“Fire away, then, mother, an’ remember that the law don’t compel no one to criminate hisself.”
“You know, Bob, that a good while ago our Matty disappeared. I saw that the dear child was dyin’ for want o’ food an’ warmth an’ fresh air, so I thinks to myself, ‘why shouldn’t I put ’er out to board wi’ rich people for nothink?’”
“A wery correct notion, an’ cleverer than I gave you credit for. I’m glad to ear it too, for I feared sometimes that you’d bin an’ done it.”
“Oh! Bobby, how could you ever think that! Well, I put the baby out to board with a family of the name of Twitter. Now it seems, all unbeknown to me, Mrs Twitter is a great helper at the George Yard Ragged Schools, where our Hetty has often seen her; but as we’ve bin used never to speak about the work there, as your father didn’t like it, of course I know’d nothin’ about Mrs Twitter bein’ given to goin’ there. Well, it seems she’s very free with her money and gives a good deal away to poor people.” (She’s not the only one, thought the boy.) “So what does the Bible-nurse do when she hears about poor Hetty’s illness but goes off and asks Mrs Twitter to try an’ git her a situation.”
“‘Oh! I know Hetty,’ says Mrs Twitter at once, ‘That nice girl that teaches one o’ the Sunday-school classes. Send her to me. I want a nurse for our baby,’ that’s for Matty, Bob—”
“What! our baby!” exclaimed the boy with a sudden blaze of excitement.
“Yes—our baby. She calls it hers!”
“Well, now,” said Bobby, after recovering from the fit of laughter and thigh-slapping into which this news had thrown him, “if this don’t beat cockfightin’ all to nuffin’! why, mother, Hetty’ll know baby the moment she claps eyes on it.”
“Of course she will,” said Mrs Frog; “it is really very awkward, an’ I can’t think what to do. I’m half afraid to tell Hetty.”
“Oh! don’t tell her—don’t tell her,” cried the boy, whose eyes sparkled with mischievous glee. “It’ll be sich fun! If I ’ad on’y the chance to stand be’ind a door an’ see the meetin’ I wouldn’t exchange it—no not for a feed of pork sassengers an’ suet pud’n. I must go an’ tell this to Tim Lumpy. It’ll bust ’im—that’s my on’y fear, but I must tell ’im wotever be the consikences.”