"Mister," said the half frightened child, who took me at the first glance for a detective in plain clothes—and by the way, it seems as if every poorly clad and hungry man and woman in London were suspicious of the police, for the reason that they are poorly clad, and for that reason alone—
"I GETS IT FOR CIGAR STUMPS."
"Mister," said the hungry child, whose face was prematurely aged, "I aint doing nothink; I was only grabbing the crusts for porridge."
"For porridge,—how do you make the porridge, my lad?"
"My mother—she is down in Milbank street, and has got the small pox, but before she was sick she used to bile the crusts in hot water and put a pennorth o' oat meal in the pot. She borrowed the pot from Mrs. Clarke, she did."
"Who makes the porridge now, boy," said I to him.
"A gal—me big sister Mag—she makes ladies' shoes for a shop, and wacks me when she's mad and I aint got no money for gin. I likes porridge, and Mag she makes it so preshis 'ot. My name's Dick."