I. A. R. Wylie

“ Peter put his hand to his pocket and drew it away wincing.
“I'm afraid I'm a rotten sort of pal, after all,” he said bitterly. “But look here—do you see these papers?”
“Yus.”
“Well, perhaps one day they'll make me rich,—very rich—and then you sha'n't be hungry any more, Victoria-Regina.”
“G'arn! You're kidding!”
“I'm not—honor bright. It's my invention. People pay a lot for anything that will make things a little easier, a little more comfortable for themselves. That's what my invention will do.” ”

“ The doctor replaced his thermometer in his pocket and concealed a grimace made in the direction of the glorified soap-box. “Give her plenty of milk, eggs and cream and she'll be all right. Nourishing food is what she wants—”
“P'r'aps a little champagne?” Lizz suggested bitterly.
“Well—perhaps—in small quantities. Don't overdo it. I'll drop in, in a day or two. Good night!”
The door slammed, and Lizz tiptoed back to the soap-box and bent over the restlessly tossing occupant. Emily Victoria-Regina's eyes were wide open. ”

“ Choosing the largest thoroughfare, he made his way west to that exalted region of melancholy squares and enrailed melancholy gardens where the fashionables and would-be fashionables of the earth congregate in freewill or compulsory exclusiveness. ”

“ Higgins does himself justice,” said Peter at last very quietly. “He hasn't told you that it was I who turned him out of his job. He hasn't told you that he is hungry and he has a wife and child—starving in a little back-street garret. That all makes a difference. It—it explains things.”
Mrs. Middleton looked from one man to the other.
“Starving!” she echoed blankly. “Starving—and this morning I gave that old fossil one hundred pounds for his organ!”
“There's lots worse than me, ma'am,” Bill Higgins put in humbly. “It aint all our fault, ma'am—we don't mean no 'arm.” ”

“ She laid a clumsy comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I'll get a bit of charing on Monday, Bill. That'll keep us going for a bit.”
“You're a good sort, Lizz.” He patted the hand with a rough. tenderness. “Best pal I've ever 'ad. But I reckon it wont feed the kid when it comes 'ome. That 'ungry too! And then it'll 'owl! Lizz, s'help me, Gawd, I can't stand that—I can't stand it 'owling.”
“P'r'aps the millenniyum's a-coming wot Mrs. Bunbury was a-telling me about,” she said dreamily.
“Aint no such thing as millenniums for the likes of us, old girl. ”

“ I aint no hanarchist, Lizz, but when the kid 'owls 'cause it's 'ungry, then there's folk I'd like to see blowed up sky-'igh—them there millionaires in their forty-'orsepowers and them painted women wot never so much as scrub a floor. ”

“ Her arms dropped to her sides as though struck with a sudden weakness. “Bill, they daren't. T'other chaps wont stand it. They'll come out again—”
“No, they wont.” He laughed thickly, savagely. “They're done up—cleaned out—'alf starving, most of them. They wont fight for no one—I wouldn't either. We're beat!” Bill ground out his words from between set teeth. “But if I find 'im wot's took my job, I'll finish 'im—I'll do 'im in, s'help me!”
He broke down then, gasping with rage and misery, his working face buried in his hands, his mighty shoulders quivering. Lizz came over to his side. ”

“ Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs—many footsteps. She could hear voices. To her distraught fancy the room was already full of accusers and burly policemen. She would be caught redhanded. And who would believe her story? No one.
Then the door opened and Peter Middleton entered. She saw him and nothing else until suddenly she found her husband at her side.
“Lizz!” he gasped. “Them papers—you 'aven't done it?”
“They're gone!” she answered stupidly.
“Oh, Gawd!” He swung round and faced Middleton, half defiant, half pleading. 'Don't you do nothink to 'er, sir. ”

“ Presently he spoke again.
“Seems to me it would be a good thing if it didn't come back.”
“Bill!”
“Aw means it.” He rubbed his grimy palms fiercely against his knees. “Lawst kids gets took to horphenages and hinstitoots where they gets fed and clothed and heddicated. They 'as a chawnce. Wot chawnce 'as our kid? We aint got nothink to give it when it does come 'ome.”
She nodded. “And that 'ungry as it always is! Doctor said if it didn't get fed up, it might—it might—” She broke off.
“Lizz, wot's we a-going to do?” He looked up at her, and the grow! became a hoarse groan of helpless appeal. ”

“ Mrs. Higgins slammed down a tin plate on the table with a fierce energy. “Don't know wot's a-coming to you, Vick. Wot was you a-thinking about?”
“About them there millionaires. Seems to me millionaires can't be all wicked, Mother.”
“'O said they was?”
“Father.”
“Don't you tike no notice of wot 'e says,” Lizz recommended. “'E's a man. Ere, you tike this and give it to Mrs. Bunbury with my compliments. It's for last week's rent. And mind you get a receipt. And bring up a pint of beer for your father. The strike'll be over to-day, and he'll want to celebrate a bit, poor chap.” ”

“ Very gently that stranger lowered his burden into the soap-box. Whereupon the burden wriggled, extended two small and dirty hands, gripped the lapel of his coat and gave a drowsy sigh.
“I want my p'liceman.”
Lizz suppressed a giggle.
“It thinks you're a copper, sir,” she explained in hushed accents. “There aint one of them round these parts wot 'asn't 'ad to bring 'er back some time or other, and she's got sort of accustomed to the idea. We're—we're much obliged, sir.” ”