"Take care of me! D'ye think I'm a bloomin' kid?"

"Then where are you going to now?"

"Going? Out."

Peter Hope's irritation was growing.

"I mean, where are you going to sleep? Got any money for a
lodging?"

"Yes, I've got some money," answered Tommy. "But I don't think
much o' lodgings. Not a particular nice class as you meet there.
I shall sleep out to-night. 'Tain't raining."

Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry.

"Serves you right!" growled Peter savagely. "How can anyone help
treading on you when you will get just between one's legs. Told
you of it a hundred times."

The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry with
himself. For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory
would persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain
desolate corner of which lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had
been but ill adapted to breathing London fogs; with, on the top of
her, a still smaller and still more fragile mite of humanity that,
in compliment to its only relative worth a penny-piece, had been
christened Thomas--a name common enough in all conscience, as Peter