"Here little Gip are, Dandy!"
The wind and rain beat against the window, and soaked through the paper that covered most of the panes. Down in the alley there was an unusual stillness. All at once he fancied he could hear Gip crying and wailing in the storm, and could see her toddling with her naked feet on the wet stones, with her damp hair hanging over her little face. What a many streets there were in London, with so many turnings! and Gip was lost among them, wandering about alone in the rain and the wind and the darkness, trying to find Sandy, and crying for him to come and carry her home again. He felt as though his heart would break at the mere thought of it.
It was only for a minute or two that Sandy lingered, for there was no time to lose. Then he crept very cautiously towards his sleeping mother, and felt carefully in her pocket. No; she had not come home till every penny was spent; neither had he a penny in the world.
But he carried away with him his stock of fusees; for he had made up his mind during that minute or two, that as soon as he found little Gip, he would bear her off to some distant part of London, and go home no more to their drunken mother. He felt almost triumphant when this plan crossed his mind, in spite of his deep distress. Gip would soon be old enough now to run by his side, and when she was tired, he would carry her; and they would live together in any hole or corner. He knew several, where, if he put Gip next to the wall, and lay outside himself, perhaps she would not feel the rain and cold so very much. Some of the other fusee boys would help him when they were in luck, and he would help them in his turn. One thing he was resolved upon—he would never go back to his mother again, never!
He went slowly down into the quiet alley, still hoping he might hear Gip cry from some dark corner.
He called to her, at first softly, then more and more loudly, until some of the neighbours opened their doors or windows, and asked what was the matter, and why he was making that row?
"Mother's been and lost Gip," he answered, catching at the hope that perhaps she was safely lodged in one of their dwellings; "is there anybody as has seen her? It is a awful night, fit to drown the cats as are out of doors, and she's sich a little gel. Mother's dead drunk, and doesn't know a word about her. Hasn't anybody seen little Gip?"
The women chattered to one another across the narrow alley about Nancy Carroll and her drunkenness, but not one of them knew anything of Gip, except that she had been seen with her mother going down into the street a little before dark. One or two hinted that maybe she had been made away with as a trouble, and Sandy's blood ran chill at the mere thought of such a terrible thing.
"No, no!" he cried. "Nobody 'ud have the heart to do that; she's sich a pretty little gel. No, no! Mother 'ud never do sich a thing as that; she'd be good to her at times, she would, when she were herself; and little Gip wasn't never a trouble."
"Drink 'ill make Nancy Carroll do anything!" said a sharp-voiced woman, who prided herself upon not getting drunk oftener than once a week, and then upon a Sunday, when business was slack.