Clare went meekly back. “I’ve just remembered hearing--but mind I _know_ nothing, and pledge myself to nothing----” He paused. “I didn’t say I was _sure_ about it,” returned Clare, thinking he referred to the fate of the animals, “but I fear I’m to blame for not being sure.” “Come, come!” said the baker, with a twist of his mouth that expressed disgust, “hold your tongue, and listen to me.--I did hear, as I was saying, that Mr. Maidstone, down the town, had one of his errand-boys laid up with scarlet fever. I’ll take you to him, if you like. Perhaps he’ll have you,--though I can’t say you look respectable!” “I ain’t had much chance since I left home, sir. I had a bit of soap, but----” He bethought him that he had better say nothing about his family. Tommy had picked his pocket of the soap the night before, and tried to eat it, and Clare had hidden it away: he wanted it to wash the baby with as soon as he could get some warm water; but when he went to find it to wash his own face, it was gone. He suspected Tommy, but before long he had terrible ground for a different surmise. “You see, sir,” he resumed, “I had other things to think of. When your tummy’s empty, you don’t think about the rest of you--do you, sir?” The baker could not remember having ever been more than decently, healthily hungry in his life; and here he had been rough on a well-bred boy too hungry to wash his face! Perhaps the word _one of these little ones_ came to him. He had some regard for him who spoke it, though he did talk more about him on Sundays than obey him in the days between. “I don’t know, my boy,” he answered. “Would you like a piece of bread?” “I’m not much in want of it at this moment,” replied Clare, “but I should be greatly obliged if you would let me call for it by and by. You see, sir, when a man has no work, he can’t help having no money!” “A man!” thought the baker. “God pity you, poor monkey!” He called to some one to mind the shop, removed his apron and put on a coat, shut the door, and went down the street with Clare. Chapter XXX. THE DRAPER. At the shop of a draper and haberdasher, where one might buy almost anything sold, Clare’s new friend stopped and walked in. He asked to see Mr. Maidstone, and a shopman went to fetch him from behind. He came out into the public floor. “I heard you were in want of a boy, sir,” said the baker, who carried himself as in the presence of a superior; and certainly fine clothes and a gold chain and ring did what they could to make the draper superior to the baker. “Hm!” said Mr. Maidstone, looking with contempt at Clare. “I rather liked the look of this poor boy, and ventured to bring him on approval,” continued the baker timidly. “He ain’t much to look at, I confess!” “Hm!” said the draper again. “He don’t look promising!” “He don’t. But I think he means performing,” said the baker, with a wan smile.