“Parton?—well,” began the porter, in a doubtful voice; but little Billy was up in a moment: “Yes, here they are! here’s where we live!” shouted he, and the next minute the shed was entered by the gentleman and his son whom I had seen at the Zoological Gardens.
The father almost started as he glanced round the miserable place, and the look of pity on his face deepened into one of pain, while Neddy appeared even more shocked. He had, I suspect, known little of poverty, but by hearsay; and the bare, terrible reality took him by surprise.
Bob had risen from the heap of dirty rubbish which served him for a bed. His thin cheek glowed with a bright flush of pleasure as he recognised his benefactor.
“Is it possible that you live here?—sleep here?” exclaimed the gentleman; “exposed in this wretched shed, without a fire, to all the severity of winter?”
Bob attempted to speak, but was stopped by his cough. Billy, who was at all times more talkative and ready to reply, answered, “Yes, we lives here, and sleeps here too, when the cold don’t keep us awake!”
“And does no one ever come to visit you?”
“No one but the rats!” replied the child.
“The rats!” exclaimed Neddy, with a gesture of horror and disgust, which irritated my vanity not a little. Oddity had none, so he looked tranquil as usual.
“Oh, papa!” cried Neddy, “they must not stay here; this horrible hole is only fit for rats!”
His father was bending over Bob, feeling his wrist, asking him questions regarding his health, with a gentle kindness which goes farther to win confidence and affection than the cold bestowal of the greatest benefits.