There was a boy I came to know when I was living in the East End of
London. He was not a nice boy by any means. He was not quite so clean
as are the good boys in the religious magazines, and I have known a
sailor to stop him in the street and reprove him for using indelicate
language.
He and his mother and the baby, a sickly infant of about five months old,
lived in a cellar down a turning off Three Colt Street. I am not quite
sure what had become of the father. I rather think he had been
"converted," and had gone off round the country on a preaching tour. The
lad earned six shillings a week as an errand-boy; and the mother stitched
trousers, and on days when she was feeling strong and energetic would
often make as much as tenpence, or even a shilling. Unfortunately, there
were days when the four bare walls would chase each other round and
round, and the candle seem a faint speck of light, a very long way off;
and the frequency of these caused the family income for the week to
occasionally fall somewhat low.
One night the walls danced round quicker and quicker till they danced
away altogether, and the candle shot up through the ceiling and became a
star and the woman knew that it was time to put away her sewing.
"Jim," she said: she spoke very low, and the boy had to bend over her to
hear, "if you poke about in the middle of the mattress you'll find a
couple of pounds.
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