“Where do you live?” Tom asked her. “Brick-yards, mostly,” she said. “I’m good at dodging bobbies.” There is warm sleeping by the kilns, and the police know it. “Got any parents, Mary Ellen?” “’A dunno. They was there last time ’A went to Jackman’s Buildings. There weren’t no baggin’ there, so ’a ’opped it. That’s a long time sin’.” “This gentleman is called Bradshaw,” said Walter, to Tom’s annoyance. “Is ’e?” she said. “’A ’ate th’ ’epplestalls.” It might have been a password, and Tom thought she had the intention, in speaking it, to curry favor with a rich relation, but as it happened Mary Ellen was sincere. She did not say she hated the Hepplestalls to please Tom Bradshaw. She said it because it was true. Tom certainly wasn’t pleased. He reached for his hat. “I’m off out of this,” he said, and when Walter looked at him with surprise, “Man,” he said, “it’s beyond all to find that old ghost jibbering at me when I’ve sweated blood to lay it. You do not hate the Hepplestalls,” he roared at Mary Ellen. “They’re decent folk and you’re mud.” “Aye,” she said submissively. That she was mud, at any rate, was not news to her. “Aye, what?” “What yo’ said.” “Come,” said Walter. “There’s tractability.” “I call it cunning. Beggar’s cunning. She’s a Bradshaw.” “Not to me. She’s a Voice, and, by the Lord, I’ll train her how to use it.” “What are you going to do, Walter?” Tom put his hat down, feeling that it was ungenerous to leave his friend in the grip of a mistaken impulse. “Steal her. Well, no. That’s not to do; it’s done. She’s here. Mary Ellen, you’re going to sleep in a bed to-night, with sheets and a striped quilt on it like you see in the windows of the Co-op.” “Oo--er,” said Mary Ellen. “But,” said Walter, “you’re going to be washed first. The water won’t be cold. It’ll be warm, and it’ll be in a bath. You’ve heard of baths?” She nodded. “Aye,” she said, “you ’ave ’em when you go to quod.” Tom turned suddenly away and when he looked round there were marks of suffering on his face. “I’ve been living too soft, Walter,” he said. “I’ve been forgetting.” “No,” said Walter, “your whole life is remembering. Education, Tom. Isn’t that the sovereign remedy?” “I’m believing in nothing just now,” said Tom Bradshaw. “Then I am. I’m believing in the voice of Mary Ellen and I’m going to educate it.” “Will it ’urt?” asked Mary Ellen. “No,” said Tom, “but I will if you’re not grateful to Mr. Pate. I’ll break your neck.” “Tom, Tom!” protested Walter. “Eh, lad,” said Tom, “I’ve got the heartache for the waif, but you’re aiming to sink two years’ good work in her, and she a Bradshaw. Man, they’re the Devil’s Own. They’ll take and take and--do you fancy this is like me, Walter? Me arguing against one of the downs being given a chance to get up! But when it’s you that’s giving the chance and a Bradshaw that’s to take it I’ve a sinking feeling that the risk’s too big. They’ll bite the hand that feeds them, they’ll--”