Volume I Part 3 (1/2)

'Yes, I tell you it is, and we must save it.'

The actress led the way to the bundle of rags. They were the only clothes of a little lad who, hatless and shoeless and s.h.i.+rtless, was lying on the ground-to be trampled on by horses or men, it seemed to matter little to him. To him approached the awfulness of respectability as embodied in the persons of the Mayor and the Vicar, but he never moved; he was too tired, too weak, too ill to rise. Half awake and half asleep there he lay, quite unconscious, as they looked in his face-thin with want, grimy with dirt, shaded with brown curling hair. Presently the lad got upon his legs with a view to running away-that's the invariable etiquette on the part of ragged boys in such cases-but it was too late. Already the enemy were on him. Holding his right hand across his brow so as to shade his eyes, he plucked up his courage and prepared for the encounter.

'Hulloa, you little ragam.u.f.fin, what are you up to here?' said the Mayor, in a tone which frightened the poor boy at once.

'Pray don't speak so, Mr. Mayor,' said the actress; 'you'll frighten the poor boy.'

'Dear madam,' said the august official, 'what are we to do?'

'Save the child.'

'Ah! that's easier said than done. Besides, what is the use of saving one? There are hundreds of such lads in Sloville, and we can't save 'em all.'

'Quite true,' said the Vicar, professionally shaking his head.

'What's the matter, my poor boy?' said the actress, as, heedless of the remarks of her companions, she stooped down to kindly pat the head of the little waif, who was at first too frightened to reply.

Slowly and reluctantly he opened his big blue eyes and stared, then he screwed up his mouth and began to cry.

'Come, my little man,' continued the actress, in her gentlest tone, 'tell us what is the matter with you.'

'Yes, tell the good lady what's the matter with you!' said the Vicar, who thought it was now high time for him to say something.

Even then the boy sulked. He was of a cla.s.s apparently for whom respectability has few kind words or looks, who, in this wicked world, get more kicks than half-pence. Respectability has quite enough to do to look after her own children, especially now that taxes and butchers'

bills and School Board rates, to say nothing of coals, run up to such formidable items, to give herself much trouble about the children of other people. I have myself little pity for the heartless vagabonds who bring children into existence merely that they may rot and die. Of the devilish cruelty of such fathers and mothers no tongue can give an adequate idea; hanging is too good for them. It is to them we owe the pauperism which, apparently, it is beyond the power of the State to cure.

I am sick of the cant ever uttered of population _versus_ property; one is born of self-denial, industry, foresight, all the qualities which we as a nation require, while population is too often the result of unspeakable vice or consummate folly, qualities against which it becomes the nation to set its face.

But I must not forget the actress. More tenderly and coaxingly she repeated the question. To the charm of that voice and manner resistance was impossible.

Swallowing the rising tear with a great effort, slowly opening his eyes and mouth at the same time, and looking terribly frightened all the while, the poor lad replied:

'Oh, ma'am, I've got such a pain in my head.'

'Of course you've got a headache, lying like that in the sun. Why don't you get away and run home?'

'I ain't got a home.'

'Then, what are you doing here?' said the Mayor.

'Nothin',' said the boy.

'So it seems,' said the Vicar.

'Where's your father?' asked the actress,

'I ain't got one.'

'Then, where's your mother?'

'Gone off with a tramp, and she took brother with her.'