Mr. Chuffles, the scandalous grocer, joined the throng about the principal combatants, mutely as became an outcast, and with a sad, distressed helpful expression picked up Mr. Polly’s bicycle. Gambell’s summer errand boy, moved by example, restored the dustbin and pails to their self-respect.
“’E ought—’E ought (kik) pick them up,” protested Mr. Rusper.
“What’s it all about?” said Mr. Hinks for the third time, shaking Mr. Rusper gently. “As ’e been calling you names?”
“Simply ran into his pails—as anyone might,” said Mr. Polly, “and out he comes and scrags me!”
“(Kik) Assault!” said Mr. Rusper.
“He assaulted me,” said Mr. Polly.
“Jumped (kik) into my dus’bin!” said Mr. Rusper. “That assault? Or isn’t it?”
“You better drop it,” said Mr. Hinks.
“Great pity they can’t be’ave better, both of ’em,” said Mr. Chuffles, glad for once to find himself morally unassailable.
“Anyone see it begin?” said Mr. Wintershed.
“I was in the shop,” said Mrs. Rusper suddenly from the doorstep, piercing the little group of men and boys with the sharp horror of an unexpected woman’s voice. “If a witness is wanted I suppose I’ve got a tongue. I suppose I got a voice in seeing my own ’usband injured. My husband went out and spoke to Mr. Polly, who was jumping off his bicycle all among our pails and things,
