“Excuse my interrupting you again, but where is your home, may I ask?”
“You may ask, but it ’ud puzzle me to answer for I ain’t got no ’ome, unless I may say that London is my ’ome. I come an’ go where I pleases, so long’s I don’t worrit nobody. I sleep where I like, if the bobbies don’t get their eyes on me w’en I’m agoin’ to bed, an’ I heat wotever comes in my way if it ain’t too tough. In winter I sleeps in a lodgin’ ’ouse w’en I can but as it costs thrippence a night, I finds it too expensive, an’ usually prefers a railway arch, or a corner in Covent Garden Market, under a cart or a barrow, or inside of a empty sugar-barrel—anywhere so long’s I’m let alone; but what with the rain, the wind, the cold, and the bobbies, I may be said to sleep under difficulties. Vell, as I was agoin’ to say w’en—”
“Excuse me once more—what is your name?” said I.
“Hain’t got no name.”
“No name! Come, you are joking. What is your father’s name?”
“Hain’t got no father—never ’ad, as I knows on, nor mother neither, nor brother, nor sister, nor aunt, nor wife—not even a mother-in-law. I’m a unit in creation, I is—as I once heerd a school-board buffer say w’en he was luggin’ me along to school; but he was too green, that buffer was, for a school-boarder. I gave ’im the slip at the corner of Watling Street, an’ they’ve never bin able to cotch me since.”
“But you must be known by some name,” said I. “What do your companions call you?”
“They call me bad names, as a rule. Some o’ the least offensive among ’em are Monkey-face, Screwnose, Cheeks, Squeaker, Roundeyes, and Slidder. I prefers the last myself, an’ ginerally answers to it. But, as I was agoin’ to say, I’d bin away for a veek, an’ w’en I comed ’ome—”
“To which part of home? for London is a wide word, you know,” I said.
“Now, sir, if you go for to interrupt me like that I’ll ’ave to charge a bob for this here valk; I couldn’t stand it for sixpence.”