"Give me that strap, you vagabone!" screamed the old woman, furiously.
"Look here, old lady, what are you up to?" demanded the voice of one having authority.
Mother Watson, turning round, saw an object for which she never had much partiality,—a policeman.
"O sir," said she, bursting into maudlin tears, "it's my bad boy that I want to come home, and he won't come."
"Which is your boy,—that one?" asked the policeman, pointing to Ben Gibson.
"No, not that vagabone!" said the old woman, spitefully. "I wouldn't own him. It's that other boy."
"Do you belong to her?" asked the officer, addressing Mark.
"No, sir," said the match boy.
"He does," vociferated the old woman.