Betsey would suppress a sigh, and say, “They are the son and daughter of my poor brother, who was a surgeon in the Navy—they are orphans. My brother died on the Gold Coast, and his poor wife soon followed him. She was delicate, and could not bear up against the shock. The poor things have only us to look to, and we do for them what little lies in our power.”
This last stroke was a climax. “She never mentioned them before!” thought the ladies. “What delicacy! What high feeling! These are not common beggars, who make an exaggerated statement of their griefs.”
“Miss Thirlbrook, I am sure you will pardon me for making the offer; but those dear children upstairs do not look strong. I hope you will not be offended by my offering to send them a luncheon now and then—a few delicacies—nourishing things—to do them good.”
Miss Betsey would curtsey, lower her eyelids, and say, softly, “They are not strong.”
“I’ll send my servant as soon as I get home. Pray use this trifle for the present,” (the lady would take out her purse,) “and good morning, Miss Thirlbrook. I must shake hands with you. I consider myself fortunate in having made your acquaintance.”
Betsey’s eyes would fill with tears, and as she held the door open, the expression of her face would plainly say: “Not only for myself, oh dear and charitable ladies, but for my father—my poor father—who was wounded, at Barossa, in the leg—do I thank you from the depths of a profoundly grateful heart.”
When the basket arrived, Miss Betsey would sit down with her worthy parents and enjoy whatever poultry or meat had not been touched; but anything that had been cut, anything “second-hand,” that dainty and haughty young lady would instruct her sister Kitty to give to the poor beggars.
This system of swindling could not, of course, last many years, and when the west end of London became too hot to hold them, the indefatigable Kaggses put an advertisement into the Times and Morning Post, addressed to the charitable and humane, saying that “a poor, but respectable family, required a small sum to enable them to make up the amount of their passage to Australia, and that they could give the highest references as to character.”
The old certificates were hawked about, and for more than two years they drove a roaring trade in money, outfits, and necessaries for a voyage. Mr. Kaggs, too, made a fortunate hit. He purchased an old piano, and raffled it at five shillings a head. Each of his own family took a chance. At the first raffle Miss Betsey won it, at the second, Miss Kitty, on the third, Mr. Kaggs, on the fourth, his faithful partner, and on the fifth and last time, a particular friend of Miss Kitty’s, a young lady in the green-grocery line. This invaluable piece of furniture was eventually disposed of by private contract to a dealer in Barret’s Court, Oxford Street, and, a few days after, the Kaggs family really sailed for Melbourne, and I have never since heard of them.