For Name and Fame | Page 7

for; or that the little boy, whose father she said was at sea, was the child for whose discovery a thousand pounds was continually advertised.
Chapter 2
: The Foundling.
It was a bitterly cold night in January. The wind was roaring across the flats and fens of Cambridgeshire, driving tiny flakes of snow before it. But few people had been about all day, and those whose business compelled them to face the weather had hurried along, muffled up to the chin. It was ten at night; and the porter and his wife at the workhouse, at Ely, had just gone to bed, when the woman exclaimed:
"Sam, I hear a child crying."
"Oh, nonsense!" the man replied, drawing the bedclothes higher over his head. "It is the wind; it's been whistling all day."
The woman was silent, but not convinced. Presently she sat up in bed.
"I tell you, Sam, it's a child; don't you hear it, man? It's a child, outside the gate. On such a night as this, too. Get up, man, and see; if you won't, I will go myself."
"Lie still, woman. It's all thy fancy."
"You are a fool, Sam Dickson," his wife said, sharply. "Do you think I have lived to the age of forty-five, and don't know a child's cry, when I hear it? Now are you going to get up, or am I?"
With much grumbling, the porter turned out of bed, slipped on a pair of trousers and a greatcoat, took down the key from the wall, lighted a lantern, and went out. He opened the gate, and looked out. There was nothing to be seen; and he was about to close the gate again, with a curse on his wife's fancies, when a fresh cry broke on his ears. He hurried out now and, directed by the voice, found lying near the gate a child, wrapped in a dark-colored shawl, which had prevented him from seeing it at his first glance. There was no one else in sight.
Illustration: Sam Dickson finds little Willie Gale.
The man lifted his lantern above his head, and gave a shout. There was no answer. Then he raised the child and carried it in; locked the door, and entered the lodge.
"You are right, for once," he said. "Here is a child, and a pretty heavy one, too. It has been deserted by someone; and a heartless creature she must have been, for in another half hour it would have been frozen to death, if you had not heard it."
The woman was out of bed now.
"It is a boy," she said, opening the shawl, "about two years old, I should say.
"Don't cry, my boy--don't cry.
"It's half frozen, Sam. The best thing will be to put it into our bed, that has just got warm. I will warm it up a little milk. It's no use taking it into the ward, tonight."
Ten minutes later the child was sound asleep; the porter--who was a good-natured man--having gone over to sleep in an empty bed in the house, leaving the child to share his wife's bed.
In the morning the foundling opened its eyes and looked round. Seeing everything strange, it began to cry.
"Don't cry, dear," the woman said. "I will get you some nice breakfast, directly."
The kindness of tone at once pacified the child. It looked round.
"Where's mother?" he asked.
"I don't know, dear. We shall find her soon enough, no doubt; don't you fret."
The child did not seem inclined to fret. On the contrary, he brightened up visibly.
"Will she beat Billy, when she comes back?"
"No, my dear, she sha'n't beat you. Does she often beat you?"
The child nodded its head several times, emphatically.
"Then she's a bad lot," the woman said, indignantly.
The child ate its breakfast contentedly, and was then carried by the porter's wife to the master, who had already heard the circumstance of its entry.
"It's of no use asking such a baby whether it has any name," he said; "of course, it would not know. It had better go into the infants' ward. The guardians will settle what its name shall be. We will set the police at work, and try and find out something about its mother. It is a fine-looking little chap; and she must be either a thoroughly bad one, or terribly pressed, to desert it like this. Most likely it is a tramp and, in that case, it's odds we shall never hear further about it.
"Any distinguishing mark on its clothes?"
"None at all, sir. It is poorly dressed, and seems to have been very bad treated. Its skin is dirty, and its little back is black and blue with bruises; but it has a blood mark on the neck, which will enable its mother to swear to it, if it's fifty years hence--but I don't suppose we shall ever hear of her, again."
That afternoon,