I believe if the boy had had anything on, except the upper half of a ragged pair of full-sized trousers, which his thin little bare arms come through the pocket-slits and the bracebuttons was fastened together with bits of old bootlace, an’ so kep’ up about his neck—he’d ’a took it off to cover the gal with.
She lay with her face on his shoulder and her thin little hand in his, quite peaceful, and when a drop of warm candle-grease waked her, by falling on her face—Cheevers always held to it, it wasn’t a tear—she clung to him, for protection like. And he was bold for her though afraid for himself, it was plain to see.
“Are you a-goin’ to move us on?” he says, rubbing his big eyes with his poor chilblained knuckles. “We ain’t done nuffin’, not her nor me, and I can’t go away. I’ve got to wait for mother to come ’ome.”
Well, Cheevers and me did what we could. We took ’em down with us and give ’em what we could spare, and hunted up an old tarpaulin, to cover ’em that night; we having but our one small room, and them, poor neglected innocents! not being Christianly clean enough, to keep at close quarters.
The next day, being Christmas Day, we went with a little less, that they might have a little more, and that bit of roast meat was the first they had ever put to their poor dear lips, it was plain to see, for they tore at the mouthfuls like raging wolves.
Mr. Rumsey would ’a had something to say about the sinful prodigality of the poor, if he’d ’a seen that sight, but, knowing his feelings, I never breathed my lips to him then or afterwards, that me and Cheevers was doing a friend’s turn for Them Two, and him, being dead many years ago, probably looks upon such things with a different eye, either up or down.
And that night by our fire, while Cheevers was up in the attic, trying to stop up the hole in the roof, with another old tarpaulin—which afterwards led to Mr. Rumsey getting a lodger for the dreadful place, and throwed Them Two altogether on our hands—I did my best to tell ’em, in my own ignorant way, the story of the first Christmas Eve as ever was, when the bright star stood over Bethlehem and the heralding angels sang of peace on earth, an’ good will to all men.
That it was a pinch, I will not deny, me and Cheevers being but poor folk, when, as I have said, Mr. Rumsey took the roof, or part of one, from the heads of Them Two and let the attic—Cheevers’ tarpaulin included—to a reduced gentlewoman, who sold matches at the corner of Gracechurch-street.
But we had got ’em clean, meaning Nick and Nan, and a few poor decent things upon ’em, and mention of the workhouse seemed cruel, as the boy had that idea in him, that strong about his mother—a pretty mother too! though I never said as much in his hearing—coming back one day to fetch him.
And so it came to Cheevers starting a barrow, and taking Nick along to mind it, while he did business at hall doors and airy railings. And though in bad weather a dreary business, shouting in the muddy streets, with the rain soaking you through and through, they did well.