The fellow interested me. I waited and walked on with him. He told me about his home in London, at Mile End—about his old father and mother, his little brothers and sisters—and what he was saving up to do for them. Kindliness oozed from every pore in his skin.
Many that we met knew him, and all, when they saw his round, red face, smiled unconsciously. At the corner of the High Street a pale-faced little drudge of a girl passed us, saying as she slipped by “Good-evening, Mr. Burridge.”
He made a dart and caught her by the shoulder.
“And how is father?” he asked.
“Oh, if you please, Mr. Burridge, he is out again. All the mills is closed,” answered the child.
“And mother?”
“She don’t get no better, sir.”
“And who’s keeping you all?”
“Oh, if you please, sir, Jimmy’s earning something now,” replied the mite.
He took a couple of sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket, and closed the child’s hand upon them.