"Here's a fortin', an' no mistake; Nell and I'll be able to walk off the lot."
And he brought them out into the room, and wrapped them up in an old handkerchief that his stepmother used to tie round her head when she went out. There were scarcely twenty potatoes altogether, but to Benny they seemed almost an inexhaustible supply.
This being done, he sat down beside his sleeping sister and waited until he should hear any movement in the room above. Gradually the cold grey light of the morning stole into the room, revealing all its squalor and dinginess, and Benny felt that he and Nelly would have to make their escape soon, or else they might be prevented. He felt very loth to awake his sister, she slept so sweetly, and he did not know where they might find a shelter when darkness covered the earth again. But there was no help for it. His father might awake any moment, and the neighbours would soon be stirring in the court and in Bowker's Row. So bending over her, he pressed his lips upon her brow: still she moved not.
"Nelly," he whispered, "it's time to be movin'."
Slowly the great round eyes opened, and looked languidly up into his face.
"Come, stir your pegs, Nell, or we'll be too late."
"Oh, ay," she said, as the recollection of the previous evening came back to her. "We 'as to be off to-day, ain't we?"
"Ay, my gal, we's goin' on our own 'ook now, so look alive."
"Does yer think we's doin' right, Benny?"
"'Course we is, Nell; I'll take care o' yer, never fear."