“Twitter,” replied Sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name.
“Twitter—Twitter. I’ve heard that name before. Why, yes. Father’s name Samuel—eh? Mother alive—got cards with Mrs Samuel Twitter on ’em, an’ no address?”
“Yes—yes. How do you come to know?” asked Sam in surprise.
“Never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi’ me. I’ve got a sort o’ right to feed you. Ha! ha! come along.”
Sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but Ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless.
In a few minutes he was in Ned’s garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction.
“Have some beer!” said Ned, filling a pewter pot.
“No—no—no—no!” said Sam, shuddering as he turned his head away.
“Well, youngster,” returned Ned, with a slight look of surprise, “please yourself, and here’s your health.”
He drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade Sam lie down and rest.