“For one fard’n?” inquired the boy in surprise.
“For one farthing,” replied the presiding angel in the poke bonnet.
“Here, young ’ooman,” said Stumpy, setting down his basket, “let me ’ave eleven fard’n’s worth right away. There’s a big family awaitin’ for it an’ they’re all starvin’, so do make haste.”
“But, dear boy, you’ve brought nothing to carry the soup in.”
Stumpy’s visage fell. The basket could not serve him here, and the rate at which the soup was being ladled out convinced him that if he were to return for a jug there would not be much left for him.
Observing his difficulty, the attendant said that she would lend him a jug if he would promise to bring it back. “Are you an honest boy?” she asked, with an amused look.
“About as honest as most kids o’ the same sort.”
“Well, I’ll trust you—and, mind, God sees you. There, now, don’t you fall and break it.”
Our hero was not long in returning to the dreary cellar, with the eleven basins of soup and eleven hunks of bread—all of which, with the previously purchased luxuries, he spread out on the rickety table, to the unutterable amazement and joy of the Wilkin family.
Need we say that it was a glorious feast? As there were only two chairs, the table was lifted inside of the bottomless bed, and some of the young people sat down on the frame thereof on one side, and some on the other side, while Mrs Wilkin and her husband occupied the places of honour at the head and foot. There was not much conversation at first. Hunger was too exacting, but in a short time tongues began to wag. Then the fire was lighted, and the kettle boiled, and the half-pennyworth of tea infused, and thus the sumptuous meal was agreeably washed down. Even the baby began—to recover under the genial influence of warm food, and made faces indicative of a wish to crow—but it failed, and went to sleep on sister’s shoulder instead. When it was all over poor Mrs Wilkin made an attempt to “return thanks” for the meal, but broke down and sobbed her gratitude.