“How?” asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little friend.
“Why, this way. She’s a good old soul who lost ’er ’usband an’ ’er son—if I ain’t mistaken—through drink, an’ ever since, she ’as devoted ’erself body an’ soul to save men an’ women from drink. She attends temperance meetin’s an’ takes people there—a’most drags ’em in by the scruff o’ the neck. She keeps ’er eyes open, like a weasel, an’ w’enever she sees a chance o’ what she calls pluckin’ a brand out o’ the fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin’ ’er fingers. Sometimes she gits one an’ another to submit to her treatment, an’ then she locks ’em up in ’er ’ouse—though it ain’t a big un—an’ treats ’em, as she calls it. She’s got one there now, it’s my belief, though w’ether it’s a he or a she I can’t tell. Now, she may ’ave seen your friend goin’ about—if ’e stayed long in Whitechapel.”
“It may be so,” returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first blush of it seem very brilliant. “When could I see this old woman?”
“First thing to-morror arter breakfast, sir.”
“Very well; then you’ll come and breakfast with me at eight?”
“I will, sir, with all the pleasure in life. In this ’ere ’ouse, sir, or in a resterang?”
“Neither. In my lodgings, Zook.”
Having given his address to the little man, Charlie bade him good-night and retired to his pauper-bed for the last time.