“Turnips is main good,” said the boy.
“Oh, no!” said the little Earl, with intense horror; and he threw the turnip down amongst the grass, and went away sorely puzzled.
“Little master,” roared Hodge after him, “I’ll bet as you aren’t hungry.”
That was it, of course.
The little Earl was not really hungry,—never had been really hungry in all his life. But this explanation of natural philosophy did not occur to him, not even when the boy hallooed it after him. He only said to himself, “How can that boy eat that filthy thing? and he really did look as if he liked it so!”
Presently, after trotting a mile or so, he passed a little shop set all by itself at the end of a lane,—surely the tiniest, loneliest shop in Great Britain. But a cheery-looking old woman kept it, and he saw it had bread in it, as well as many other stuffs, and tin canisters that were to him incomprehensible.
“If you please,” he said, rather timidly, offering the gold anchor off the ribbon of his hat, “I have lost my money, and could you be so kind as to give me any breakfast for this?”
The old woman smelt the anchor, bit it, twinkled her eyes, and then drew a long face. “It ain’t worth tuppence, master,” she said; “but ye’re mighty small to be out by yourself, and puny like: I don’t say as how I won’t feed yer.”
“Thanks,” said Bertie, who did not know at all what his anchor was worth.