Читать книгу: «Karl Krinken, His Christmas Stocking», страница 3

“‘What would you like if you were hungry?’ replied her mother.

“‘O I should like some bread,’ said Nanny, ’and I guess the little girl would, too. But all those loaves are too big.’

“‘How would these do?’ said the baker, taking some rolls out of a drawer.

“‘O they’re just the thing!’ said Nanny, ’and I like rolls so much. May I take one sir? and is a cent enough to pay for it?’

“The baker gave a queer little shake of his head, and searching below the counter for a bit of wrapping-paper he laid the two largest rolls upon it.

“‘A cent is enough to pay for two,’ he said. ‘Shall I tie them up for you?’

“‘No thank you sir; you needn’t tie it—if you’ll only wrap them up a little. Mamma,’ said Nanny, turning again to her mother, ‘I’m afraid that poor little girl don’t know that ‘the silver and gold are the Lord’s,’ and she’ll only think that I gave it to her.’

“‘You can tell her, Nanny, that everything we have comes from God,’ said her mother; and they left the shop.”

“What a nice little girl!” said Carl. “I think I should like to marry that little girl when I grow up—if I was good enough.”

“The baker went right into the back room,” continued the red cent, “to tell the story to his wife, and I was left to my own reflections on the counter; but I had reason to be well satisfied, for it was certainly the largest cent’s worth I had ever bought in my life. But while I lay there thinking about it, a boy came into the shop; and seeing me, he caught me up and ran out again. At least he was running out, when he tripped and fell; and, as I am noted for slipping through people’s fingers, I slipped through his, and rolled to the furthest corner of the shop. There I lay all night; and in the morning when the baker’s boy was sweeping the floor, he found me and put me in the till, for he was honest. But just then Mr. Krinken came in with a string of fish, and the careless creature gave me with some other change for a parcel of miserable flounders. That’s the way I came here.”

“Why was he a careless boy?” said Carl. “I think he was very careful, to find you at all.”

“O because I didn’t want to quit the baker, I suppose,” said the red cent. “And I don’t like the smell of fish, anyhow—it don’t agree with me.”

“You won’t smell much of it when I’ve kept you awhile in my purse,” said Carl. “I’ll take good care of you, red cent, and I won’t spend you till I want to.”

The next day Carl had tired himself with a run on the sands. He used to tuck up his trowsers as high as they would go, and wade slowly in through the deepening water, to pick up stones and shells and feel the little waves splash about his legs. Then when a bigger wave than usual came rolling in, black and high, to break further up on the shore than the other great waves did, Carl would run for it, shouting and tramping through the water, to see if he could not get to land before the breaker which came rolling and curling so fast after him. Sometimes he did; and sometimes the billow would curl over and break just a little behind him, and a great sea of white foam would rush on over his shoulders and maybe half hide his own curly head. Then Carl laughed louder than ever. He didn’t mind the wetting with salt water. And there was no danger, for the shore was very gently shelving and the sand was white and hard; and even if a big wave caught him up off his feet and cradled him in towards the shore, which sometimes happened, it would just leave him there, and never think of taking him back again; which the waves on some beaches would certainly do.

All this used to be in the summer weather; at Christmas it was rather too cold to play tag with the breakers in any fashion. But Carl liked their company, and amused himself in front of them, this sunny December day, for a long time. He got tired at last, and then sat himself flat down on the sand, out of reach of the water, to rest and think what he would do next. There he sat, his trowsers still tucked up as far as they would go, his little bare legs stretched out towards the water, his curls crisped and wetted with a dash or two of the salt wave, and his little ruddy face, sober and thoughtful, pleasantly resting, and gravely thinking what should be the next play. Suddenly he jumped up, and the two little bare feet pattered over the sand and up on the bank, till he reached the hut.

“What ails the child!” exclaimed Mrs. Krinken.

But Carl did not stop to tell what. He made for the cupboard, and climbed up on a chair and lugged forth with some trouble, from behind everything, a clumsy wooden box. This box held his own treasures and nobody else’s. A curious boxful it was. Carl soon picked out his Christmas purse; and without looking at another thing shut the box, pushed it back, swung to the cupboard door, and getting down from his chair ran back, purse in hand, the way he came, the little bare feet pattering over the sand, till he reached the place where he had been sitting; and then down he sat again just as he was before, stretched out his legs towards the sea, and put the purse down on the sand between them.

“Now purse,” said he, “I’ll hear your story. Come,—tell.”

THE STORY OF THE PURSE

“I don’t feel like story-telling,” said the purse. “I have been opening and shutting my mouth all my life, and I am tired of it.”

The purse looked very snappish.

“Why you wouldn’t be a purse if you couldn’t open and shut your mouth,” said Carl.

“Very true,” said the other; “but one may be tired of being a purse, mayn’t one? I am.”

“Why?” said Carl.

“My life is a failure.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Carl.

“It means that I never have been able to do what I was meant to do, and what I have all my life been trying to do.”

“What’s that?” said Carl.

“Keep money.”

“You shall keep my cent for me,” said Carl.

“Think of that! A red cent! Anything might hold a red cent. I am of no use in the world.”

“Yes, you are,” said Carl,—“to carry my cent.”

“You might carry it yourself,” said the purse.

“No, I couldn’t,” said Carl. “My pockets are full.”

“You might lose it, then. It’s of no use to keep one cent. You might as well have none.”

“No, I mightn’t,” said Carl; “and you’ve got to keep it: and you’ve got to tell me your story, too.”

“Maybe you’ll lose me,” said the purse. “I wish your mother had.”

“No, I sha’n’t lose you,” said Carl; and he lifted up his two legs on each side of the purse and slapped them down in the sand again;—“I sha’n’t lose you.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said the purse.

“Were you ever lost?” said Carl.

“Certainly I was.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“That’s the end of my story—not the beginning.”

“Well, make haste and begin,” said Carl.

“The first place where I was settled was in a big fancy-store in London,” the purse began.

“Where were you before that?” said Carl.

“I was in one or two rooms where such things are made, and where I was made.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I wasn’t a purse before that. I wasn’t anywhere.”

“What are you made of?” said Carl shortly.

“I am made of sealskin, the sides, and my studs and clasp are silver.”

“Where did the sides and the clasp come from?”

“How should I know?” said the purse.

“I didn’t know but you did,” said Carl.

“I don’t,” said the purse.

“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that big shop?”

“I did nothing. I lay in a drawer, shut up with a parcel of other purses.”

“Were they all sealskin, with silver clasps?”

“Some of them; and some were morocco and leather, with steel clasps.”

“I’m glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—“you look very bright.”

For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone again.

“I feel very dull now,” said the purse. “But in those days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome. My sides were a beautiful bright red.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit now.”

“That’s because I have been rubbed about in the world till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse, and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”

“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl.

“If you don’t shut up, I will,” said the purse.

“I won’t,” said Carl. “And you’ve got to go on.”

“The next place I was in was a gentleman’s pocket.”

“How did you get there?”

“He came to buy a purse, and so a number of us were thrown out upon the counter, and he looked at us and tried us, and bought me and put me in his pocket.”

“What did you do there?”

“There my business was to hold guineas and half-guineas, and crowns and half-crowns, and all sorts of beautiful pieces of silver and gold.”

“And cents?” said Carl.

“Not such a thing. My master hadn’t any. He threw all his pennies away as fast as he got ’em.”

“Threw ’em where?” said Carl.

“Anywhere—to little boys, and beggars, and poor people, and gate-openers, and such like.”

“Why didn’t he keep ’em?”

“He had enough besides—gold and silver. He didn’t want pennies and halfpennies.”

“I wish you had kept some of them,” said Carl.

“I never had them to keep. I couldn’t keep but what he gave me, nor that either. He was always taking out and putting in.”

“Did he wear the red off?” said Carl.

“No. I didn’t stay long enough with him. He was travelling in some part of England with a friend, riding over a wide lonely plain one day; and they saw a little distance ahead a cow in the road, lying down, right across their path. ‘Stapleton,’ said my master, ‘let us clear that cow.’ ‘Can’t your servant do that?’ said Mr. Stapleton. ‘Do what?’ said my master. ‘Clear that beast from the road,’ said his friend. ‘Pshaw!’ said my master,—‘I mean, let us clear her at a bound. Leave her in quiet possession of the road, and we take an air-line over her back.’ ‘Suppose she took a stupid notion to get out of our way just as we are in hers?’ said Mr. Stapleton. ‘I don’t suppose anything of the kind,’ said my master; ‘we shall be too quick for her.’ With that they put spurs to their horses, but it happened that Mr. Stapleton’s horse got the start and was a little ahead. He cleared the cow well enough, but, unluckily it gave her an impression that just where she was it was a poor place to be; and she was throwing up her hind legs at the very minute my master came to take the leap. He was flung over and over, he and his horse, over and under each other—I don’t know how. I only know my master was killed.

“His friend and his servant picked him up and laid him by the roadside; and while Mr. Stapleton went full speed to the nearest town to get help, the other stayed behind to take care of his master, and do what could be done for him. But he very soon found that nothing could be done for him; and then, as nobody was in sight, he took the opportunity to do what he could for himself, by rifling his master’s pockets. He pulled out several things which I suppose he didn’t dare to keep, for he put them back again after a careful look at them, and after carefully taking off some seals from the watch-chain. I did not fare so well. He had me in his hands a long time, taking out and putting in silver and gold pieces,—afraid to keep too much, and not willing to leave a crown that might be kept safely; when a sudden step heard near, and the bursting out of a loud whistle, startled him. He jumped as if he had been shot; which was natural enough, as he was running a pretty good chance of getting hanged. I was dropped, or thrown behind him, in the grass; and before the countryman who came up had done asking questions, the horses of Mr. Stapleton and assistants were seen over the rising ground. They carried away my unfortunate first master, and left me in the grass.

“I knew I shouldn’t stay there long, but I was found sooner than I hoped. Before the evening had closed in, the sun was shining yet, I heard the tread of light feet,—somebody nearing the road and then crossing it. In crossing, this somebody came just upon me; and a kind sunbeam touching one of my silver points, I embraced the opportunity to shine as hard as I could. People say it is dangerous to have bright parts; I am sure I never found it out. I shone so she could not help seeing me. It was a girl about fifteen or sixteen years old: a slim figure, very tidy in her dress, with light brown hair nicely put back from her face; and her face a very quiet, sweet one. She looked at me, inside and out, looked up and down the road, as if to see where I had come from, and finally put me in her pocket. I was very glad nobody was in sight anywhere, for I knew by her face she would have given me up directly. She left the road then, and went on over the common, which was a wide, lonely, barren plain, grass-grown, and with here and there a bunch of bushes, or a low stunted tree. She was going after her cows, to bring them home; and presently, seeing them in the distance, she stood still and began to call them.”

“How did she call them?” said Carl.

“‘Cuff, cuff, cuff!’ That was while they were a good way off; when they came near,—‘Sukey’ and ‘Bessie,’ and ‘Jenny.’”

“And did they come when she called?”

“Left off eating as soon as they heard her; and then, when they had looked a little while to make sure it was she, they walked off slowly to come up to her.”

“How many cows were there?” said Carl.

“Sukey was a great black cow, and always marched first. Dolly was a beautiful red cow, and always was second. Three more came after her in a line, and when they got up with their little mistress she set off to go home, and the whole five of them followed gravely in order.

“The common was smooth and wide, not much broken with ups and downs and little footpaths—or cow-paths—tracking it in all directions. We wound along, my mistress and the cows, and I in my mistress’s pocket, through one and another of these; passing nothing in the shape of a house but a huge gloomy-looking building at some distance, which I afterwards found was a factory. A little way beyond this, not more than a quarter of a mile, we came to a small brown house, with one or two out-buildings. The house stood in a little field, and the outbuildings in another little field, close beside this one. Everything was small; house, and barn, and shed, and cow-field, and garden-field; but it was all snug, and neat, too.

“My little mistress—for she was slender, fair, and good, and such people we always call little–”

“But she wasn’t large, was she?” said Carl.

“She was not as large as if she had been grown up, but no more was she little for fifteen or sixteen. She was just right. She opened a gate of the barnyard, and held it while all the five cows marched slowly in, looking around them as if they expected to see some change made in the arrangements since they had gone out in the morning. But the old shed and manger stood just where they had left them, and Sukey stopped quietly in the middle of the barnyard and began to chew the cud, and Dolly and Bessie and Beauty took their stand in different places after her example; while Whiteface went off to see if she could find something in the mangers. She was an old cow that never had enough.”

“Was Beauty a handsome cow?” said Carl.

“No, she was the ugliest one of the whole set; one of her horns was broken, and the other lopped down directly over her left eye.”

“What was she called Beauty for, then?”

“Why, I heard say that she was a very pretty calf, and was named then in her youth; but when she grew older she took to fighting, and broke one of her horns, and the other horn bent itself down just in the wrong place. There is no knowing, while they are little, how calves or children will turn out.

“When their mistress had shut the gate upon the five cows, she opened another small gate in the fence of the field where the house stood; and there she went in, through two beds of roses and sweet herbs that were on each side of the narrow walk, up to the door. That stood open to let her in.

“It was the nicest place you ever saw. A clean scrubbed floor, with a thick coarse piece of carpet covering the middle of it; a dark wooden table and wooden chairs, nice and in their places, only one chair stood on the hearth, as if somebody had just left it. There was a big, wide, comfortable fire-place, with a fire burning in it, and over the fire hung a big iron tea-kettle, in the very midst of the flames, and singing already. On each side of the chimney brown wooden cupboards filled up the whole space from the floor to the ceiling. All tidy and clean. The hearth looked as if you might have baked cakes on it.

“The girl stood a minute before the fire, and then went to the inner door and called, ‘Mother!’

“A pleasant voice from somewhere said, ‘Here!’

“‘In the milk-room?’

“‘Yes!’

“And my little mistress went along a short passage—brown it was, walls, and floor, and all, even the beams overhead—to the milk-room; and that was brown, too, and as sweet as a rose.

“‘Mother, why did you put on the tea-kettle?’

“‘’Cause I wanted to have some tea, dear.’

“‘But I would have done it.’

“‘Yes, honey, I know. You’ve quite enough to do.’

“‘Look here what I’ve found, mother.’

“‘Can’t look at anything, daughter. Go along and milk and I will hear you at tea-time.’

“Then my little mistress took up the pails, and went out by another way, through another gate that opened directly into the cows’ yard; and there she stripped the yellow sweet milk into the pails, from every one of the five cows she had driven home. Not one of them but loved to be milked by her hand; they enjoyed it, every cow of them; standing quiet and sleepily munching the cud, except when now and then one of them would throw back her head furiously at some fly on her side; and then my mistress’s soft voice would say,—

“‘So, Beauty!’

“And Beauty was as good as possible to her, though I have heard that other people did not find her so.

“Mrs. Meadow took the milk-pails at the dairy door, and my mistress came back into the kitchen to get tea. She put up a leaf of the brown table and set a tray on it, and out of one of the cupboards she fetched two tea-cups and saucers; so I knew there were no more in the family. Then two little blue-edged plates and horn-handled knives, and the rest of the things; and when the tea was made she dressed up the fire, and stood looking at it and the tea-table by turns, till her mother showed herself at the door, and came in taking off her apron. She was the nicest-looking woman you ever saw.”

“She wasn’t as nice as my mother,” said Carl.

“Mrs. Krinken never was half so nice. She was the best-natured, cheerfullest, pleasantest-faced woman you could find, as bright as one of her own red apples.”

“Mine are bright,” said Carl.

“Yours are bright for Christmas, but hers were bright for every day. Everything about her was bright. Her spoons, and the apples, and the brass candlesticks, and the milk-pans, and the glass in the windows, and her own kind heart. The mother and daughter had a very cozy tea; and I was laid upon the table and my story told, or rather the story of my being found; and it was decided that I should remain in the keeping of the finder, whom her mother, by some freak of habit, rarely called anything but ‘Silky.’”

“What for?” said Carl.

“Maybe you’ll find out if you don’t ask so many questions,” said the purse snappishly. ‘It’s yours, Silky,’ Mrs. Meadow said, after looking at me and rubbing the silver mountings. ‘It’s odd such a handsome purse should have no money in it.’

“‘I’m not going to put it away out of sight, mother,’ said Silky; ‘I’m going to have the good of it. I’ll keep it to hold my milk-money.’

“‘Well, dear, here goes the first,’ said Mrs. Meadow;—‘here’s a silver penny I took for milk while you were after the cows.’

“‘Who came for it, mother?’

“‘Don’t know—a lady riding by—and she gave me this.’

“So a little silver coin was slipped into my emptiness, and my little mistress laid me on a shelf of the other cupboard, alongside of an old Bible. But she left the door a crack open; I could see them at work, washing up the tea-things, and then knitting and sewing upon the hearth, both of them by a little round table. By and by Mrs. Meadow took the Bible out and read, and then she and Silky kneeled down, close together, to pray. They covered up the fire after that, and shut the cupboard door, and went off to bed; and I was left to think what a new place I had come to, and how I liked it.

“It was a pretty great change. In my old master’s pocket I had kept company with wealth and elegance—the tick of his superb watch was always in my ear; now, on Mrs. Meadow’s cupboard shelf, I had round me a few old books, beside the Bible; an hour-glass; Mrs. Meadow’s tin knitting-needle case; a very illiterate inkstand, and stumpy clownish old pen; and some other things that I forget. There I lay, day and night; from there I watched my two mistresses at their work and their meals; from thence I saw them, every night and morning, kneel together and pray; and there I learned a great respect for my neighbour the Bible. I always can tell now what sort of people I have got among, by the respect they have for it.”

“My mother has one,” said Carl.

“Her great chest knows that,” said the purse. “I’ve been a tolerably near neighbour of that Bible for ten years; and it rarely gets leave to come out but on Sundays.”

“She reads it on Sunday,” said Carl.

“Yes, and puts it back before Monday. Mrs. Krinken means to be good woman, but these other people were good; there’s all the difference.

“My business was to lie there on the shelf and keep the milk-pennies, and see all that was going on. Silky sold the milk. The people that came for it were mostly poor people from the neighbouring village, or their children going home from the factory; people that lived in poor little dwellings in the town, without gardens or fields, or a cow to themselves, and just bought a penny’s worth, or a halfpenny’s, at a time—as little as they could do with. There were a good many of these families, and among them they took a pretty good share of the milk; the rest Mrs. Meadow made up into sweet butter—honest sweet butter, she called it, with her bright face and dancing eye; and everything was honest that came out of her dairy.

“The children always stopped for milk at night, when they were going home; the grown people, for the most part, came in the morning. After I had been on the cupboard shelf awhile however, and got to know the faces, I saw there was one little boy who came morning and evening too. In the morning he fetched a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth of milk, in a stout little brown jug; always the same brown jug; and always in the morning he wanted a halfpennyworth and in the evening a pennyworth. He was a small fellow, with a shock of red hair, and his face all marked with the small-pox. He was one of the poorest-looking that came. There was never a hat on his head; his trowsers were fringed with tags; his feet bare of shoes or stockings. His jacket was always fastened close up; either to keep him warm or to hide how very little there was under it. Poor little Norman Finch! That was his name.

“He had come a good many mornings. One day early, just as Mrs. Meadow and Silky were getting breakfast, his little red head poked itself in again at the door with his little brown jug, and ‘Please, ma’am,—a ha’penn’orth.’

“‘Why don’t you get all you want at once, Norman?’ said Silky, when she brought the milk.

“‘I don’t want only a ha’penn’orth,’ said Norman.

“‘But you’ll want a pennyworth to-night again, won’t you?’

“‘I’ll stop for it,’ said Norman, casting his eyes down into the brown jug, and looking more dull than usual.

“‘Why don’t you take it all at once, then?’

“‘I don’t want it.’

“‘Have you got to go back home with this before you go work?’

“‘No–I must go,’ said Norman, taking hold of the door.

“‘Are you going to the factory?’

“‘Yes, I be.’

“‘How will your mother get her milk?’

“‘She’ll get it when I go home.’

“‘But not this, Norman. What do you want this for?’

“‘I want it—She don’t want it,’ said the boy, looking troubled,—‘I must go.’

“‘Do you take it to drink at the factory?’

“‘No—It’s to drink at the factory—She don’t want it,’ said Norman.

“He went off. But as Silky set the breakfast on the table she said,—

“‘Mother, I don’t understand; I am afraid there is something wrong about this morning milk.’

“‘There’s nothing wrong about it, honey,’ said Mrs. Meadow, who had been out of the room; ‘it’s as sweet as a clover-head. What’s the matter?’

“‘O, not the milk, mother; but Norman Finch’s coming after it in the morning. He won’t tell me what it’s for; and they never used to take but a pennyworth a day, and his jug’s always empty now at night; and he said it wasn’t and it was to drink at the factory; and that his mother didn’t want it; and I don’t know what to think.’

“‘Don’t think anything, dear,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘till we know something more. We’ll get the child to let it out. Poor little creature! I wish I could keep him out of that place.’

“‘Which place, mother?’

“‘I meant the factory.’

“‘I don’t believe he can have a good home, mother, in his father’s house. I am sure he can’t. That Finch is a bad man.’

“‘It’s the more pity if it isn’t a good home,’ said Mrs. Meadow, ‘for it is very little he sees of it. It’s too much for such a morsel of a creature to work all day long.’

“‘But they are kind at the pin-factory, mother. People say they are.’

“‘Mr. Carroll is a nice man,’ said her mother. ‘But nine hours is nine hours. Poor little creature!’

“‘He looks thinner and paler now than he did six months ago.’

“‘Yes; and then it was winter, and now it is summer,’ said Mrs. Meadow.

“‘I wish I knew what he wants to do with that milk!’ said Silky.

“The next morning Norman was there again. He put himself and his jug only half in at the door, and said, somewhat doubtfully,—

“‘Please, ma’am, a ha’penn’orth?’

“‘Come in, Norman,’ said Silky.

“He hesitated.

“‘Come!—come in—come in to the fire; it’s chilly out of doors. You’re in good time, aren’t you?’

“‘Yes,—but I can’t stay,’ said the boy, coming in however, and coming slowly up to the fire. But he came close, and his two hands spread themselves to the blaze as if they liked it, and the poor little bare feet shone in the firelight on the hearth. It was early, very cool and damp abroad.

“‘I’ll get you the milk,’ said Silky, taking the jug;—‘you stand and warm yourself. You’ve plenty of time.’

“She came back with the jug in one hand and a piece of cold bacon in the other, which she offered to Norman. He looked at it, and then grabbed it, and began to eat immediately. Silky stood opposite to him with the jug.

“‘What’s this milk for, Norman?’ she said, pleasantly.

“He stopped eating and looked troubled directly.

“‘What are you going to do with it?’

“‘Carry it—home,’ he said, slowly.

“‘Now?—home now? Are you going back with it now?’

“‘I am going to take it to the factory.’

“‘What do you do with it there?’

“‘Nothing,’ said Norman, looking at his piece of bacon, and seeming almost ready to cry;—‘I don’t do nothing with it.’

“‘You needn’t be afraid to tell me, dear,’ Silky said, gently. ‘I’m not going to do you any harm. Does your mother know you get it?’

“He waited a good while, and then when she repeated the question, taking another look at Silky’s kind quiet face, he said half under his breath,—

“‘No—’

“‘What do you want it for, then, dear? I’d rather give it to you than have you take it in a wrong way.—Do you want it to drink?’

“Norman dropped his piece of bacon.

“‘No,’ he said, beginning to cry,—‘I don’t want it—I don’t want it at all!’—

“Silky picked up the bacon, and she looked troubled in her turn.

“‘Don’t cry, Norman,—don’t be afraid of me.—Who does want it?’

“‘Oh, don’t tell!—’ sobbed the child;—‘My little dog!—’

“‘Now don’t cry!’ said Silky.—‘Your little dog?’

“‘Yes!—my little dog,’—And he sighed deeply between the words.

“‘Where is your little dog?’

“‘He’s up yonder—up to the factory.’

“‘Who gave him to you?’

“‘Nobody didn’t give him to me. I found him.’

“‘And this milk is for him?’

“‘He wants it to drink.’

“‘Does your mother know you get it?’

“Norman didn’t answer.

“‘She don’t?’ said Silky. ‘Then where does the money come from, Norman?’ She spoke very gently.

“‘It’s mine,’ said Norman.

“‘Yes, but where do you get it?’

“‘Mr. Swift gives it to me.’

“‘Is it out of your wages?’

“Norman hesitated, and then said ‘Yes,’ and began to cry again.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Silky. ‘Sit down and eat your bacon. I’m not going to get you into trouble.’

“He looked at her again and took the bacon, but said he wanted to go.

“‘What for?—it isn’t time yet.’

“‘Yes—I want to see my little dog.’

“‘And feed him? Stop and tell me about him. What colour is he?’

“‘He’s white all over.’

“‘What’s his name?’

“‘Little Curly Long-Ears.’

“‘What do you call him?—all that?’

“‘I call him Long-Ears.’

“‘But why don’t you feed him at home, Norman?’

“‘He lives up there.’

“‘And don’t he go home with you?’

“‘No.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Father wouldn’t let him. He’d take him away, or do something to him.’

“Norman looked dismal.

“‘But where does he live?’

“‘He lives up to the factory.’

“‘But you can’t have him in the factory.’

“‘Yes, I have him,’ said Norman, ‘because Mr. Carroll said he was to come in, because he was so handsome.’

“‘But he’ll get killed in the machinery, Norman, and then you would be very sorry.’

“‘No, he won’t get killed; he takes care: he knows he mustn’t go near the ’chinery, and he doesn’t; he just comes and lies down where I be.’

“‘And does Mr. Swift let him?’

“‘He has to, ’cause Mr. Carroll said he was to.’

“‘But your money—where does it come from, Norman?’

“‘Mr. Swift,’ said Norman, very dismally.

“‘Then doesn’t your mother miss it, when you carry home your wages to her?’

“‘No.’

“‘She must, my child.’

“‘She don’t, ’cause I carry her just the same I did before.’

“‘How can you, and keep out a ha’penny a-day?’

“‘’Cause I get more now—I used to have fourpence ha’penny, and now they give me fi’pence.’

“And Norman burst into a terrible fit of crying, as if his secret was out, and it was all up with him and his dog too.

“‘Give me the milk and let me go!’ he exclaimed through his tears. ‘Poor Curly!—poor Curly!’