CHAPTER TWENTY-NINEBull left the underground at Chancery-lane and started around the corner. Near the entrance to the station he came upon an old crone trying to sell a bunch of soiled violets to a very much intoxicated young man in evening clothes.
The young man, propped perilously against the wall, was making superhuman efforts to get some pennies out of his trousers pocket. The old woman was giving him as much help as she thought would escape the eye of any passing constable. The young man was saying, “Don’t cry, little flower girl.”
Bull hesitated, trying to decide whether he was justified as a member of the C.I.D. to stop the old woman, or as a fellow being to help the young man, when the flower seller’s voice made him stop short and step back out of the light.
“Orl right, sir, tyk
