I've 'ad a bit o' luck, an' I wants one mesself."

"Garn," growled Barney. "You an' yer luck! Gent may want a mug, but
y'd show yer money fust."

"Strewth! I've got it. Y' aint got the chinge fer wot I 'ave in me
'and 'ere. 'As 'e, mister?"

"Show it," taunted the man, and then turning to Dart. "Yer wants a mug
o' cawfee?"

"Yes."

The girl held out her hand cautiously--the piece of gold lying upon its
palm.

"Look 'ere," she said.

There were two or three men slouching about the stand. Suddenly a hand
darted from between two of them who stood nearest, the sovereign was
snatched, a screamed oath from the girl rent the thick air, and a
forlorn enough scarecrow of a young fellow sprang away.

The blood leaped in Antony Dart's veins again and he sprang after him in
a wholly normal passion of indignation. A thousand years ago--as it
seemed to him--he had been a good runner. This man was not one, and
want of food had weakened him. Dart went after him with strides which
astonished himself. Up the street, into an alley and out of it, a dozen
yards more and into a court, and the man wheeled with a hoarse, baffled
curse. The place had no outlet.