Alone In London | Page 7

is she?"
"She's very well, thank you, my boy," answered Oliver, meekly.
"Mother not turned up, I guess?" said Tony.
"No; she comes on Friday," he replied.
Tony winked, and put his tongue into his cheek; but he gave utterance to no remark until after the shutters were in their place. Then he surveyed himself as well as he could, with an air of satisfaction. His face and hands were clean, and his skin looked very white through the holes in his tattered clothes; even his feet, except for an unavoidable under surface of dust, were unsoiled. His jacket and trousers appeared somewhat more torn than the evening before; but they bore every mark of having been washed also.
"Washed myself early in the morning, afore the bobbies were much about," remarked Tony, "in the fountains at Charing Cross; but I hadn't time to get my rags done, so I did 'em down under the bridge, when the tide were going down; but I could only give 'em a bit of a swill and a ring out. Anyhow, I'm a bit cleaner this morning than last night, master."
"To be sure, to be sure," answered Oliver. "Come in, my boy, and I'll give you a bit of breakfast with her and me."
"You haven't got sich a thing as a daily paper, have you?" asked Tony, in a patronizing tone.
"Not to-day's paper, I'm afraid," he said.
"I'm afraid not," continued Tony; "overslept yourself, eh? Not as I can read myself; but there are folks going by as can, and might p'raps buy one here as well as anywhere else. Shall I run and get 'em for you, now I'm on my legs?"
Oliver looked questioningly at the boy, who returned a frank, honest gaze, and said, "Honour bright!" as he held out his hand for the money. There was some doubt in the old man's mind after Tony had disappeared as to whether he had not done a very foolish thing; but he soon forgot it when he returned to the breakfast-table; and long before he himself could have reached the place and returned, Tony was back again with his right number of papers.
Before many minutes Tony was sitting upon an old box at a little distance from the table, where Oliver sat with his grandchild. A basin of coffee and a large hunch of bread rested upon his knees, and Beppo was sniffing round him with a doubtful air. Dolly was shy in this strange company, and ate her breakfast with a sedate gravity which filled both her companions with astonishment and admiration. When the meal was finished, old Oliver took his daughter's letter from his waistcoat pocket and read it aloud to Tony, who listened with undivided interest.
"Then she's your own little 'un," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "You'll never give her up to me, if you get tired of her,--nor to the p'lice neither," he added, with a brightening face.
"No, no, no!" answered Oliver, emphatically. "Besides, her mother's coming on Friday. I wouldn't give her up for all the world, bless her!"
"And he's 'listed!" said Tony, in a tone of envy. "They wouldn't take me yet a while, if I offered to go. But who's that she speaks of?--'for Christ's sake, if I am worthy to use his name.' Who is he?"
"Don't you know?" asked Oliver.
"No, never heard tell of him before," he answered. "Is he any friend o' yours?" [A]
[Footnote A: It may be necessary to assure some readers that this ignorance is not exaggerated. The City Mission Reports, and similar records, show that such cases are too frequent.]
"Ay!" said Oliver; "he's my only friend, my best friend. And he's my master, besides."
"And she thinks he'd be angry if you turned the little girl away?" pursued Tony.
"Yes, yes; he'd be very angry," said old Oliver, thoughtfully; "it 'ud grieve him to his heart. Why, he's always loved little children, and never had them turned away from himself, whatever he was doing. If she hadn't been my own little girl, I daren't have turned her out of my doors. No, no, dear Lord, thee knows as I'd have taken care of her, for thy sake."
He spoke absently, in a low voice, as though talking to some person whom Tony could not see, and the boy was silent a minute or two, thinking busily.
"How long have you worked for that master o' yours?" he asked, at last.
"Not very long," replied Oliver, regretfully. "I used to fancy I was working for him years and years ago; but, dear me! it was poor sort o'work; and now I can't do very much. Only he knows how old I am, and he doesn't care so that I love him, which I do, Tony."
"I should think so!" said the boy, falling again into busy thought, from which he aroused