"I could," he added, quite untruthfully, "give you the gentleman I worked with for me reference—Talbott, 'is name is—a bald man with a squint and red ears but p'raps this'll do as well." He pulled out of one pocket all their money—two pounds eighteen shillings—except six pennies which he had put in the other pocket to rattle. He rattled them now, "I'm anxious," he said, confidentially, "to get settled on account of the nipper. I don't deceive you; we 'oof ed it up, not to waste our little bit, and he's a hoppy chap."
"That's odd," said the landlord; "there was a lame boy lived there along of the last party that had it. It's a cripple's home by rights, I should think."
Beale had not foreseen this difficulty, and had no story ready. So he tried the truth.
"It's the same lad, mister," he said; "that's why I'm rather set on the 'ouse. You see, it's 'ome to 'im like," he added sentimentally.
"You 'is father?" said the landlord sharply. And again Beale was inspired to truthfulness—quite a lot of it.
"No," he said cautiously, "wish I was. The fact is, the little chap's aunt wasn't much class. An' I found 'im wandering. An' not 'avin' none of my own, I sort of adopted 'im."
"Like Wandering Hares at the theatre," said the landlord, who had been told by Dickie's aunt that the ungrateful little warmint had run away. "I see."
"And 'e's a jolly little chap," said Beale,
