"I can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked, raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman.
She nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted Billy crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he knew well, for it represented his home.
He was still fresh from his hop-scotch, and eager to go back to his game; and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly to a bedside.
"Wot is it, mother? I want to go back to punch Tom Jones."
Alas! for poor Billy—his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild bird was caged.
"Another time, Billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to now. Pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em."
Billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very small and pink morsel of humanity—a morsel of humanity which greeted his rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny features, and some piercing screams.
"Why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said Billy, falling back a step or two in astonishment.
"Yes, Billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for I can't do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute and mind her right away."
Billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of Tom Jones, whose head he so ached to punch.