"And what'll your mother do if the old man don't give her nothing to live on?" he inquired, when he had listened good-naturedly to the recital of domestic difficulties.
"Don't know," replied the girl, shaking her head, the habitual surprise of her countenance becoming a blank interrogation of destiny. Bob kept kicking the wall, first with one heel, then with the other. He whistled a few bars of the last song he had learnt at the music-hall.
"Say, Penny," he remarked at length, with something of shamefacedness, "there's a namesake of mine here as I shan't miss, if you can do any good with it."
He held a shilling towards her under his hand. Pennyloaf turned away, casting down her eyes and looking troubled.
"We can get on for a bit," she said indistinctly. Bob returned the coin to his pocket. He whistled again for a moment, then asked abruptly:
