"No," said Mark; "there's Mother Watson coming after me. Don't you see her?"
"That's Mother Watson, is it?" asked Ben, surveying the old body with a critical eye. "She's a beauty, she is!"
"What shall I do, Ben? She'll beat me."
"No, she won't," said Ben. "You just keep quiet, and leave her to me. Don't be afraid. She shan't touch you."
"She might strike you," said Mark, apprehensively.
"She'd better not!" said Ben, very decidedly; "not unless she wants to be landed in the middle of next week at very short notice."
By this time Mother Watson came up, puffing and panting with the extraordinary efforts she had made She could not speak at first, but stood and glared at the match boy in a vindictive way.
"What's the matter with you, old lady?" asked Ben, coolly. "You aint took sick, be you? I'd offer to support your delicate form, but I'm afraid you'd be too much for me."
"What do you mean by runnin' away from home, you little thief?" said the old woman, at length regaining her breath. Of course her remark was addressed to Mark.
"You're very polite, old lady," said Ben; "but I've adopted that boy, and he's goin' to live with me now."