Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways. Meade L. T.

see mother – just there, acrost our bed and Jenks’ – standin’ and a shakin’ her ’ead.”

      “Why, ef she were I couldn’t see,” said Flo. “It be as dark as dark, – I couldn’t see nothink ef I was to look ever so.”

      “Oh yes, you could,” said Dick, “you could see ghosts, and mother’s a ghost. I seed ghosts at the gaff, and them is hall in wite, with blue lights about ’em. Ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you could see, Flo.”

      “Well, I ’as ’em open,” said Flo, “and I tell you there ain’t no ghosts, nor nothink.”

      “Are you sure?” asked Dick.

      “No doubt on it,” responded Flo encouragingly. “Mother ain’t yere, mother’s in ’er grave, ’avin’ a good time, and restin’ fine.”

      “Are you quite sure?” persisted Dick. “Are you quite sartin as she ain’t turnin’ round in ’er corfin, and cryin’?”

      “Oh no; she’s restin’ straight and easy,” said Flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case.

      “Then she don’t know, Flo?”

      “It ain’t reached ’er yet, I ’spect,” said Flo. Then hastening to turn the conversation —

      “Wot was it as you took, Dick?”

      “A purse,” said Dick.

      “A purse full o’ money?” questioned Flo.

      “There was six bobs and a tanner,” said Dick, “and Jenks said as I did it real clever.”

      “That was wot bought us the ’ot roasted goose,” continued Flo.

      “Yes. Jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should ’ave a rare treat. They cost three bobs, that ’ere goose and taters. I say, worn’t they jist prime?”

      “’Ave you any more o’ that money?” asked Flo, taking no notice of this last query.

      “Yes, I ’ave a bob and I ’ave the purse. Jenks said as I was to have the purse, and I means the purse for you, Flo.”

      “You needn’t mean it for me, then,” said Flo, raising her gentle little voice, “fur I’d rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you ’as got to give back that ’ere bob to Jenks, Dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won’t neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. I thought as you was sorry, Dick, when I heard you cryin’, but no, you ain’t, and you ’ave furgot mother, that you ’ave.”

      At these words Dick burst out crying afresh. Flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise.

      “No, I ’aven’t forgot, Flo – I be real orfle sorry.”

      “You won’t never do it again?”

      “No.”

      “And you’ll give back the purse and bob to Jenks, and tell ’im yer’ll ’ave no more to do wid ’is way?”

      “Oh! I doesn’t know,” said Dick, “’ee would be real hangry.”

      “Very well,” replied Flo; “good-night to you, Dick. I ain’t goin’ to sleep ’long of a thief,” and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler’s stool.

      But this proposal filled Dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him.

      “’Zactly wot I ses?” asked Flo.

      “Yes, Flo, I’ll stick fast to you and never funk.”

      “You’ll translate the old boots and shoes wid me fur the next week?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you’ll break orf wid Jenks, and be his pardener no more?”

      “Yes,” with a sinking heart.

      “Werry well – good-night.”

      “But, Flo,” after a long pause, “is you sure as mother isn’t ris from her grave?”

      “No, I’m not sure,” answered Flo slowly, “but I thinks at the most, she ’ave on’y got a sort o’ a wake, and I thinks, Dick, ef you never, never is a thief no more, as mother’ll ’ave a good longish rest yet.”

      Chapter Five

      Jenks Passes his Word

      But Flo knew even better than her little brother that it would be easier for Dick to steal the second time than the first.

      Very few boys and girls she had ever heard of, none indeed, had left off prigging from stalls, and snatching from bakers’ shops, and thrusting their hands into old gentlemen’s pockets, when once they had begun to do so.

      Not punishment, not even prison, could break them. They had their time of confinement, and then out they came, with more thieving propensities than ever.

      Her mother had told her stories upon stories of what these children, who looked some of them so innocent, and began in this small way, had ended with – penal servitude for life – sometimes even the gallows.

      She had made her hair stand on end with frightful accounts of their last days in the murderers’ cells – how day and night the warder watched them, and how when being led out to execution they passed in some cases over their own graves.

      And children once as innocent as Flo and Dick had come to this.

      Now Flo knew that as mother had not appeared the first time Dick stole, she might not the second, and then he would gradually cease to be afraid, and learn to be a regular thief.

      The only chance was to save him from temptation, to part him from Jenks.

      Flo liked Jenks very much – he had a bright way about him, he was never rough with her, but, on the contrary, had not only helped to keep the pot boiling, but had cobbled vigorously over her old boots and shoes, when he happened to come home in time in the evenings.

      Still, nice as he was, if he was a thief, and they meant never to be thieves, the sooner they parted company the better.

      She knew well that Dick would never have courage to say to Jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers.

      Accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light Jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, Flo, rising softly, for fear of waking Dick, followed him.

      “Jenks,” she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, “I wants fur to speak to you.”

      Jenks turned round with merry eyes.

      “I’m yer ’umble servant, my Lady, the Hearl’s wife,” he said, with a mock bow to Flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. “Why, wot hever ails you, young ’un? You is all of a tremble. Come along and ’ave a drop of ’ot coffee at the stalls.”

      “No, Jenks, I doesn’t want to. Jenks, I come fur to say as you, and me, and Dick mustn’t be pardeners no more. You mustn’t come no more to this yere cellar, Jenks.”

      Jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone.

      “My Lady, you is alwis werry perlite – you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too ’igh and mighty to speak to a chap. Might a poor and ’umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin’ as to tell ’im the reason of this ’eart-breakin’ horder.”

      Here Jenks pretended to whimper.

      “Yes, Jenks, I’ll tell you,” said Flo; “’tis because Dick and me isn’t never goin’ to be thiefs, Jenks. Dick did prig the