Amid the tears of Thoozy and the lamentations of Mrs. Kneebone, Dick bore off his prize. Arrived at the foot of the stairs, they heard a curious noise above, as of heavy blows and wrestling.

"What are they doing, Bill?”

Here came thuds and groans.

"They're a givin' of it to one another. She wants to grab all the tin. Listen. Hooray! Thoozy's got his crutch. She was always a whackin' me awful, till he got the stick. Now she's a catchin' it. Oh, ain't Thoozy a good un, just!"

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

HEY went away, Dick holding the boy by the hand. He did not in the least know what to do with the child. He had taken him away by an impulse, thinking of the great fun it would be to carry Polly's own child down to Market Basing, and present him to his mother. But for the present, he found himself in a comparatively respectable part of London, with a ragged little unwashed gamin on his hands, not knowing what to do next. It was altogether an embarrassing position.

"As for the boy," he thought, looking down at the little mite holding his hand, I suppose he must be washed and dressed. But who's to do it? And as for Polly-upon my word, Polly, there's a heavy reckoning against you. I suppose I must go and find a lawyer. Bill, my boy, you're dirty, you know, and ragged-where shall we go to get you washed ?" "Dunno. Never was washed."

“Well, then, where can we go to get some new clothes?" "Dunno. Never had no new clothes. I say, you go to the pawnbroker's-that's the place," said Bill, speaking from his own experience, and brightening up a little.

Dick stopped a policeman, who stared at the child with hungry eyes, apparently disappointed at finding that he was not to run him in."

Bill howled dismally at the sight of the embodiment of civil power.

"I ain't done nothink," he cried, trying to escape.

"Comes of a bad lot, sir, I'm afraid; but he's never been in trouble yet."

Z

"I want to get the boy washed and dressed. In fact," Dick explained, "I am going to take him away, and bring him up respectably."

The policeman's face brightened.

"Are you now, sir? I'm very glad to hear that, very glad indeed. They'll do what you want for you at a public-house I know, not far off. I'm just off my beat, and will go with you. So you're going to take him off the streets, are you? Well, now, that's good of you-that's real goodness and charity. The boy's got no belongings; living at an old woman's-ah, you know. If you can afford to spend the money—it is not much to rich people-take more than one. They're growing up here by hundreds. Take as many as you can afford, and put 'em to school. It'll cost money, because school ain't everything. Don't give to missionary societies and rubbish. They do tell me that three-quarters of a million a year is sent out to convert the blacks. Do you know, sir, how many boys and girls that would provide for? Fifty thousand, sir. Think of that. My son, who's a scholar, totted it up for me. Fifty thousand! If the rich people round London only knew what was inside it, they'd be frightened. I tell you what, sir, if things is going on like this, they'll have something to be frightened about, for the roughs are getting most too strong for us. There'll be an ugly rush some day, you'll see. people won't do anything without societies. Well, sir, if you've got money, you get up a society for rich people taking children and bringing them up respectable-to be sailors and soldiers, and even-ah! ah! and why not?-even the police force, if they've got the brains."

But

"I will," said Dick, "if ever I do start a society-which isn't likely."

"None of your institutions, and refuges, and penitentiaries, and reformatories, and foolishness, sir. You go in for a society where the people are going to look after the children themselves, and not send them out into the world with a ticket all the rest of their lives. Who's going to get over being a reformatory boy? I hav'n't got patience with it. What I says to rich people is--don't talk about doing good, and don't belong to societies, but come down here. I'll talk to 'em; and pick out a boy and a girl, or half a dozen boys and girls, and have 'em taught, and washed, and kept respectable, and it'll be the best ticket to get into heaven that they'll find anywhere. Here's the place, sir. I'll go in with you."

The policeman led the way, and explained what was wanted. The boy was undressed, still crying, and put into a warm bath, Dick looking on-he was so horribly thin that every rib stuck out like a skeleton's-and for the first time in his life, thoroughly scrubbed and washed. Then, the policeman having brought an intelligent man from a second-hand shop, with a small bundle of all sorts, he was speedily dressed in a garb which astonished and delighted him beyond measure. For it was the garb of a "swell." He put his hands into his pockets, and left off crying. "Whacking" was not imminent, at any

rate.

"Now," said Dick, "let us have a good look at him.”

He put the boy on the table, and pulled his face back.

His eyes were blue, his nose was snub, his mouth thin and delicate, his chin sharp-pointed and clear, his hair so light as to be almost flaxen.

"Hum!" said Dick; "they can't say you are like me, anyhow. My hair's black, my nose is straight, my mouth is full, my chin is broad and square, like all the Mortiboys. And you're not too much like your mother either, except about the eyes."

Polly's eyes were a dark blue-an unusual colour, which this boy's had. For the rest, a mere shrimp of a boy-so small that you would not take him for more than seven; but a pretty, bright-faced child, now the dirt was taken off him, with the sharp expression that a London boy always has.

But somehow the boy, now he was dressed, had the look of a gentleman. There was no coarseness in his features or his expression; his eyes had a dreamy, far-off look, which is seldom seen in any but home-bred boys; his mouth was tremulous and sensitive. It was only when he spoke that his street education showed itself.

Dick paid for his accommodation at the public-house, thanked his friend the policeman, and took his prize away with him. "How old are you, Bill ?"

"Ten next January."

66 Did you hear us talking about your mother just now?" "Yes; but I never seen her."

"Would you like to see her ?"

"Not if she's like Mother Kneebone. I'd rather stay with you."

"Suppose, Bill, you were to stay with me, and you were to see a woman called Polly Tresler?"

"That's her name?"

"Yes. And suppose she were to ask you questions, do you think you'd let out anything about Mother Kneebone ?"

Bill looked up sharply.

"I'm fly," he said.

do."

"I won't let out nothink. Dam if I

"I say, young 'un, don't say dam again, because the swells never do that till they're grown up. It isn't wicked then, I suppose."

At his lodgings, Lafleur was waiting for him.

"What have you here, Dick-what new game is on ?" "Only a little game of euchre with a woman. And this is the Right Bower, though he don't look like it. I'm going to win it the stakes are worth having, I can tell you."

"You always win everything, though he certainly does not look much like a winning card. Give him something to eat." Dick rang the bell, and consigned the child to his landlady, with injunctions to give him plenty to eat and drink.

When he came home that night, at twelve, he found the boy curled up on the hearth-rug, sound asleep. He carried him into his bed-room, undressed him, and laid him in bed. Bill opened his eyes for a moment; but not understanding the position of things, thought it was a queer dream, and went sound off to sleep again.

In the morning, Dick found him still asleep. He had curled his lean arms round Dick's neck, and laid his little cheeks in Dick's big beard, thinking he was in bed with Thoozy.

"Poor little cuss!" said Dick.

That morning he went to a lawyer, one whose name he had heard from Mr. Battiscombe at Market Basing. To him he confided the whole story of his marriage and Polly's wicked goings-on.

They had a long consultation, after which Dick strode away with a lightened countenance.

Bill was washed and dressed ready for him when he came back. The landlady was also ready with a representation. The boy was not in the agreement, and the trouble he gave was to be considered. Dick considered it. Then she begged to call Mr. Mortiboy's attention to the language in which he expressed his ideas

66

Which," she said, "is truly awful. If I had my boys home from school, they shouldn't stay in the same house with him, not for gold."

She shook her finger at Bill, who looked at his protector to see whether he was going to be "whacked." But Mr. Mortiboy only laughed.

"We shall cure him presently, I dare say. dinner as soon as you can, Hungry, Bill ?"

"I'm allus hungry," said the boy.

Bring him his

When his dinner came, which was also Dick's luncheon, Bill made a rush at the dish as soon as the cover was taken off. Chops! He seized one in his fingers, and ran to a corner of the room, where he fell to tearing it with his teeth, after the manner of a menagerie tiger. The landlady pointed out this conduct to her tenant.

"That's the way he had his supper last night, sir. A regular little savage."

Dick nodded, and laughed. The woman retired. As she shut the door, the urchin, encouraged by the approving smiles of his patron, as he thought, performed a Catherine Wheel all round the room, with the bone of his mutton-chop in his mouth, finishing off with a "Houp-là!" as he had done the day before. Then he went back to his corner, and gnawed

the bone.

"Bill, take the bone out of your mouth, and sit down on that chair. Did you never sit down to table in your life?" "Eh ?"

"How did you get your dinner at Mrs. Kneebone's ?"

"Never had no dinner. Morning, mother made tea for herself, and sometimes I got some if Thoozy was able to get up. When Thoozy had rheumatics dreadful bad, so that he couldn't get up, I only got a bit of bread. Went out all day on the cadge. If I got nothink, old Mother Kneebone giv' me a whackin' and another bit of bread. When Thoozy was all right, I got on first-rate. Thoozy used to help hisself and me too.'

66

'Well, now you've got to learn manners."

Bill then received his first lesson in the usages of polite, society-in teaching him which, as it was a novel occupation Dick found the afternoon slip away pleasantly enough.

"Nobody ever taught you anything, I suppose ?"

"Only Thoozy. He used to read to me. He's awful clever --knows everything. He promised to learn me to read as soon as he could find time. Once I was took up by a lady and put to school. It was a Sunday, because the bells were ringing, and the swells going to church. There was a bun