“Vy,” observed little Frog at length, “you seem to ’ave got all the fun drove out o’ you, Lumpy.”
“Not a bit on it,” returned the other, with a hurt look, as though he had been charged with some serious misdemeanour, “but it do seem sitch a shabby thing to go an’ forsake my blind old mother.”
“But yer blind old mother wants you to go,” said Bobby, “an’ says she’ll be well looked arter by the ladies of the ’Ome, and that she wouldn’t stand in the way o’ your prospec’s. Besides, she ain’t yer mother!”
This was true. Tim Lumpy had neither father nor mother, nor relative on earth, and the old woman who, out of sheer pity, had taken him in and allowed him to call her “mother,” was a widow at the lowest possible round of that social ladder, at the top of which—figuratively speaking—sits Her Gracious Majesty the Queen. Mrs Lumpy had found him on her door-step, weeping and in rags, at the early age of five years. She had taken him in, and fed him on part of a penny loaf which formed the sole edible substance for her own breakfast. She had mended his rags to the extent of her ability, but she had not washed his face, having no soap of her own, and not caring to borrow from neighbours who were in the same destitute condition. Besides, she had too hard a battle to fight with an ever-present and pressing foe, to care much about dirt, and no doubt deemed a wash of tears now and then sufficient. Lumpy himself seemed to agree with her as to this, for he washed himself in that fashion frequently.
Having sought for his parents in vain, with the aid of the police, Mrs Lumpy quietly kept the boy on; gave him her surname, prefixed that of Timothy, answered to the call of mother, and then left him to do very much as he pleased.
In these circumstances, it was not surprising that little Tim soon grew to be one of the pests of his alley. Tim was a weak-eyed boy, and remarkably thin, being, as his friend had said, composed chiefly of legs and arms. There must have been a good deal of brain also, for he was keen-witted, as people soon began to find out to their cost. Tim was observant also. He observed, on nearing the age of ten years, that in the great river of life which daily flowed past him, there were certain faces which indicated tender and kindly hearts, coupled with defective brain-action, and a good deal of self-will. He became painfully shrewd in reading such faces, and, on wet days, would present himself to them with his bare little red feet and half-naked body, rain water, (doing duty for tears), running from his weak bloodshot eyes, and falsehoods of the most pitiable, complex, and impudent character pouring from his thin blue lips, whilst awful solemnity seemed to shine on his visage. The certain result was—coppers!
These kindly ones have, unwittingly of course, changed a text of Scripture, and, for the words “consider the poor,” read “throw coppers to the poor!” You see, it is much easier to relieve one’s feelings by giving away a few pence, than to take the trouble of visiting, inquiring about, and otherwise considering, the poor! At all events it would seem so, for Tim began to grow comparatively rich, and corrupted, still more deeply, associates who were already buried sufficiently in the depths of corruption.
At last little Tim was met by a lady who had befriended him more than once, and who asked him why he preferred begging in the streets to going to the ragged school, where he would get not only food for the body, but for the soul. He replied that he was hungry, and his mother had no victuals to give him, so he had gone out to beg. The lady went straight to Mrs Lumpy, found the story to be true, and that the poor half-blind old woman was quite unable to support the boy and herself. The lady prevailed on the old woman to attend the meetings for poor, aged, and infirm women in Miss Macpherson’s “Beehive,” and little Tim was taken into the “Home for Destitute Little Boys under ten years of age.”
It was not all smooth sailing in that Home after Tim Lumpy entered it! Being utterly untamed, Tim had many a sore struggle ere the temper was brought under control. One day he was so bad that the governess was obliged to punish him by leaving him behind, while the other boys went out for a walk. When left alone, the lady-superintendent tried to converse with him about obedience, but he became frightfully violent, and demanded his rags that he might return again to the streets. Finally he escaped, rushed to his old home in a paroxysm of rage, and then, getting on the roof, declared to the assembled neighbours that he would throw himself down and dash out his brains. In this state a Bible-woman found him. After offering the mental prayer, “Lord, help me,” she entreated him to come down and join her in a cup of tea with his old mother. The invitation perhaps struck the little rebel as having a touch of humour in it. At all events he accepted it and forthwith descended.
Over the tea, the Bible-woman prayed aloud for him, and the poor boy broke down, burst into tears, and begged forgiveness. Soon afterwards he was heard tapping at the door of the Home—gentle and subdued.