t reason—and it was like hares to a greyhound.
''Couldn''t you make it five, Mr Ibbs?''
Mr Ibbs would lift his honest face, and shrug.
''I should like to, my son. I should like nothing better. And if you was to bring me something out of the way, I would make my money answer. This, however''—with a wave of his hand above the pile of silks or notes or gleaming brass—''this is so much gingerbread. I should be robbing myself. I should be stealing the food from the mouths of Mrs Sucksby''s babies.''
And he would hand the thief his shillings, and the thief would pocket them and button his jacket, and cough or wipe his nose.
And then Mr Ibbs would seem to have a change of heart. He would step to his box again and, ''You eaten anything this morning, my son?'' he would say. The thief would always answer, ''Not a crust.'' Then Mr Ibbs would give him sixpence, and tell him to be sure and spend it on a breakfast and not on a horse; and the thief would say something like,
''You''re a jewel, Mr Ibbs, a regular jewel.''
Mr Ibbs might make ten or twelve shillings'' profit with a man like that: all through seeming to be honest, and fair. For, of course, what he had said about the rag or the candlesticks would be so much puff: he knew brass from onions, all right. When the thief had gone, he''d catch my eye and wink. He''d rub his hands again and grow quite lively.