"Where are your people?" he asked.
The lad stared at him.
"My people!"
"Your people," repeated Miser Farebrother. "Where you live, you know."
"Ain't got no people," said the lad. "Don't live nowhere."
"Listen to me, you young scoundrel," said Miser Farebrother, shaking a menacing forefinger at him; "if you're trying to impose upon me by a parcel of lies, you'll find yourself in the wrong box. As sure as I'm the master of this house, I'll have you locked up and fed upon stones and water for the rest of your life."
"I ain't trying to impose upon you," persisted the lad, speaking very earnestly; "I ain't telling you a parcel of lies. Look here, your honour, have you got a book?"
"What book?"
"I don't care what book—any book! Give it me, and I'll kiss it, and swear on it that I've told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"You'll have to tell something more of yourself before I've done with you. Where did you live before you lived nowhere?"