"Hout yer gets," said Mr. Beale quickly; "walk as 'oppy as you can, and if they arsts you you say you ain't 'ad nothing to eat since las' night and then it was a bit o' dry bread."
"Right you are," said Dickie, enjoying the game.
"An' mind you call me father."
"Yuss," said Dickie, exaggerating his lameness in the most spirited way. It was acting, you see, and all children love acting.
Mr. Beale went more and more slowly, and as the lady and the little girl drew near he stopped altogether and touched his cap. Dickie, quick to imitate, touched his.
"Could you spare a trifle, mum," said Beale, very gently and humbly, "to 'elp us along the road? My little chap, 'e's lame like wot you see. It's a 'ard life for the likes of 'im, mum."
"He ought to be at home with his mother," said the lady.
Beale drew his coat sleeve across his eyes.
"'E ain't got no mother," he said; "she was took bad sudden—a chill it was, and struck to her innards. She died in the infirmary. Three months ago it was, mum. And us not able even to get a bit of black for her."
Dickie sniffed.