I’m afeared of going up the chimbley,” explained the urchin. “Sometimes there’s rats—big, fierce ’uns!”
She shuddered. “And he forces you to do so—like that?”
“They most of ’em does,” said the urchin, accepting life as he found it.
She held out her hand. “Let me see! I will not hurt you.” He looked wary, but after a moment appeared to consider that she might be speaking the truth, for he allowed her to take one of his feet in her hand. He was surprised when he saw that tears stood in her eyes, for in his experience the gentler sex was more apt to beat one with a broom-handle than to weep over one.
“Poor child, poor child!” Arabella said, a break in her voice. “You are so thin, too! I am sure you are half-starved! Are you hungry?”
“I’m allus hungry,” he replied simply.
“And cold too!” she said. “No wonder, in those rags! It is wicked, wicked! ” She jumped up, and, grasping the bell pull that hung beside the fireplace, tugged it violently.
The urchin uttered another of his frightened whimpers, and said: “Ole Grimsby’ll beat the daylights out of me! Lemme go!”
“He shan’t lay a finger on you!” promised Arabella, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkling through, the tears they held.
The urchin came to the conclusion that she was soft in her head. “Ho!” he remarked bitterly, “youdon’ know ole Grimsby! Nor you don’ know his ole woman! Broke one of me ribs he did, onct!”