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
