“Afraid of being taken up! Why, what could they take up a spalpeen like you for?”
“Poaching,” replied Joey; “father poached too: they had proof against me, so I came away with father’s consent.”
“Poaching! well, I’m not surprised at that, for if ever it was in the blood, it is in yours—that’s truth. And what do you mean to do now?”
“Anything I can to earn my bread.”
“What can you do—besides poaching, of course? Can you read and write?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Would you like to be a servant—clean boots, brush clothes, stand behind a cab, run messages, carry notes, and hold your tongue?”
“I could do all that, I think—I am twelve years old.”
“The devil you are! Well then, for your father’s sake, I’ll see what I can do for you, till you can do better. I’ll fit you out as a tiger, and what’s more, unless I am devilish hard up, I won’t sell you. So come along. What’s your name?”
“Joey.”