This was a proud moment for Tommy, as Shovel’s knowledge of crime was much more extensive than his own, though they had both studied it in the pictures of a lively newspaper subscribed to by Shovel, senior.  He became patronizing at once and rejected the orange as insufficient.

Then suppose, after he got into the hall, Shovel dropped his ticket out at the window; Tommy could pick it up, and then it would admit him also.

Tommy liked this, but foresaw a danger:  the ticket might be taken from Shovel at the door, just as they took them from you at that singing thing in the church he had attended with young Petey.

So help Shovel’s davy, there was no fear of this.  They were superior toffs, what trusted to your honor.

Would Shovel swear to this?

He would.

But would he swear dagont?

He swore dagont; and then Tommy had him.  As he was so sure of it, he could not object to Tommy’s being the one who dropped the ticket out at the window?

Shovel did object for a time, but after a wrangle he gave up the ticket, intending to take it from Tommy when primed with the necessary tale.  So they parted until evening, and Tommy returned to Elspeth, secretive but elated.  For the rest of the day he was in thought, now waggling his head smugly over some dark, unutterable design and again looking a little scared.  In growing alarm she watched his face, and at last she slipped upon her knees, but he had her up at once and said, reproachfully: 

“It were me as teached yer to pray, and now yer prays for me!  That’s fine treatment!”

Nevertheless, after his mother’s return, just before he stole out to join Shovel, he took Elspeth aside and whispered to her, nervously: 

“You can pray for me if you like, for, oh, Elspeth; I’m thinking as I’ll need it sore!” And sore he needed it before the night was out.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BOY WITH TWO MOTHERS

“I love my dear father and my dear mother and all the dear little kids at ’ome.  You are a kind laidy or gentleman.  I love yer.  I will never do it again, so help me bob.  Amen.”

This was what Shovel muttered to himself again and again as the two boys made their way across the lamp-lit Hungerford Bridge, and Tommy asked him what it meant.

“My old gal learned me that; she’s deep,” Shovel said, wiping the words off his mouth with his sleeve.

“But you got no kids at ’ome!” remonstrated Tommy. (Ameliar was now in service.)

Shovel turned on him with the fury of a mother protecting her young.  “Don’t you try for to knock none on it out,” he cried, and again fell a-mumbling.

Said Tommy, scornfully:  “If you says it all out at one bang you’ll be done at the start.”

Shovel sighed.

“And you should blubber when yer says it,” added Tommy, who could laugh or cry merely because other people were laughing or crying, or even with less reason, and so naturally that he found it more difficult to stop than to begin.  Shovel was the taller by half a head, and irresistible with his fists, but to-night Tommy was master.