A CHILD OF THE JAGO
site side, Mr. Aaron Weech's coffee-shop, with its Sunday-school festival bills, maintained its general Band-of-Hope air, and displayed its shrivelled bloaters, its doubtful cake and its pallid scones in an odour of respectability and stale pickles. Dicky glanced in as he came by the door, and met the anxious eye of Mr. Weech, whom he had not seen for a fortnight. For Dicky was no boy now, but knew enough to sell at Cohen's or elsewhere whenever possible, and to care not a rap for Mr. Weech.
As that tradesman saw Dicky, he burst into an eager smile and came forward. "Good mornin'—er—" with a quick glance—"Mr. Perrott! Good mornin'! You're quite a stranger, reely!"
Mister Perrott! Mr. Weech was very polite. Dicky stopped and grunted a cautious salutation.
"Do come in, Mr. Perrott. W'y, is the good noos right wot I 'ear, about yer
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