out of the house.
“My ’usband, sir,” said Mrs Frog, in answer to her visitor’s inquiring glance.
“Oh! is that his usual mode of returning home?”
“No, sir,” answered Bobby from his corner, for he was beginning to be amused by the succession of surprises which Wealth was receiving, “’e don’t always come in so. Sometimes ’e sends ’is ’ead first an’ the feet come afterwards. In any case the furniture’s apt to suffer, not to mention the in’abitants, but you’ve saved us to-night, sir, or, raither, Mr Scott ’as saved both us an’ you.”
Poor little Di, who had been terribly frightened, clung closer to her father’s arm on hearing this.
“Perhaps,” said Sir Richard, “it would be as well that we should go, in case Mr Frog should return.”
He was about to say good-bye when Di checked him, and, despite her fears, urged a short delay.
“We haven’t heard, you know, about the slops yet. Do stop just one minute, dear papa. I wonder if it’s like the beef-tea nurse makes for me when I’m ill.”
“It’s not that kind of slops, darling, but ready-made clothing to which reference is made. But you are right. Let us hear about it, Miss Hetty.”
The idea of “Miss” being applied to Hetty, and slops compared to beef-tea proved almost too much for the broken-legged boy in the corner, but he put strong constraint on himself and listened.
“Indeed, sir, I do not complain,” said Hetty, quite distressed at being thus forcibly dragged into notice. “I am thankful for what has been sent—indeed I am—only it was a great disappointment, particularly at this time, when we so much needed all we could make amongst us.”
She stopped and had difficulty in restraining tears. “Go on, Hetty,” said her mother, “and don’t be afraid. Bless you, he’s not goin’ to report what you say.”
“I know that, mother. Well, sir, this was the way on it. They sometimes—”
“Excuse me—who are ‘they’?”
“I beg pardon, sir, I—I’d rather not tell.”
“Very well. I respect your feelings, my girl. Some slop-making firm, I suppose. Go on.”
“Yes, sir. Well—they sometimes gives me extra work to do at home. It do come pretty hard on me after goin’ through the regular day’s work, from early mornin’ till night, but then, you see, it brings in a little more money—and, I’m strong, thank God.”
Sir Richard looked at Hetty’s thin and colourless though pretty face, and thought it possible that she might be stronger with advantage.
“Of late,” continued the girl, “I’ve bin havin’ extra work in this way, and last week I got twelve children’s ulsters to make up. This job when finished would bring me six and sixpence.”
“How much?”
“Six and sixpence, sir.”
“For the whole twelve?” asked Sir Richard.
“Yes, sir—that was sixpence halfpenny for makin’ up each ulster. It’s not much, sir.”
“No,” murmured Wealth in an absent manner; “sixpence halfpenny is not much.”
“But when I took them back,” continued Hetty—and here the tears became again obstreperous and difficult to restrain—“the master said he’d forgot to tell me that this order was for the colonies, that he had taken it at a very low price, and that he could only give me three shillin’s for the job. Of—of course three shillin’s is better the nothin’, but after workin’ hard for such a long long time an’ expectin’ six, it was—”
Here the tears refused to be pent up any longer, and the poor girl quietly bending forward hid her face in her hand.
“Come, I think we will go now,” said Sir Richard, rising hastily. “Good-night, Mrs Frog, I shall probably see you again—at least—you shall hear from me. Now, Di—say good-night to your boy.”
In a few minutes Sir Richard stood outside, taking in deep draughts of the comparatively fresher air of the court.
“The old screw,” growled Bobby, when the door was shut. “’E didn’t leave us so much as a single bob—not even a brown, though ’e pretends that six of ’em ain’t much.”
“Don’t be hard on him, Bobby,” said Hetty, drying her eyes; “he spoke very kind, you know, an’ p’raps he means to help us afterwards.”
“Spoke kind,” retorted the indignant boy; “I tell ’ee wot, Hetty, you’re far too soft an’ forgivin’. I s’pose that’s wot they teaches you in Sunday-school at George Yard—eh? Vill speakin’ kind feed us, vill it clothe us, vill it pay for our lodgin’s!”
The door opened at that moment, and Number 666 re-entered.
“The gentleman sent me back to give you this, Mrs Frog,” laying a sovereign on the rickety table. “He said he didn’t like to offer it to you himself for fear of hurting your feelings, but I told him he needn’t be afraid on that score! Was I right, Missis? Look well after it, now, an’ see that Ned don’t get his fingers on it.”
Giles left the room, and Mrs Frog, taking up the piece of gold, fondled it for some time in her thin fingers, as though she wished to make quite sure of its reality. Then wrapping it carefully in a piece of old newspaper, she thrust it into her bosom.
Bobby gazed at her in silence up to this point, and then turned his face to the wall. He did not speak, but we cannot say that he did not pray, for, mentally he said, “I beg your parding, old gen’l’m’n, an’ I on’y pray that a lot of fellers like you may come ’ere sometimes to ’urt our feelin’s in that vay!”
At that moment Hetty bent over the bed, and, softly kissing her brother’s dirty face, whispered, “Yes, Bobby, that’s what they teach me in Sunday-school at George Yard.”
Thereafter Wealth drove home in a cab, and Poverty went to bed in her rags.
Chapter Seven.
Bicycling and its Occasional Results
It is pleasant to turn from the smoke and turmoil of the city to the fresh air and quiet of the country.
To the man who spends most of his time in the heart of London, going into the country—even for a short distance—is like passing into the fields of Elysium. This was, at all events, the opinion of Stephen Welland; and Stephen must have been a good judge, for he tried the change frequently, being exceedingly fond of bicycling, and occasionally taking what he termed long spins on that remarkable instrument.
One morning, early in the summer-time, young Welland, (he was only eighteen), mounted his iron horse in the neighbourhood of Kensington, and glided away at a leisurely pace through the crowded streets. Arrived in the suburbs of London he got up steam, to use his own phrase, and went at a rapid pace until he met a “chum,” by appointment. This chum was also mounted on a bicycle, and was none other than our friend Samuel Twitter, Junior—known at home as Sammy, and by his companions as Sam.
“Isn’t
