assistance. How they yelled with delight when the boy (who was
a girl) defied one of the villains, and bade him do his worst! How they
shivered when the villain, producing a steel dagger, crept furtively up
to the boy, whose back was turned, and how they shouted with rapture as
the boy, swinging round at exactly the right moment, presented a revolver
at the villain’s forehead, causing that despicable person to drop the
dagger and go weak at the knees. How they held their breath when, on the
boy incautiously laying down the revolver and going to look at the wings,
the villain obtained possession of the deadly weapon, and covered the boy
with it. And then when the boy had affected to cower and to beg for
mercy (which, it need hardly be said, the villain flatly declined to
grant), how they screamed with mad ecstasy on the boy saying with sudden
calm,—
“By-the-bye! Hadn’t you better make sure that that little pop-gun’s
loaded?”
Causing the villain to curse his fate and to snap the trigger
ineffectually, thus giving the boy a cue for saying once more,—
“What price me!”
Bobbie in support whistled and hissed and howled so much, that after a
while he became exhausted, and to his regret found himself unable to
express opinions with vigour; this did not, however, prevent him from
weeping bitter tears over the hospital scene. It was in the hospital
scene, as a matter of fact, that the luck of the hero and heroine turned.
The injured youngster suddenly recovered sight and reason; denounced the
two villains, now cringing beneath the triumphant, hysterical theatre;
called upon the boy inspector, fortunately at the wings, to arrest them,
which the boy inspector instantly did, thus retrieving his position in
the esteem of the audience; amid an increasing hum of approval from the
mountain of heads in front, the youngster arranged from his couch for the
future happiness of the hero and heroine, capping it all and extracting a
roar from the house by remarking,—
“Now, what price me!”
Which might have been the pure essence distilled from all the best jokes
of all time, judging from its instantaneous and admirable effect. Then
the hero and heroine, at the centre of the stage, managed to intimate
that sunshine had broken through the clouds; that trustful and loving,
they would now proceed to live a life of absolute peace and perfect
happiness; the orchestra feeling itself rewarded at last for all its
faithful attention, broke out into a triumphant march, and—rideau.
In Hoxton Street it was drizzling, and the crowd surging out of the
doorway turned up its coat collars and tied handkerchiefs over its
bonnets, and set off for home. Bobbie, dazed with excitement, clutched
the Duchess’s yellow skirt and trotted along, after a minute’s rest at a
whelk stall, the two men and Mrs. Miller following closely behind. At
the corner of Essex Street they waited to allow a four-wheeler to go by.
The elderly horse, checked by the driver, slipped, and nearly fell,
recovered itself, and slipped again, made vain efforts to get a secure
footing, and upon the driver standing up to use his whip and saying
bitterly, “Why don’t you fall down and ’ave done with it,” did fall down,
and remained there. A small crowd formed without a moment’s delay; Mr.
Bat Miller went to the stout old gentleman inside the cab, now trying
without success to let down the window, and opening the door, assured him
with great courtesy that he had no cause for fear. Having done this, Mr.
Miller re-closed the door and stepped back. He passed something
furtively to red-haired Mrs. Miller, who slipped the something into
Bobbie’s pocket, telling him in a commanding whisper to cut off home like
mad. Bobbie, feeling that he was helping in some proceeding of an
imperial nature, complied, noting as he darted away the very stout
gentleman hammering with his fists at the closed window of the
four-wheeler. Mr. Miller sauntered off Kingsland Road way; the two women
and Mr. Leigh went unconcernedly to a public-house.
Bobbie was shivering when five minutes later the company rejoined him at
the street door of the house in Ely Place. Mr. Miller found his key and
let them in. The smelly lamp in the passage burned low; in the closed
back room a quavering voice sang a hymn.
“Dare to be a Daniyul,
Dare to stand alone,
Dare to ’ave a purpose firm,
And dare—”
“Shut it!” commanded Bat Miller, knocking at the door of the back room
sharply. “Get off to sleep, can’t you?” He turned to the others. “And
now,” he said with a change of manner, “let’s see what kind of a little
present this young genelman’s bin and brought ’ome for us.”
“I b’lieve he pinched it for me,” said young Mrs. Miller cheerfully,
“’cause to-day isn’t my birthday.”
Bobbie, with something of majesty, brought from his pocket a heavy gold
watch and part of a gold chain, and laid them on the table. The four put
their heads together and examined the property. Then they beamed round
upon the small boy.
“I foresee, Bobbie,” said the Duchess, in complimentary tones, “that
you’re a goin’ to grow up a bright, smart, useful young chep.”
“He’ll want trainin’,” suggested Mr. Bat Miller.
“And watchin’,” growled Mr. Leigh.
“And when he gets to be a man,” said young Mrs. Miller facetiously, as
she pulled off her boots, “all the gels in the neighbourhood ’ll be after
him.”
With these praises clanging and resounding in his heated little brain,
Bobbie went upstairs to bed.