I jumped to my feet.
“My master—the sweep!” I cried.
“Certainly,” he replied stubbornly. “You were obviously the foundling of Providence, which has elected this honest tradesman to be your foster-father.”
“But, my mother?” I choked.
“It is her judgment,” he said, “to remain and mingle her weeping with the ashes of this sacrifice, in the hospital of which her crimes have made her an inmate.”
He had listened with his elbows, as I supposed. I recognised the hopelessness of my task.
“Very well,” I said. “I daresay he has finished with the steward by now. I will go and tell him what you say”—and I made for the chimney.
He was after me in a moment, at a gallop.
“Stop!” he cried. “What do you mean? That your master was one of this rabble?”
“One? The worst of them all,” I answered. “It was he knocked down the poor grey gentleman; and the last I heard of him was crying for you.”