"
"Was _that_ your husband?" cried Marcella, stopping short in her
toast-making.
"Oh, he's bin at you, has he?" said Mrs. King resignedly.
"I gave him--a little money. I didn't know he was your husband," said
Marcella apologetically.
"I ought to have warned you, but there, you can't think of every
blooming thing at once. Don't you worry, kid. I'm not blaming you. He
would have been at you sooner or later. It's all the same in the long
run, but it means I've got to scrub the floors. And my back's that
bad--I do suffer with my back something cruel."
"Where has he gone, then?"
"Oh, beer-bumming. He goes off every day, and comes in every night after
closing time, shikkered up."
"I've never seen him before," ventured Marcella.
"He's a lad, Bob is. We had a bonser hotel once, kid--a tied house, you
know. He was manager, on'y he drunk us out of it. So then I took on this
place on my own--got the furniture hire system, else he'd raise money on
it, and sell it up under me. He's no damn good to me, you know,
kid--only I do manage to get a bit of scrubbing out of him, of a
morning."
"Does he scrub floors?" asked Marcella in awestruck tones.
"It's all he's good for. He never earns a penny. He goes and tacks on to
any fellow he sees looking a bit flushed with money and boozes with him
all day.
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