He rose and opened it. The little model stood outside.
CHAPTER XXIX
RETURN OF THE LITTLE MODEL
That same afternoon in High Street, Kensington, "Westminister," with his
coat-collar raised against the inclement wind, his old hat spotted with
rain, was drawing at a clay pipe and fixing his iron-rimmed gaze on
those who passed him by. It had been a day when singularly few as yet
had bought from him his faintly green-tinged journal, and the low class
of fellow who sold the other evening prints had especially exasperated
him. His single mind, always torn to some extent between an ingrained
loyalty to his employers and those politics of his which differed from
his paper's, had vented itself twice since coming on his stand; once in
these words to the seller of "Pell Mells": "I stupulated with you not to
come beyond the lamp-post. Don't you never speak to me again--a-crowdin'
of me off my stand"; and once to the younger vendors of the less
expensive journals, thus: "Oh, you boys! I'll make you regret of
it--a-snappin' up my customers under my very nose! Wait until ye're
old!" To which the boys had answered: "All right, daddy; don't you have
a fit. You'll be a deader soon enough without that, y'know!"
It was now his time for tea, but "Pell Mell" having gone to partake of
this refreshment, he waited on, hoping against hope to get a customer or
two of that low fellow's.
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