Fanny: Does she miss a chance?
The child hitches her shoulder out of her ragged frock, and our Reporter sees on the poor thin back, the bladebones of which stick up like knives, the marks of welts and bruises. There is room in our literature for another kind of book on “The Mothers of England” than that written by a celebrated authoress many years ago. Fanny’s poor little back is black and blue, and when our Reporter, with gentle finger, touches one of the bruises, the child quivers with pain.
Our Reporter: Altogether, Fanny, your life is not a rosy one?
Fanny: O, I ’ave lots of larks with the boys! And I’ve got some ’air.
Our Reporter (very much puzzled): Some what?
Fanny: Some ’air. I’ll show yer.
She jumps from her chair, creeps under the bed, and emerges presently, her face flushed and excited, with something wrapped in a piece of old newspaper. She displays her treasure to our astonished Reporter. It is a chignon, apparently made of tow, which she fixes proudly on her head. The colour is many shades lighter than Fanny’s own hair, which is a pretty dark brown, but that is of the smallest consequence to the child, who evidently believes that the chignon makes a woman of fashion of her.
Fanny: I wears it on Sundays, when I goes to the Embankment. Mother don’t know I’ve got it. If she did, she’d take it from me, and wear it ’erself. I say—ain’t it splendid, the Embankment?
Our Reporter: It is a fine place, Fanny. So you have larks with the boys?
Fanny: Yes. We goes to the play on the sly. ’Tain’t a month ago since Bob the Swell comes and ses, “Fanny, wot do yer say to goin’ and seein’ ‘Drink’ at the Princesses? Give us a kiss, and I’ll treat yer!” My! I was ready to jump out of my skin! He ’ad two other gals with ’im. He ses, ses Bob, “This is a lady’s party. It’s a wim of mine”—I don’t know wot he means by that, but he ses—“it’s a wim of mine. I wos allus a lady’s man, wosn’t I, Fan?” (And he is, a regular one!) “I’ve got three young women to my own cheek, all a-growin’ and a-blowin’! Let’s trot.” Wot a night we ’ad! He takes us to a ’Talian ice-shop in Williers Street, and we ’as penny ices, and then we goes to the Princesses—to the best part of the theaytre, ’igh up, where you can look down on all the other people. ’Ave you seen ‘Drink?’ Prime—ain’t it? But I shouldn’t like to be one o’ them gals as throws pails of water over each other. And when Coop-o falls from the scaffoldin’—ain’t it nacheral! I almost cried my eyes out when he was ’aving dinner with ’is little gal. Then he gits the trembles, and goes on awful. I never seed one so bad as that! When the play’s over Bob takes us to a pub’——