The blush and the way in which she hung her
head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample
sensitiveness.
'Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?' said the barman. 'Well,
you're just three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'r'aps it's
a fortune a-runnin' after you. He was a rum old party as inquired.
Never mind; it's all in a life. There's fortunes lost every week by
a good deal less than three minutes when it's 'orses--eh, Mr.
Squibbs?'
Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.
The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.
'Hollo!' cried the barman. 'Where's the money, Jane?--if _you_
don't mind.'
She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the
counter. Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a
house in Clerkenwell Close, near at hand.
'Father live there?'
She shook her head.
'Mother?'
'I haven't got one, sir.'
'Who is it as you live with, then?'
'Mrs. Peckover, sir.'
'Well, as I was sayin', he was a queer old joker as arsted for the
name of Snowdon. Shouldn't wonder if you see him goin' round.'
And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the
girl listened closely.
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