He had a vague notion that there was some one, somewhere, who could save the new-born baby from dying, as Tom and little Vic had died. In the streets he had seen numbers of rich babies, who did not want for anything, and whose cheeks were fat and rosy, not at all like the puny, wasted babies in the alley. But how it happened, whether it was simply because they were rich, or because there was somebody who could keep them alive, and cared more for them than for the poor, he could not tell. He had often watched them with longing eyes, and knew how pretty they looked in their blue or scarlet cloaks and white hoods, and he wished now with all his heart that he could find some one who would keep little Gipsy alive for him. He called the baby Gipsy to himself and others, and no one in the alley took any trouble to give her another name. What was the good of registering a baby that was sure to be dead in a short time?
Sandy's mother was up and about her business again in a few days. She earned her living, when she took the trouble to earn it, by going about as a costermonger, as most of her neighbours did. When she had enough strength of mind to save four or five shillings from the spirit-vault at the corner of the street, she would hire a barrow for a week, and lay in a stock of cheap fruit and vegetables, and Sandy would go with her to push it. But that was very occasionally; it was seldom that her strength of mind did not fail before the temptation of another and another dram.
Then Sandy was thrown upon his own resources, and gained a very scanty supply for his wants by selling fusees near the Mansion House, or any other crowded spot, where one in a thousand of the passers-by might see him, and by chance patronize him. Often, when there was no baby at home, he did not go there for weeks, but slept wherever he could find a shelter—in an empty cart, or under a tarpaulin; even without a shelter, if this could not be had.
If his mother came across him during these spells of wandering, the only proof of relationship she manifested was her demand for any and all of the halfpence he might have in his possession, and her diligent search among his rags for them. It was only when there was a baby that Sandy went home as regularly as the night fell, carrying with him a sticky finger of some cheap sweetmeat, which contained almost more of poison than of sugar.
Gip was left to his care even more than the other babies. By this time his mother had become too inveterate a drunkard to take much interest in her. Now and then she would bear her off in her arms to the spirit-vault, and come reeling back with her, to Sandy's great alarm. But in general she took no notice of Gipsy, and left the boy to tend her as well as he could. It was a good thing for the baby. Sandy carried her out of the foul air into the broader and opener streets, often lingering wistfully at a baker's window till he got a wholesome crust for her to nibble at.
His jacket continued to be almost the only clothing she had, and as the winter came on, he shivered with cold, till his benumbed arms could scarcely hold her. But that he bore without a murmur, for who was there to complain to? He had never known a friend to whom he could go and say, "I am hungry, and cold, and almost naked."
He had never heard that it had once been said, "Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."
Was it possible that Sandy could be one of the least of these His brethren?
There was, however, this great and last difficulty in Sandy's case. If any one had clothed him, doing it in remembrance of their Lord, his mother would have immediately pawned the clothes, and spent the money in the spirit-vault.
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