“I’m first,” she declared, firmly; “been ’ere for four mortal hours.”

“What is your name, please?” Brooks asked.

“Mrs. Robert Jones, No. 4, St. Mary’s Court, down Fennell Street—­leastways you go that way from ’ere.  I’m a widow woman with four children, and lost me husband on the railway.  What I wants is a suit of clothes for my Tommy, he’s five-and-’arf, and stout for his years, and a pair of boots for Selina Ann.  And I’m not a saying,” she continued, blandly, “as me having waited ’ere so long, and this being a sort of opening ceremony, as a pound of tea for myself wouldn’t be a welcome and reasonable gift.  And if the suit,” she concluded, breathlessly, “has double-seated breeches so much the better.”

Brooks maintained the most perfect composure, although conscious of a suppressed titter from behind.  He commenced to write rapidly in his book, and Mrs. Jones, drawing her shawl about her, looked around complacently.  Suddenly she caught the ripple of mirth, which some of Brooks’ helpers were powerless to control.  Her face darkened.

“Which is little enough to ask for,” she declared, truculently, “considering as it’s four mortal hours since I first laid hold of the leg of that table, and neither bite nor sup have I had since, it not being my habit,” she continued, slowly, and staring intently at the hang of her neighbour’s skirt, “to carry bottles in my pocket.”

Brooks looked up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” he said.  “I have entered your name and address, and I hope we shall see you again soon.  This young lady,” he indicated Mary, “will take you over to our clothes department, and if we haven’t anything to fit Tommy you must come again on Wednesday, when we shall have a larger supply.”

“I’ll take the nearest you’ve got to-day,” she decided, promptly.  “Wot about the tea?”

“We shall be glad to ask you to accept a small packet,” Brooks answered.  “By the bye, have you a pension from the railway company?”

“Not a penny, sir,” she declared, “and a burning shame it is.”

“We must see into it,” Brooks said.  “You see that gentleman behind me?”

“Him with the squint?” she asked, doubtfully.

Brooks bent over his book.

“Mr. Fellows, his name is,” he said.  “He is one of our helpers here, and he is a lawyer.  You can tell him all about it, and if we think you have a claim we will try and see what we can do for you.  Now, if you please, we must get on.  Come in any time, Mrs. Jones, and talk to us.  Some one is, always here.  What is your name, please?”

“Amy Hardinge!”

There was a howl of derision from the rear.  The girl, pallid, with large dark eyes, a somewhat tawdry hat and torn skirt, turned angrily around.

“Who yer shouting at, eh?  There ain’t so many of yer as knows yer own names, I dir say, and ’Ardinge’s as good as any other.  Leave a body be, won’t yer?”