“There’s such a difference between a father and a mother, sir,” said Rob, after faltering for a moment. “He couldn’t hardly believe yet that I was going to do better—though I know he’d try to; but a mother—she always believes what’s good, sir; at least I know my mother does, God bless her!”
It was not the fault of his home that Biler went astray.
Nor did Dickens fail to give a picture for the fathers too. Mr. Toodle was a workman on a train, and great was the joy in the family when father came home.
“Polly, my gal,” said Mr. Toodle, with a young Toodle on each knee and two more making tea for him, and plenty more scattered about—Mr. Toodle was never out of children, but always kept a good supply on hand—“you ain’t seen our Biler lately, have you?”
“No,” replied Polly, “but he’s almost certain to look in to-night. It’s his right evening, and he’s very regular.”
“I suppose,” said Mr. Toodle, relishing his meal infinitely, “as our Biler is a-doin’ now about as well as a boy can do, eh, Polly?”
“Oh! he’s a-doing beautiful!” responded Polly.
“He ain’t got to be at all secretlike—has he, Polly?” inquired Mr. Toodle.
“No!” said Mrs. Toodle plumply.
“I’m glad he ain’t got to be at all secretlike, Polly,” observed Mr. Toodle in his slow and measured way, and shovelling in his bread and butter with a clasp knife, as if he were stoking himself, “because that don’t look well; do it, Polly?”