Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again.
In the morning Sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation.
So he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in London—depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow!
Aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so.
Some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in Ned Frog’s voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist’s coming out. He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said—
“Oh, sir! I’m very low!”
“Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!” said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. “What have I to do with your being low? I’ve been low enough myself at times, an’ nobody helped—”
Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false.
“I think I’m dying,” said Sam, leaning against a house for support.
“Well, if you do die, you’ll be well out of it all,” replied Ned, bitterly. “What’s your name?”