"Yes, tip-top, a new song from one of the music halls in London.  Now
then, be you coming or not, Bet?" 

"No, no, she's funking it," suddenly called out a dancing little sprite
of a newspaper girl.  She came up close to Bet as she spoke, and shook
a dirty hand in her face, and gazed up at her with two mirthful,
teasing, wicked black eyes.  "Bet's funking it,--she's a mammy's
girl,--she's tied to her mammy's apron-strings, he-he-he!" 

The other girls all joined in the laugh; and Bet, who was standing
stolid and straight in the centre of the group, first flushed angrily,
then turned pale and bit her lips. 

"I ain't funking," she said; "nobody can ever say as there's any funk
about me,--there's my share.  Good-night." 

She tossed a shilling on to the pavement, and before the astonished
girls could intercept her, turned on her heel and marched away. 

A mocking laugh or two floated after her on the night air, then the