“Please give me a bit, good gentleman,” said a whining voice at his elbow. “I’m so hungry, please, sir. Arn’t had nothing since yes’day morning, sir.”
Frank turned sharply, to see that a ragged-looking street boy, whom he had passed lying apparently asleep on the grass a few minutes before, was standing close by, hugging himself with his arms, and holding his rags as if to keep them from slipping off his shoulders. He wore a dismally battered cocked hat which was a size too large for him, and came down to his ears over his closely cropped hair. His shirt was dirty and ragged, and his breeches and shoes were of the most dilapidated character, the latter showing, through the gaping orifices in front, his dirty, mud-encrusted toes.
Frank saw all this at a glance; but the poor fellow’s face took his attention most, for it was pitiable, thin, and careworn, and would have been white but for the dirt with which it was smudged.
Frank looked at him with sovereign contempt.
“So hungry that you can’t stoop down by the water’s edge to wash your filthy face and hands, eh?”
“Wash, sir?” said the lad piteously; “what’s the good? Don’t matter for such as me. You don’t know.”
“Miserable wretch!” thought Frank; “what a horribly degraded state for a poor fellow to be in.” Then aloud: “Here, which will you have—the biscuit or this?”
He held out a coin that would have bought many biscuits in one hand, the broken piece in the other.
“Biscuit, please, gentleman,” whined the lad. “I am so hungry, you don’t know.”
“Take both,” said Frank; and they were snatched from his hands.