it by the crier, and posted it up at the custom-house door, and I promised him the £30 this morning." They argued long, and I thought would have quarrelled about it.
However, at last they both yielded a little, and the gentleman gave me £25 in good guineas. When he gave it me he bade me hold out my hand, and he told the money into my hand; and when he had done he asked me if it was right. I said I did not know, but I believed it was. "Why," says he, "can't you tell it?" I told him no; I never saw so much money in my life, nor I did not know how to tell money. "Why," says he, "don't you know that they are guineas?" No, I told him, I did not know how much a guinea was.
"Why, then," says he, "did you tell me you believed it was right?" I told him, because I believed he would not give it me wrong.
"Poor child," says he, "thou knowest little of the world, indeed. What art thou?"
"I am a poor boy," says I, and cried.
"What is your name?" says he. "But hold, I forgot," said he; "I promised I would not ask your name, so you need not tell me."
"My name is Jacque," said I.
"Why, have you no surname?" said he.
"What is that?" said I.
"You have some other name besides Jacque," says he, "han't you?"
"Yes," says I; "they call me Colonel Jacque."
"But have you no other name?"
"No," said I.
"How came you to be Colonel Jacque, pray?"
"They say," said I, "my father's name was Colonel."
"Is your father or mother alive?" said he.
"No," said I; "my father is dead."
"Where is your mother, then?" said he.
"I never had e'er a mother," said I.
This made him laugh. "What," said he, "had you never a mother? What, then?"
"I had a nurse," said I; "but she was not my mother."
"Well," says he to the gentleman, "I dare say this boy was not the thief that stole your bills."
"Indeed, sir, I did not steal them," said I, and cried again.
"No, no, child," said he, "we don't believe you did. This is a very clever boy," says he to the other gentleman, "and yet very ignorant and honest; 'tis pity some care should not be taken of him, and something done for him. Let us talk a little more with him." So they sat down and drank wine, and gave me some, and then the first gentleman talked to me again.
"Well," says he, "what wilt thou do with this money now thou hast it?"
"I don't know," said I.
"Where will you put it?" said he,
"In my pocket," said I.
"In your pocket!" said he. "Is your pocket whole? Shan't you lose it?"
"Yes," said I, "my pocket is whole."
"And where will you put it when you get home?"
"I have no home," said I, and cried again.
"Poor child!" said he. "Then what dost thou do for thy living?"
"I go of errands," said I, "for the folks in Rosemary Lane."
"And what dost thou do for a lodging at night?"
"I lie at the glass-house," said I, "at night."
"How, lie at the glass-house! Have they any beds there?" says he.
"I never lay in a bed in my life," said I, "as I remember."
"Why," says he, "what do you lie on at the glass-house?"
"The ground," says I; "and sometimes a little straw, or upon the warm ashes."
Here the gentleman that lost the bills said, "This poor child is enough to make a man weep for the miseries of human nature, and be thankful for himself; he puts tears into my eyes." "And into mine too," says the other.
"Well, but hark ye, Jacque," says the first gentleman, "do they give you no money when they send you of errands?"
"They give me victuals," said I, "and that's better."
"But what," says he, "do you do for clothes?"
"They give me sometimes old things," said I, "such as they have to spare."
"Why, you have never a shirt on, I believe," said he, "have you?"
"No; I never had a shirt," said I, "since my nurse died."
"How long ago is that?" said he.
"Six winters, when this is out," said I.
"Why, how old are you?" said he.
"I can't tell," said I.
"Well," says the gentleman, "now you have this money, won't you buy some clothes and a shirt with some of it?"
"Yes," said I, "I would buy some clothes."
"And what will you do with the rest?"
"I can't tell," said I, and cried.
"What dost cry for, Jacque?" said he.
"I am afraid," said I, and cried still.
"What art afraid of?"
"They will know I have money."
"Well, and what then?"
"Then I must sleep no more in the warm glass house, and I shall be starved with cold. They will take away my money."
"But why must you sleep there no more?"
Here the gentlemen observed to one another how naturally anxiety and perplexity attend those that have money. "I warrant you," says the clerk, "when this poor boy had no money he slept all night in the straw, or on the warm ashes in the glass-house, as soundly and as void of care as it would be possible for any creature to do; but now, as soon as he has gotten money, the care of preserving it brings tears into his eyes and fear into his heart."
They asked me a great many questions more, to which I answered in my childish way as well as I could, but so as pleased them well enough. At last I was going away with a heavy pocket, and I assure you not a light heart, for I was so frighted with having so much money that I knew not what in the earth to do with myself. I went away, however, and walked a little way, but I could not tell what to do; so, after rambling two hours or thereabout, I went back again, and sat down at the gentleman's door, and there I cried as long as I had any moisture in my head to make tears of, but never knocked at the door.
I had not sat long, I suppose, but somebody belonging to the family got knowledge of it, and a maid came and talked to me, but I said little to her, only cried still. At length it came to the gentleman's ears. As for the merchant, he was gone. When the gentleman heard of me he called me in, and began to talk with
