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.

Then she went thoughtfully--a little sadly--on her way.
In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances onwards and behind, but no old man in an odd hat and cloak and with white hair was discoverable.