“No, no; stop!” cried the doctor, and he caught hold of the boy by the collar. “Confound you, sir: are you full of quicksilver!”
“No. It’s skilly,” said the boy, “and I ain’t full now I’m ever so hungry.”
The doctor held him tightly, for he was just off again.
Helen Grayson tried to look serious, but was compelled to hold her handkerchief before her mouth, and hide her face; but her eyes twinkled with mirth, as her father turned towards her, and sat rubbing his stiff grey hair.
The doctor’s plan of bringing up a boy chosen from the workhouse had certainly failed, she thought, so far as this lad was concerned; and as the little prisoner stood tightly held, but making all the use he could of his eyes, he said, pointing to a glass shade over a group of wax fruit—
“Is them good to eat!”
“No,” said Helen, smiling.
“I say, do you have skilly for breakfast!”
“I do not know what skilly is,” replied Helen.
“Then, I’ll tell you. It’s horrid. They beats up pailfuls of oatmeal in a copper, and ladles it out. But it’s better than nothing.”