Chapter I: "something Happens" to Phil

"I SAY, Phil, you'd best get out of the way. Your mother's coming."

No need to utter the warning twice. Phil, a ragged, yellow-haired boy, picked himself up from the doorstep in a moment, signified his gratitude to Fan the flower-girl by an expressive nod and wink, and scuttled down the narrow alley, and was out of sight with all the speed his thin bare legs could accomplish.

Moll Dutton was approaching from the other end of the alley. A coarse, repulsive-looking woman, wearing torn and draggled garments, and carrying a huge bundle in her arms, she came staggering along, the stagger resulting, not from her burden, since the bundle, though cumbersome, was not very heavy, but from the glass or two to which she had treated herself on the strength of the excellent bargain in old clothes which she had been able to effect. Her low, receding forehead, flat face, narrow, cunning eyes, and cruel mouth told all too plainly the history of her life and character.

The dwellers in that dim, narrow alley, where scarce six feet of paving-stone separated the houses on one side from the houses on the other, had little to commend them. Integrity and uprightness could not be attributed to any, but there were varying degrees of evil in the sinful, sorrowful lives lived there. Amongst all, no one was more hardened in sin, more relentless in cruelty, more lost to all true womanly feeling, than was Moll Dutton.

"Phil, Phil!" she shouted, as she staggered to the door of the house in which she occupied a room. "Where's that good-for-nothing young rascal? Where's he hiding, the lazy imp? He'd better make haste to show himself, or I'll break every bone in his body when I do find him!"

"Phil's away about his business," said Fan, leaning from an upper window opposite, whence she could address Moll with impunity. "It's no use calling to him."

"Business, indeed! The young lazybones!" returned Moll angrily. "It's little enough business he does. He brought me only a few coppers yesterday. There's no teaching that boy anything. What's the good of his blue eyes and his baby face, if he can't make use of them to wheedle folks into giving?" So saying, she passed into the house.

Phil had indeed gone about his business, with a sudden awakening to a sense of duty at the news of his mother's approach. He did not like his "business," which, as the reader will have guessed, was neither more nor less than begging. Moll had done her best to teach him to cry and whine and tell untruths calculated to touch the hearts of the charitable, but she was not pleased with the result of her endeavours. Phil showed no aptitude for his irregular profession. He succeeded best when most passive, for a wistful, pleading glance from the childish blue eyes was more eloquent than the would-be pitiful stories which he could never utter so glibly as Moll tried to make him.

The alley in which Phil lived lay midway between Lincoln's Inn Fields and High Holborn. Hurrying from it, he made his way by many a short cut into Oxford Street. It was time he began to beg, if he would escape a severe beating from his mother when the day was over.

The short November day was already drawing to its close. A cold drizzle filled the air, the roads were slushy, the pavements greasy; it was not weather in which people were disposed to linger. City men, closely buttoned in the thickest overcoats, were hastening westwards, eager to gain the shelter and comfort of their homes. Ladies passed by, too intent upon caring for their skirts and picking their way through the mud to give a single glance at the white, thin face of the six years old lad who pleaded for a copper, saying that he had eaten nothing that day.

Phil began to feel rather hopeless, as one after another turned a deaf ear to his appeals or pushed aside his uplifted palm. Presently an old gentleman, short of stature, and very trim in appearance, came in sight, who took his way through the mud with much caution, and seemed to have a keen perception of all that passed before his eyes. Phil's quick instincts warned him that this old gentleman was not one who could be easily imposed upon, nor one who would too readily part with his money. Yet he begged of him, though with little hope of success.

At the sound of the boy's voice, the old gentleman stopped short and surveyed Phil with his shrewd grey eyes. Phil's words faltered, as beneath their stern gaze, he tried to tell his tale.

"Mother dead, is she? Got no one to take care of you, and have eaten nothing to-day, eh?" he said, repeating the details of Phil's story in cold, ironical tones. "My boy, I don't believe a word of it! Now look at me and tell me the truth; you're too young to have quite forgotten how to speak it, and I shall know if you tell me a lie. Your mother is living, isn't she, and she has made up this story for you and sent you out to beg? It is so, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," faltered Phil, surprised into speaking the very truth, "but—but—I wish she were dead."

"What!" exclaimed the gentleman, startled and shocked. "You wish that your mother were dead! Do you know what you are saying?"

"Yes," said Phil stolidly; "I wish that she were dead. She knocks me about awful sometimes. I do wish that she were dead."

His words but deepened the old gentleman's horror. "You bad boy! You hard-hearted little wretch!" he exclaimed. "I have always detested boys, but you are the worst I ever did meet with. Calmly wishing that his own mother were dead!"

And, raising his hands in horrified protest, the gentleman passed on, more convinced than before of the enormity of boy-nature. He was a just and worthy man, the son of a good mother, the husband of a good wife, but his mind and sympathies were somewhat narrow, and he had not sufficient imagination to conceive of such a mother as Moll Dutton.

"The boy must be thoroughly bad, to speak of his mother so," he said to himself.

Phil stood looking after him in bewilderment. He was disappointed at missing the penny of which he had felt certain when the gentleman paused to speak to him. He made mental note of the effect produced by his truth-speaking, and resolved that, if ever again forced to admit that his mother was living, he would refrain from stating that the fact was not in accordance with his wishes.

Phil shivered as he looked at his scanty store of coppers. His ragged garments were wet through, but he did not dare to return home till he had gained some more pence. Seeing a policeman near, he slunk away, resolved to try his fortune in a fresh field.

Hurrying along through the narrow dingy streets he knew so well, Phil soon reached the Strand. The carriages drawn up at the entrance to one of the theatres made him aware that an afternoon performance was taking place, and that the audience might soon be expected to disperse. Here was an opportunity worth waiting for, Phil thought. He stole beneath the portico, and sat down in the shadow of one of the heavy pillars.

Waiting is a trial of patience at the best of times, and Phil, shivering in the raw evening air, found it wearisome indeed. He was hungry too, and a dull weight of misery lay upon his childish heart. There seemed small chance of his escaping a beating from his mother that night. He turned up one of his ragged coat-sleeves, and looked ruefully at certain dark bruises which appeared on his thin little arm.

"I hate her," he said, half aloud; "I do wish that she were dead! Why shouldn't I? I'd be glad if something 'ud happen to her. If she was to be found dead in her bed, like old Toiler, I'd be real glad, I would."

Looking at the boy's innocent, childish face, his blue eyes, his yellow curls, no one would have judged him capable of uttering such unnatural sentiments. Yet was he to blame if for him the sacred name of mother had no charm, conveying no sense of protecting love and comforting tenderness? No motherless child had known a sorer lack of love than Phil.

Yet he knew that love existed in the sad, dark world into which he had been born, for the boy's heart cherished a dim memory of a day far back in the past, when a pale-faced, sweet-voiced woman had come to his dismal home, a woman who had taken him on to her lap and pressed him to her bosom, whilst she stroked his curls, and called him "Phil" in tones which made his name sound something quite new and pleasant. He remembered the sweet golden butter and the eggs she had brought, and, what was better, the bunch of roses, which he had kept till they were brown and dead. Never had Phil tasted such food as he enjoyed that day seated on the stranger's lap.

A tear had splashed on his cheek as he ate. And looking up, he saw that she was crying, and wondered why, though the fact had no power to break his deep content at the moment. He had asked her what was her name, and she had answered "Lizzie," and told him that he might call her "Aunt Lizzie," if he liked.

All too soon his mother had come upon the scene, and then the gentle stranger went away, and Phil had never seen her since, though he had often dreamed of her.

Something had recalled this one bright spot of memory to Phil's mind now, as he lingered at the door of the theatre.

"I wish she would come again," he thought, "but that won't never be. If only something might happen, so that I need not go home any more!"

But he was roused from these unprofitable musings by the bustle which announced that the play was over. As the people poured out through the open doors, he made his appeal to one and another with all the effect he could command. But the opportunity was not so good as he had imagined. Coming from the warm, bright house into the chill, damp night, every one was intent upon getting home as speedily as possible, and Phil found none to listen to him. He was roughly pushed aside by those who were struggling to secure cab or omnibus. Phil was not alarmed by the crowding and pushing. He dodged in and out amongst the people, diving under the heads of horses or creeping behind the wheels of carriages in his endeavours to follow up those who seemed most likely to be moved by compassion.

"Now then, boy, don't stand there begging, but be of use if you can," an excitable old lady charged him. "I'll give you twopence if you can get me a cab. See, there is one over the way. Run, quick!"

Phil needed no urging. In another moment he was in the road, fearlessly running between the passing vehicles. But ere the boy could reach the other side, the cab was in motion, a signal from some one else having attracted the driver's attention. Quick as thought, Phil doubled back, hoping to arrest it midway as it crossed the road. Intent upon his object, he forgot the dangers of the crowded thoroughfare.

A shout from behind startled him. He looked round, and saw two prancing, high-bred horses just upon him. Phil darted back, but, alas! he but escaped one peril to fall into another. The shaft of a passing cab struck him, and the shock threw him on the ground right in front of a heavily-laden van drawn by two powerful horses, which were being driven at a smart pace. There was no time to draw them in—no possibility of preventing what happened. An agonizing cry rang out on the air as over Phil's body rolled the heavy wheel.

The usual crowd gathered. A policeman came forward and took charge of the case. Under his directions, Phil's crushed form was lifted from the ground and conveyed to the nearest hospital.

"What is it all about?" some people were asking, as they watched the gathering crowd from the shelter of the theatre portico.

"Only a little boy run over. Such accidents happen every day; and it is a wonder there are not more of them. Killed, is he? Ah, poor little fellow! It is a shame that children are allowed to run about so in London."

And thus dismissing from their minds the commonplace occurrence, the play-goers went their way, and the stream of traffic flowed on as before along the Strand. The old lady who had sent Phil on his fatal errand had secured another cab almost immediately, and had driven off without caring to remember that she had bade the boy fetch her one. Perhaps she would have felt some twinges of self-reproach had she known what befell him.

Poor little Phil! His wish had found a terrible fulfilment. Something had indeed happened to prevent him from returning to his unhappy home.