“Yes, marm. Do you know the place?” cried Alf, in a tone of evident anxiety.
“Not I, indeed, never heard of it before you mentioned the name. You street boys are a funny lot. After running about you cannot bear to be kept indoors, or be under any sort of control. It is natural it should be so, I suppose. Do you know how to read and write?”
“Ah, yes, marm, I can write pretty well, and as to reading I’m never tired of it; nothing pleases me better than an interesting book.”
“Indeed—I should have hardly thought you could have much time for reading.”
“I have not since I’ve been in London, but before I left the farmhouse I had lots of time every evening.”
“And what kind of books do you like best?”
“Those that have lots of shipwrecks or battles in them,” said Alf, quickly. “I love battles, and tales of pirates—those are my sort.”
The girl gave a murmur of assent or pleasure. It was like the purring of a tigress.
“And travellers who fight with lions, tigers, and all sorts of wild animals,” said the boy, in continuation. “And big knights, with polished armour, who kill dragons and rescue ladies. Oh, I can read anything of that sort. I like any book as makes me feel venturesome, but I hate them as keeps on talking and talking over nothing.”
The girl burst out in a loud laugh.