"You don't know, father! You're old enough to get your own living, and here you are passing your days in idleness and plenty. D'you see these!" He pulled some boxes of matches from his pocket.
"Yes, father."
"What are they?"
"Matches, father."
"Count 'em. D'you hear me? Count 'em." The child was reeling, and he shook her straight. "Count 'em."
"One--two--three--four--five--six."
"Six it is. Now, you've got to go out with these six boxes of matches, and bring home tenpence for 'em. How are you going to do it, eh?"
"I don't know, father."
"Don't give me any more of your don't knows. You've got no more sense than your mother; but I'm not going to let you grow up as idle and selfish as she is--not if I know it, I ain't. Stop your blubbering, and listen to me. You go to Charing Cross Station, you do, where all the lights are, and where everybody's happy. What are you shaking your head for?"
"I don't know--I mean, I can't find my way, father."