Robert Michael Ballantyne
Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure
“Forgive me, my dear,” he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that might well have justified the black sheep’s thought, “screwed,” “I—I—business kept me in the office very late, and then—” He cast an imbecile glance at the bundle.
“What ever have you got there, Sam?” asked his wondering wife.
“Goodness me! it moves!” exclaimed Mrs Loper.
“Live poultry!” thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision.
“Yes, Mrs Loper, it moves. It is alive—though not very much alive, I fear. My dear, I’ve found—found a baby—picked it up in the street. Not a soul there but me. Would have perished or been trodden on if I had not taken it up. See here!”
He untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly, at the assembled company.
It is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with compound interest.
Chapter Five.
Treats still further of Riches, Poverty, Babies, and Police
When Mr and Mrs Twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, they sat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the little foundling, which lay in the youngest Twitter’s disused cradle, gazing at them with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep. They opened up their minds to each other thus:—
“Now, Samuel,” said Mrs Twitter, “the question is, what are you going to do with it?”
“Well, Mariar,” returned her spouse, with an assumption of profound gravity, “I suppose we must send it to the workhouse.”
“You know quite well, Sam, that you don’t mean that,” said Mrs Twitter, “the dear little forsaken mite! Just look at its solemn eyes. It has been clearly cast upon us, Sam, and it seems to me that we are bound to look after it.”
“What! with six of our own, Mariar?”
“Yes, Sam. Isn’t there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?”
“And with only 500 pounds a year?” objected Mr Twitter.
“Only five hundred. How can you speak so? We are rich with five hundred. Can we not educate our little ones?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And entertain our friends?”
“Yes, my love,—with crumpets and tea.”
“Don’t forget muffins and bloater paste, and German sausage and occasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!”
“I don’t forget ’em, Mariar. My recollection of ’em is powerful; I may even say vivid.”
“Well,” continued the lady, “haven’t you been able to lend small sums on several occasions to friends—”
“Yes, my dear,—and they are still loans,” murmured the husband.
“And don’t we give a little—I sometimes think too little—regularly to the poor, and to the church, and haven’t we got a nest-egg laid by in the Post-office savings-bank?”
“All true, Mariar, and all your doing. But for your thrifty ways, and economical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, I should have been bankrupt long ere now.”
Mr Twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wife’s character. She was one of those happily constituted women who make the best and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning her eyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people the impression that she saw only their bright sides. Her economy would have degenerated into nearness if it had not been commensurate with her liberality, for while, on the one hand, she was ever anxious, almost eager, to give to the needy and suffering every penny that she could spare, she was, on the other hand, strictly economical in trifles. Indeed Mrs Twitter’s vocabulary did not contain the word trifle. One of her favourite texts of Scripture, which was always in her mind, and which she had illuminated in gold and hung on her bedroom walls with many other words of God, was, “Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” Acting on this principle with all her heart, she gathered up the fragments of time, so that she had always a good deal of that commodity to spare, and was never in a hurry. She gathered up bits of twine and made neat little rings of them, which she deposited in a basket—a pretty large basket—which in time became such a repository of wealth in that respect that the six Twitters never failed to find the exact size and quality of cordage wanted by them—and, indeed, even after the eldest, Sammy, came to the years of discretion, if he had suddenly required a cable suited to restrain a first-rate iron-clad, his mind would, in the first blush of the thing, have reverted to mother’s basket! If friends wrote short notes to Mrs Twitter—which they often did, for the sympathetic find plenty of correspondents—the blank leaves were always torn off and consigned to a scrap-paper box, and the pile grew big enough at last to have set up a small stationer in business. And so with everything that came under her influence at home or abroad. She emphatically did what she could to prevent waste, and became a living fulfilment of the well-known proverb, for as she wasted not she wanted not.
But to return from this digression—
“Well, then,” said Mrs Twitter, “don’t go and find fault, Samuel,” (she used the name in full when anxious to be impressive), “with what Providence has given us, by putting the word ‘only’ to it, for we are rich with five hundred a year.”
Mr Twitter freely admitted that he was wrong, and said he would be more careful in future of the use to which he put the word “only.”
“But,” said he, “we haven’t a hole or corner in the house to put the poor thing in. To be sure, there’s the coal-cellar and the scuttle might be rigged up as a cradle, but—”
He paused, and looked at his wife. The deceiver did not mean all this to be taken as a real objection. He was himself anxious to retain the infant, and only made this show of opposition to enlist Maria more certainly on his side.
“Not a corner!” she exclaimed, “why, is there not the whole parlour? Do you suppose that a baby requires a four-post bed, and a wash-hand-stand, and a five-foot mirror? Couldn’t we lift the poor darling in and out in half a minute? Besides, there is our own room. I feel as if there was an uncomfortable want of some sort ever since our baby was transplanted to the nursery. So we will establish the old bassinet and put the mite there.”
“And what shall we call it, Maria?”
“Call it—why, call it—call it—Mite—no name could be more appropriate.”
“But, my love, Mite, if a name at all, is a man’s—that is, it sounds like a masculine name.”
“Call it Mita, then.”
And so it was named, and thus that poor little waif came to be adopted by that “rich” family.
It seems to be our mission, at this time, to introduce our readers to various homes—the homes of England, so to speak! But let not our readers become impatient, while we lead the way to one more home, and open the door with our secret latch-key.
This home is in some respects peculiar. It is not a poor one, for it is comfortable and clean. Neither is it a rich one, for there are few ornaments, and no luxuries about it. Over the fire stoops a comely young woman, as well as one can judge, at least, from the rather faint light that enters through a small window facing a brick wall. The wall is only five feet from the window, and some previous occupant of the rooms had painted on it a rough landscape, with three very green trees and a very blue lake, and a swan in the middle thereof, sitting on an inverted swan which was meant to be his reflection, but somehow seemed rather more real than himself. The picture is better, perhaps, than the bricks were, yet it is not enlivening. The only other objects in the room worth mentioning are, a particularly small book-shelf in a corner; a cuckoo-clock on the mantel-shelf, an engraved portrait of Queen Victoria on the wall opposite in a gilt frame, and a portrait of Sir Robert Peel in a frame of rosewood beside it.
On a little table in the centre of the room are the remains of a repast. Under the table is a very small child, probably four years of age. Near the window is another small, but older child—a boy of about six or seven. He is engaged in fitting on his little head a great black cloth helmet with a bronze badge, and a peak behind as well as before.
Having nearly extinguished himself with the helmet, the small boy seizes a very large truncheon, and makes a desperate effort to flourish it.
Close to the comely woman stands a very tall, very handsome, and very powerful man, who is putting in the uppermost buttons of a police-constable’s uniform.
Behold, reader, the tableau vivant to which we would call your attention!
“Where d’you go on duty to-day, Giles,” asked the comely young woman, raising her face to that of her husband.
“Oxford Circus,” replied the policeman. “It is the first time I’ve been put on fixed-point duty. That’s the reason I’m able to breakfast with you and the children, Molly, instead of being off at half-past five in the morning as usual. I shall be on for a month.”
“I’m glad of it, Giles, for it gives the children a chance of seeing something of you. I wish you’d let me look at that cut on your shoulder. Do!”
“No, no, Molly,” returned the man, as he pushed his wife playfully away from him. “Hands off! You know the punishment for assaulting the police is heavy! Now then, Monty,” (to the boy), “give up my helmet and truncheon. I must be off.”
“Not yet, daddy,” cried Monty, “I’s a pleeceman of the A Division, Number 2, ’ats me, an’ I’m goin’ to catch a t’ief. I ’mell ’im.”
“You smell him, do you? Where is he, d’you think?”
“Oh! I know,” replied the small policeman—here he came close up to his father, and, getting on tiptoe, said in a very audible whisper, “he’s under de table, but don’ tell ’im I know. His name’s Joe!”
“All right, I’ll keep quiet, Monty, but look alive and nab him quick, for I must be off.”
Thus urged the small policeman went on tiptoe to the table, made a sudden dive under it, and collared his little brother.
The arrest, however, being far more prompt than had been expected, the “t’ief” refused to be captured. A struggle ensued, in the course of which the helmet rolled off, a corner of the tablecloth was pulled down, and the earthenware teapot fell with a crash to the floor.
“It’s my duty, I fear,” said Giles, “to take you both into custody and lock you up in a cell for breaking the teapot as well as the peace, but I’ll be merciful and let you off this time, Monty, if you lend your mother a hand to pick up the pieces.”
Monty agreed to accept this compromise. The helmet and truncheon were put to their proper uses, and the merciful police-constable went out “on duty.”
Chapter Six.
Wealth pays a Visit to Poverty
It was an interesting sight to watch police-constable Number 666 as he went through the performance of his arduous duties that day at the Regent Circus in Oxford Street.
To those who are unacquainted with London, it may be necessary to remark that this circus is one of those great centres of traffic where two main arteries cross and tend to cause so much obstruction, that complete stoppages would become frequent were it not for the admirable management of the several members of the police force who are stationed there to keep order. The “Oxford Circus,” as it is sometimes called, is by no means the largest or most crowded of such crossings, nevertheless the tide of traffic is sufficiently strong and continuous there to require several police-constables on constant duty. When men are detailed for such “Fixed-Point” duty they go on it for a month at a time, and have different hours from the other men, namely, from nine in the morning till five in the afternoon.
We have said it was interesting to watch our big hero, Number 666, in the performance of his arduous duties. He occupied the crossing on the city side of the circus.
It was a magnificent afternoon, and all the metropolitan butterflies were out. Busses flowed on in a continuous stream, looking like big bullies who incline to use their weight and strength to crush through all obstruction. The drivers of these were for the most part wise men, and restrained themselves and their steeds. In one or two instances, where the drivers were unwise, a glance from the bright eye of Giles Scott was quite sufficient to keep all right.
And Giles could only afford to bestow a fragmentary glance at any time on the refractory, for, almost at one and the same moment he had to check the impetuous, hold up a warning hand to the unruly, rescue a runaway child from innumerable horse-legs, pilot a stout but timid lady from what we may call refuge-island, in the middle of the roadway, to the pavement, answer an imbecile’s question as to the whereabouts of the Tower or Saint Paul’s, order a loitering cabby to move on, and look out for his own toes, as well as give moderate attention to the carriage-poles which perpetually threatened the small of his own back.
We should imagine that the premium of insurance on the life of Number 666 was fabulous in amount, but cannot tell.
Besides his great height, Giles possessed a drooping moustache, which added much to his dignified appearance. He was also imperturbably grave, except when offering aid to a lady or a little child, on which occasions the faintest symptoms of a smile floated for a moment on his visage like an April sunbeam. At all other times his expression was that of incorruptible justice and awful immobility. No amount of chaff, no quantity of abuse, no kind of flattery, no sort of threat could move him any more than the seething billows of the Mediterranean can move Gibraltar. Costermongers growled at him hopelessly. Irate cabmen saw that their wisdom lay in submission. Criminals felt that once in his grasp their case was hopeless, just as, conversely, old ladies felt that once under his protection they were in absolute security. Even street-boys felt that references to “bobbies,” “coppers,” and “slops;” questions as to how ’is ’ead felt up there; who rolled ’im hout so long; whether his mother knew ’e was hout; whether ’e’d sell ’em a bit of ’is legs; with advice to come down off the ladder, or to go ’ome to bed—that all these were utterly thrown away and lost upon Giles Scott.
The garb of the London policeman is not, as every one knows, founded on the principles of aesthetics. Neither has it been devised on utilitarian principles. Indeed we doubt whether the originator of it, (and we are happy to profess ignorance of his name), proceeded on any principle whatever, except the gratification of a wild and degraded fancy. The colour, of course, is not objectionable, and the helmet might be worse, but the tunic is such that the idea of grace or elegance may not consist with it.
We mention these facts because Giles Scott was so well-made that he forced his tunic to look well, and thus added one more to the already numerous “exceptions” which are said to “prove the rule.”
“Allow me, madam,” said Giles, offering his right-hand to an elderly female, who, having screwed up her courage to make a rush, got into sudden danger and became mentally hysterical in the midst of a conglomerate of hoofs, poles, horse-heads, and wheels.
The female allowed him, and the result was sudden safety, a gasp of relief, and departure of hysteria.
“Not yet, please,” said Giles, holding up a warning right-hand to the crowd on refuge-island, while with his left waving gently to and fro he gave permission to the mighty stream to flow. “Now,” he added, holding up the left-hand suddenly. The stream was stopped as abruptly as were the waters of Jordan in days of old, and the storm-staid crew on refuge-island made a rush for the mainland. It was a trifling matter to most of them that rush, but of serious moment to the few whose limbs had lost their elasticity, or whose minds could not shake off the memory of the fact that between 200 and 300 lives are lost in London streets by accidents every year, and that between 3000 and 4000 are more or less severely injured annually.
Before the human stream had got quite across, an impatient hansom made a push. The eagle eye of Number 666 had observed the intention, and in a moment his gigantic figure stood calmly in front of the horse, whose head was raised high above his helmet as the driver tightened the reins violently.
Just then a small slipshod girl made an anxious dash from refuge-island, lost courage, and turned to run back, changed her mind, got bewildered, stopped suddenly and yelled.
Giles caught her by the arm, bore her to the pavement, and turned, just in time to see the hansom dash on in the hope of being overlooked. Vain hope! Number 666 saw the number of the hansom, booked it in his memory while he assisted in raising up an old gentleman who had been overturned, though not injured, in endeavouring to avoid it.
During the lull—for there are lulls in the rush of London traffic, as in the storms of nature,—Giles transferred the number of that hansom to his note-book, thereby laying up a little treat for its driver in the shape of a little trial the next day terminating, probably, with a fine.
Towards five in the afternoon the strain of all this began to tell even on the powerful frame of Giles Scott, but no symptom did he show of fatigue, and so much reserve force did he possess that it is probable he would have exhibited as calm and unwearied a front if he had remained on duty for eighteen hours instead of eight.
About that hour, also, there came an unusual glut to the traffic, in the form of a troop of the horse-guards. These magnificent creatures, resplendent in glittering steel, white plumes, and black boots, were passing westward. Giles stood in front of the arrested stream. A number of people stood, as it were, under his shadow. Refuge-island was overflowing. Comments, chiefly eulogistic, were being freely made and some impatience was being manifested by drivers, when a little shriek was heard, and a child’s voice exclaimed:—
“Oh! papa, papa—there’s my policeman—the one I so nearly killed. He’s not dead after all!”
Giles forgot his dignity for one moment, and, looking round, met the eager gaze of little Di Brandon.
Another moment and duty required his undivided attention, so that he lost sight of her, but Di took good care not to lose sight of him.
“We will wait here, darling,” said her father, referring to refuge-island on which he stood, “and when he is disengaged we can speak to him.”
“Oh! I’m so glad he’s not dead,” said little Di, “and p’raps he’ll be able to show us the way to my boy’s home.”
Di had a method of adopting, in a motherly way, all who, in the remotest manner, came into her life. Thus she not only spoke of our butcher and our baker, which was natural, but referred to “my policeman” and “my boy” ever since the day of the accident.
When Giles had set his portion of the traffic in harmonious motion he returned to his island, and was not sorry to receive the dignified greeting of Sir Richard Brandon, while he was delighted as well as amused by the enthusiastic grasp with which Di seized his huge hand in both of her little ones, and the earnest manner in which she inquired after his health, and if she had hurt him much.
“Did they put you to bed and give you hot gruel?” she asked, with touching pathos.
“No, miss, they didn’t think I was hurt quite enough to require it,” answered Giles, his drooping moustache curling slightly as he spoke.
“I had hoped to see you at my house,” said Sir Richard, “you did not call.”
“Thank you, sir, I did not think the little service I rendered your daughter worth making so much of. I called, however, the same evening, to inquire for her, but did not wish to intrude on you.”
“It would have been no intrusion, friend,” returned Sir Richard, with grand condescension. “One who has saved my child’s life has a claim upon my consideration.”
“A dook ’e must be,” said a small street boy in a loud stage whisper to a dray-man—for small street-boys are sown broadcast in London, and turn up at all places on every occasion, “or p’raps,” he added on reflection, “’e’s on’y a markiss.”
“Now then,” said Giles to the dray-man with a motion of the hand that caused him to move on, while he cast a look on the boy which induced him to move off.
“By the way, constable,” said Sir Richard, “I am on my way to visit a poor boy whose leg was broken on the day my pony ran away. He was holding the pony at the time. He lives in Whitechapel somewhere. I have the address here in my note-book.”
“Excuse me, sir, one moment,” said Number 666, going towards a crowd which had gathered round a fallen horse. “I happen to be going to that district myself,” he continued on returning, “what is the boy’s name?”
“Robert—perhaps I should rather say Bobby Frog,” answered Sir Richard.
“The name is familiar,” returned the policeman, “but in London there are so many—what’s his address, sir,—Roy’s Court, near Commercial Street? Oh! I know it well—one of the worst parts of London. I know the boy too. He is somewhat noted in that neighbourhood for giving the police trouble. Not a bad-hearted fellow, I believe, but full of mischief, and has been brought up among thieves from his birth. His father is, or was, a bird-fancier and seller of penny articles on the streets, besides being a professional pugilist. You will be the better for protection there, sir. I would advise you not to go alone. If you can wait for five or ten minutes,” added Giles, “I shall be off duty and will be happy to accompany you.”
Sir Richard agreed to wait. Within the time mentioned Giles was relieved, and, entering a cab with his friends, drove towards Whitechapel. They had to pass near our policeman’s lodgings on the way.
“Would you object, sir, stopping at my house for five minutes?” he asked.
“Certainly not,” returned the knight, “I am in no hurry.”
Number 666 stopped the cab, leaped out and disappeared through a narrow passage. In less than five minutes a very tall gentlemanly man issued from the same passage and approached them. Little Di opened her blue eyes to their very uttermost. It was her policeman in plain clothes!
She did not like the change at all at first, but before the end of the drive got used to him in his new aspect—all the more readily that he seemed to have cast off much of his stiffness and reserve with his blue skin.
Near the metropolitan railway station in Whitechapel the cab was dismissed, and Giles led the father and child along the crowded thoroughfare until they reached Commercial Street, along which they proceeded a short distance.
“We are now near some of the worst parts of London, sir,” said Giles, “where great numbers of the criminal and most abandoned characters dwell.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Richard, who did not seem to be much gratified by the information.
As for Di, she was nearly crying. The news that her boy was a thief and was born in the midst of such naughty people had fallen with chilling influence on her heart, for she had never thought of anything but the story-book “poor but honest parents!”
“What large building is that?” inquired the knight, who began to wish that he had not given way to his daughter’s importunities, “the one opposite, I mean, with placards under the windows.”
“That is the well-known Home of Industry, instituted and managed by Miss Macpherson and a staff of volunteer workers. They do a deal of good, sir, in this neighbourhood.”
“Ah! indeed,” said Sir Richard, who had never before heard of the Home of Industry. “And, pray, what particular industry does this Miss Mac— what did you call her?”
“Macpherson. The lady, you know, who sends out so many rescued waifs and strays to Canada, and spends all her time in caring for the poorest of the poor in the East-End and in preaching the gospel to them. You’ve often seen accounts of her work, no doubt, in the Christian?”
“Well—n–no. I read the Times, but, now you mention it, I have some faint remembrance of seeing reference to such matters. Very self-denying, no doubt, and praiseworthy, though I must say that I doubt the use of preaching the gospel to such persons. From what I have seen of these lowest people I should think they were too deeply sunk in depravity to be capable of appreciating the lofty and sublime sentiments of Christianity.”
Number 666 felt a touch of surprise at these words, though he was too well-bred a policeman to express his feelings by word or look. In fact, although not pre-eminently noted for piety, he had been led by training, and afterwards by personal experience, to view this matter from a very different standpoint from that of Sir Richard. He made no reply, however, but, turning round the corner of the Home of Industry, entered a narrow street which bore palpable evidence of being the abode of deepest poverty. From the faces and garments of the inhabitants it was also evidently associated with the deepest depravity.
As little Di saw some of the residents sitting on their doorsteps with scratched faces, swelled lips and cheeks, and dishevelled hair, and beheld the children in half-naked condition rolling in the kennel and extremely filthy, she clung closer to her father’s side and began to suspect there were some phases of life she had never seen—had not even dreamt of!
What the knight’s thoughts were we cannot tell, for he said nothing, but disgust was more prominent than pity on his fine countenance. Those who sat on the doorsteps, or lolled with a dissipated air against the door-posts, seemed to appreciate him at his proper value, for they scowled at him as he passed. They recognised Number 666, however, (perhaps by his bearing), and gave him only a passing glance of indifference.
“You said it would be dangerous for me to come here by myself,” said Sir Richard, turning to Giles, as he entered another and even worse street. “Are they then so violent?”
“Many of them are among the worst criminals in London, sir. Here is the court of which you are in search: Roy’s Court.”
As he spoke, Ned Frog staggered out of his own doorway, clenched his fists, and looked with a vindictive scowl at the strangers. A second glance induced him to unclench his fists and reel round the corner on his way to a neighbouring grog-shop. Whatever other shops may decay in that region, the grog-shops, like noxious weeds, always flourish.
The court was apparently much deserted at that hour, for the men had not yet returned from their work—whatever that might be—and most of the women were within doors.
“This is the house,” continued Giles, descending the few steps, and tapping at the door; “I have been here before. They know me.”
The door was opened by Hetty, and for the first time since entering those regions of poverty and crime, little Di felt a slight rise in her spirits, for through Hetty’s face shone the bright spirit within; albeit the shining was through some dirt and dishevelment, good principle not being able altogether to overcome the depressing influences of extreme poverty and suffering.
“Is your mother at home, Hetty!”
“Oh! yes, sir. Mother, here’s Mr Scott. Come in, sir. We are so glad to see you, and—”
She stopped, and gazed inquiringly at the visitors who followed.
“I’ve brought some friends of Bobby to inquire for him. Sir Richard Brandon—Mrs Frog.”
Number 666 stood aside, and, with something like a smile on his face, ceremoniously presented Wealth to Poverty.
Wealth made a slightly confused bow to Poverty, and Poverty, looking askance at Wealth, dropt a mild courtesy.
“Vell now, I’m a Dutchman if it ain’t the hangel!” exclaimed a voice in the corner of the small room, before either Wealth or Poverty could utter a word.
“Oh! it’s my boy,” exclaimed Di with delight, forgetting or ignoring the poverty, dirt, and extremely bad air, as she ran forward and took hold of Bobby’s hand.
It was a pre-eminently dirty hand, and formed a remarkable contrast to the little hands that grasped it!
The small street boy was, for the first time in his life, bereft of speech! When that faculty returned, he remarked in language which was obscure to Di:—
“Vell, if this ain’t a go!”
“What is a go?” asked Di with innocent surprise. Instead of answering, Bobby Frog burst into a fit of laughter, but stopped rather suddenly with an expression of pain.
“Oh! ’old on! I say. This won’t do. Doctor ’e said I musn’t larf, ’cause it shakes the leg too much. But, you know, wot’s a cove to do ven a hangel comes to him and axes sitch rum questions?”
Again he laughed, and again stopped short in pain.
“I’m so sorry! Does it feel very painful? You can’t think how constantly I’ve been thinking of you since the accident; for it was all my fault. If I hadn’t jumped up in such a passion, the pony wouldn’t have run away, and you wouldn’t have been hurt. I’m so very, very sorry, and I got dear papa to bring me here to tell you so, and to see if we could do anything to make you well.”
Again Bobby was rendered speechless, but his mind was active.
“Wot! I ain’t dreamin’, am I? ’As a hangel really come to my bedside all the vay from the Vest-end, an’ brought ’er dear pa’—vich means the guv’nor, I fancy—all for to tell me—a kid whose life is spent in ‘movin’ on’—that she’s wery, wery, sorry I’ve got my leg broke, an’ that she’s bin an’ done it, an’ she would like to know if she can do hanythink as’ll make me vell! But it ain’t true. It’s a big lie! I’m dreamin’, that’s all. I’ve been took to hospital, an’ got d’lirious—that’s wot it is. I’ll try to sleep!”
With this end in view he shut his eyes, and remained quite still for a few seconds, and when Di looked at his pinched and pale face in this placid condition, the tears would overflow their natural boundary, and sobs would rise up in her pretty throat, but she choked them back for fear of disturbing her boy.
Presently the boy opened his eyes.
“Wot, are you there yet?” he asked.
“Oh yes. Did you think I was going away?” she replied, with a look of innocent surprise. “I won’t leave you now. I’ll stay here and nurse you, if papa will let me. I have slept once on a shake-down, when I was forced by a storm to stay all night at a juv’nile party. So if you’ve a corner here, it will do nicely—”
