‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, that ain’t no use; you ain’t got a horder, and it is as much as the porter’s place is worth to take anyone in without a horder.’
‘Then, what’s to be done with the poor boy?’
‘Ah, that’s the question,’ said the policeman, and he was right there. What’s to be done with our boys, rich or poor, good or bad, is a question some of us find increasingly hard to answer.
‘Then you can’t help me?’ said the actress.
‘Oh no, mum; we’ve plenty of such boys about.’
‘What’s to be done?’ said the lady she still looked at the poor boy. ‘Is it right to leave him thus?’ There was a tear in her voice as she spoke. All seemed so hard and unmoved, and the urgency was so pressing.
‘Dear madam,’ said the Mayor, who felt himself bound to say something, ‘the case is a hard one, but there’s no help for it. We can’t encourage such hoys as that. If we did, the town would be overrun with them. They are always begging.’
‘I wasn’t beggin’,’ said the boy, who now began to feel interested in the discussion. ‘I don’t want to go beggin’. I want a job.’
‘Ah, all the boys say that,’ said the Vicar, ‘the young rascals! If I had my way, I would give them a good whipping all round.’
‘Yes, and if we listened to all these stories the bench would have to sit all day long,’ said the Town Clerk, giving the boy a copper and ordering him off.