“Wot is it, Jenks? is it time fur me to begin sellin’?” she exclaimed with a confused start.
“No, no,” said Jenks, “it ain’t time fur hages yet. Wait till the folks begin to come. Why, there’s on’y us tramps yere yet.”
“Then why did you wake me, Jenks? I was so werry sound asleep.”
“Well—see, Flo—I wanted fur to tell yer—you see this is a big place, and we ’as come, you and me and Dick, to do a trade yere, and wot I ses is this, as we mustn’t keep together, we mustn’t on no ’count keep together. You go one way wid the dolls, and a pretty penny they’ll fetch this blessed day, I hears said; Dick ’ull start in another ’rection wid the fusees, and I must be yere, and there, and hevery wheres, to keep the gents’ boots bright. So good mornin’ to yer, Flo; you meet us yere in the evenin’ wid a good pocket full, and yere’s sixpence fur yer breakfast,” and before Flo had time to open her lips from sheer astonishment, Jenks was gone.
She was alone, alone on Epsom common. With that sea of strange faces round her she was utterly alone.
Very poor children, at least those children who have to fight the battle of life, never cry much. However tender their hearts may be—and many of them have most tender and loving hearts, God bless them!—there is a certain hardening upper crust which forbids the constant flow of tears.
But something very smarting did come up now to the little girl’s eyes. She sat down wearily,—so much fun had she expected roaming about with Dick and Jenks, how happy she thought she would have been with the country air blowing upon her, the country sun—he never shone like that in the town—shining on her face. And now she would be afraid—for she was a timid child—to stir.
Oh, it was wrong of Jenks, though Jenks was only her friend, but how truly unkind it was of Dick to leave her!
Just then another hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said—
“Is anything the matter, little child?”