“Ah! And what’s more, yer ain’t no friend o’ Jarsper’s. What did he go a-histing me off my legs for?”
“What indeed! But never mind him now. A shilling of mine is going your way tonight, Deputy. You have just taken in a lodger I have been speaking to; an infirm woman with a cough.”
“Puffer,” assents Deputy, with a shrewd leer of recognition, and smoking an imaginary pipe, with his head very much on one side and his eyes very much out of their places: “Hopeum Puffer.”
“What is her name?”
“ ’Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.”
“She has some other name than that; where does she live?”
“Up in London. Among the Jacks.”
“The sailors?”
“I said so; Jacks. And Chayner men. And hother Knifers.”
“I should like to know, through you, exactly where she lives.”
“All right. Give us ’old.”
A shilling passes; and, in that spirit of confidence which should pervade all business transactions between principals of honour, this piece of business is considered done.
“But here’s a lark!” cries Deputy. “Where did yer think ’Er Royal Highness is a-goin’ to tomorrow morning? Blest if she ain’t a-goin’ to the Kin-free-der-el !” He greatly prolongs the word in his ecstasy, and smites his leg, and doubles himself up in a fit of shrill laughter.
“How do you know that, Deputy?”