Shall we wake him out of his glorious vision? Nay; let him slumber on. He will open his eyes soon enough upon the realities of this sober empire at the Antipodes. [[139]]
A CROOKED SIXPENCE.
Patter, patter, splash, splash, drip, drip, fell the rain on the housetops, down the waterspouts, and along the narrow streets of the New South Wales capital. A dismal evening to be abroad; the fierce wind playing antic tricks with the people returning home from work, by driving the rain full in their faces, turning their umbrellas inside out, and compelling many to seek temporary shelter beneath verandahs and the projecting gables of high buildings.
The tempest of wind and rain didn’t appear to trouble a small, dirty-looking urchin who had taken up his quarters in a sheltered nook at the corner of one of the main thoroughfares of the city, and where he crouched, watching the vehicles, with their gleaming lamps, dash onward through the mud and wet. The poor child’s clothes would have suited a warmer temperature than the keen wind and rain; but he indulged in an occasional short run beneath the portico to keep his blood [[140]]in circulation. It was while taking his trot to and fro that the boy’s attention was attracted by the stoppage of an omnibus, which drew close up to the curb to allow an old gentleman to alight therefrom. He was a portly old fellow, buttoned up in a portly overcoat, and he carried a portly umbrella. The boy noted this by the light of the gas lamp as the passenger went by him, and he also noted a small dark object lying on the wet pavement, not a yard away, that was not there before.
“Hallo! What’s this? A pocket-book with money in it. That gentleman who passed has lost it. Hi, sir, hi!” And away ran the urchin in pursuit of the elderly gentleman. The little fellow overtook him, after a good chase against the pelting rain, which soaked his thin garments through and through. “I say, sir, hi!”
“Be off, boy! I never give to beggars,” said the old gentleman, turning round upon the lad briskly.
“I ain’t a beggar,” answered the little fellow with spirit. “I ran after you to know if yer lost anything just now.”
“Lost! lost! not a——I say, by Jove! you—you don’t mean to——why, if it is not gone, and I would not lose it for——”
The actions of the portly gentleman were [[141]]somewhat singular. He first passed his hand hastily over the breast of his buttoned-up coat, then he threw down his open umbrella on the pavement—which the wind carried away in a moment—tore open his clothing violently, and dived into the recesses of a capacious inner pocket. Then he began a frenzied sort of war-dance in front of the boy. “I had it in my hand not ten minutes since,” he cried excitedly; “and I can swear to it before the Mayor and all the J. P.’s in the colony. Mark that.”