She began to scrape out the frying-pan in which the herrings had been cooked last night.
"There's a letter for you," she said suddenly.
Frank sat up.
"Where ?" "In the drawer there--by your hand.

Frankie...." Frank tore at the handle and it came off.

He uttered a short exclamation.

Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again, wrapped in yet one more scrap of the _Sporting Times_, and drew out the drawer.

His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting.
"That can wait," he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards on to the table.
"Frankie," said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan.
"Well ?" "It's all my fault," she said in a low voice.
"Your fault! How do you make that out ?" "If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George, and...." "Oh, Lord!" said Frank, "if we once begin on that!...