"But we were so glad to hear that our father was living, and that we should soon see him," explained the younger.
"When did you hear first?"
"About four months ago. Just before we took our present situations. We are saddlers and ornamental leather workers. Between us we earn quite a decent living. Don't we, John?"
"In fifteen weeks we have saved enough to pay for half our furniture, besides keeping ourselves well. There's plenty to eat, dad. You won't starve, big as you are."
They all laughed. The cab was passing St. Thomas' Hospital. Across the bridge a noble prospect met their eyes. London had a glamour for Mason that night it never held before.
"So Robinson wrote to Bradley, knowing that I would report myself to-day, and Bradley arranged——"
"Who is Robinson, father?" interrupted John.
"The superintendent, to be sure. He used to be inspector at Whitechapel."
"He is not the man we mean. We are talking of Mr. Giles, superintendent of the Mary Anson Home."
The two boys felt their father's start of dismay, of positive affright. They wondered what had happened to give him such a shock. Peering at him sideways from the corners of the hansom, they could see the quick pallor of his swarthy face.