A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls,
and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered four
ale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in
preparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of the
champagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with the
ladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his
arm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six.
"Do you know him?" said William.
"Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night--Bill Evans, the
cove that wears the blue Melton."
The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in.
He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair,
picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Melton
jacket and billycock hat.
"You'd better 'ave the coat," he said; "you won't better it;" and coming
into the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. "Glass of
porter; nice warm weather, good for the 'arvest. Just come up from the
country--a bit dusty, ain't I?"
"Ain't you the chap," said William, "what laid Mr. Ketley six 'alf-crowns
to one against Cross Roads?"
Charles nodded, and William continued--
"I like your cheek coming into my bar."
"No harm done, gov'nor; no one was about; wouldn't 'ave done it if they
had.
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