Chapter II: How the Street Children Live

Early, very early in the morning, the full blaze of a policeman's lantern was turned upon Robin and Dolly, and constable 21Y called out in his harshest tones--

"Now, then, young warmint, what h'ever is your little game? Why, I never!"--as his eye fell on Dolly--"ef this ain't Colonel L'Estrange's child, and the whole place in a hue and cry after her. So you wanted to steal her, you little thief. You'll soon know the right of this 'ere job."

With one hand he raised Dolly, who, frightened at her strange waking, was now sobbing bitterly, with the other he tried to detain Robin, but quick as thought the wiry boy escaped from his hands; he rushed out of the archway, down a back court, where he stood, in the bitter winter morning, trembling and shivering as much with anger as with cold. All night long he had been dreaming of Dolly; never, even for a moment did he lose the consciousness that she was by his side, and now, all in an instant, she had been torn away. He had been called a thief--the thief of the pretty little dear; now she was gone, and he should never, never see her again. It had been a short-lived and vivid pleasure; but now that it was over he felt very miserable--more miserable than he had ever felt in his dark little life before. Yesterday morning had been bad enough, with his racking cough and his empty pockets; but yesterday had been nothing to this day, for between this day and yesterday he had found and lost Dolly. He did not know until he had lost it what a difference a little love could make in his life. Why, with that pretty child in his arms, he had forgotten, actually and completely forgotten, his savage hunger. Well, he knew he must give her up; she was too sweet and too nice to share his miserable existence. He knew well, as he dropped off to sleep last night, that in the morning he must resign her. But he never meant to have her torn from him like this; he had pictured to himself at least one short walk with her warm arms clasped round his neck, a word or two more from the imperious baby-lips, and perhaps, best and most precious of all, another kiss from Dolly. Tears don't often come from poor little boys like Robin; but now a few did trickle down his pale cheeks, and his heart felt very sore.

Why should he not weep? Standing there under that winter sky, the boy was neighbourless, friendless, homeless! No one owned him, no one cared for him; had not he cause for his tears? He wandered on until he came to Oxford Circus, where he was greeted by one of his companion thieves and pals.

The lad whispered in his ear, "Does yer see that ere sharp-lookin' man a spyin' of yer?"

"Yes," answered Robin listlessly; "wot of 'im?"

"Wot of 'im?" mimicked his companion; "why, there's a deal of 'im to my way of thinkin'. He wants to prison yer hup in a school, lad, that's about it."

At the word "school" Robin's face began to darken with anger and pain.

"School!" he repeated; "I'm a goin' to no school--not I--my, but yesterday"----

"Yere's the 'spectre, as I'm alive!" interrupted the sharp boy, quickly vanishing from view; and in truth, before Robin had time to stir, the man who had watched him came up and laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Where do you go to school, my lad?" he asked, in by no means an unkindly voice.

"No where's," answered Robin.

"Well, this must be seen to," taking out his note-book. "What's your name?"

"Joe Williams," answered the little thief readily, glancing up with his brown eyes full into the inspector's face.

"Your address?"

"First door to the left, three pairs hup, Peter's Court, Seven Dials," as quickly replied the homeless boy.

The inspector replaced his note-book, assured "Williams" that he would make inquiries about him, and walked off, while the little thief was quickly surrounded by admiring street pals who praised his cleverness, clapped him on the back, and laughed loudly over the joke of the school inspector being outdone, and looking in vain for "Williams" in the room three pair up, Seven Dials.

For a time Robin was cheered by the applause of his companions, but fresh thoughts of Dolly brought fresh tears to his eyes, and he walked slowly and sadly away. Passing by a coffee-stall, it had the effect of partly arousing his hunger. He felt in his pocket for three halfpence which were still left out of his eightpence. A penny would buy him a basin of hot coffee, a halfpenny would secure to him a morsel of bread. He was not so hungry as yesterday, but he was colder, and his cough was worse. He got some breakfast at this coffee-stall, and then walked on, feeling better. As usual, his bright eyes roved to right and left for any chance of pilfering that might occur. He connected no wrong with this; he knew neither right nor wrong. The law, he understood well, was against thieves; the police were against thieves; the law and the police were his natural enemies, they had torn from him Helen, his only friend. He took, when well and bright, a decided pleasure in outwitting these his enemies. To-day, however, he was too ill and miserable to take pleasure in anything. The sky was leaden tinted, and foretold either more rain or more snow; the short dull winter's day broke gloomily. Yesterday, when suffering the keenest and sharpest pangs of hunger, Robin had looked round him in vain for the faintest chance of stealing. He had looked until night in vain. All the stalls were well guarded; all the men wore overcoats tightly buttoned up, no chance of anything sticking out of their pockets; all the ladies held their purses firmly inside their muffs. To-day, however, when less hungry and less anxious, a chance, and a golden chance, soon presented itself.

A lady, stepping into a cab, dropped from her arm a silver bracelet. She never missed it, and Robin, under the pretence of shutting the cab door for her, had it quickly in his pocket. As he secured this valuable prize, he looked into the lady's face and recognised the person whose little girl's purse he had returned more than a year ago. Well did he remember how, deaf to her child's pleadings, she had refused to give him, a ragged starving boy, even a few pence. It added to his pleasure to reflect that it was _her_ bracelet he had stolen. Never had so rich a prize fallen in his way; he darted down an alley to examine it at his leisure; he did not half know its value, but he was quite clever enough to guess that it would, when sold, bring him in a sum of money which would keep him above want for several days. Pocket handkerchiefs and such things he generally disposed of at the pawn-shops, but the silver bracelet he would take to a certain old Jew, to whom once or twice before he had brought a small prize. The Jew in question lived in a place called Frying-pan Alley.

Entering the shop, Robin pulled out the bracelet and handed it across the counter.

The Jew, a villanous old fellow, spectacles on nose, took up the bracelet, turned it round, threw it contemptuously on the counter.

"Tinsel--tinsel," he said, "vorth ver litel. How much ashk for this von vorthless litel bracelet, boy?"

Robin having made up his mind to demand five shillings, gasped forth that tremendous sum in a shaky voice.

The Jew took up the bracelet again, fingered it lightly, then, apparently in a fit of abstraction, dropped it into a box by the side of the counter.

"Poor, bad, litel boy, I give you no five shilling; I not give you von shingle shikshpensh. You shtole this litel vorthless bracelet I return it to the polish, and you, I take you too."

And stretching out his long lean hand, he clutched at Robin with a vice he could not shake off.

"No, no, no," screamed the boy in terror. "Give me the bracelet--let me go, let me go!"

"No, I'll not give you up the tinsel bracelet, it is vorth nothing; but you shtole it, you can't deny. I will return it to the polish, who may find somebody who loosh the poor tinsel thing. Get you gone, litel bad thief boy, get you gone!"

And with a violent whirl, which nearly sent Robin on his face and hands, he was turned from the shop.

Still terrified, for the Jew's manner had been more violent even than his words, he ran, until, finding himself in other quarters, he sat down on a doorstep to rest.

Attracted by his ceaseless cough, a respectably-dressed young woman who was passing by, turned round to look at him.

"Poor little boy! how very ill you look," she said kindly: "here," taking out her purse, "is a penny for you; I wish it was more."

She dropped the coin into Robin's lap and hurried on.

The young woman was his own sister Molly, who, steady and industrious, had managed to prosper in life.