‘Well, you see, ma’am, it ain’t allowed by the magistrates; leastwise, not inside the borough.’ ‘Poor little fellow!’ said the actress as she looked at the lad; ‘I’ll take him myself to the workhouse. There he would be out of harm’s way, and washed and fed, and made clean and comfortable.’ ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, that ain’t no use; you ain’t got a horder, and it is as much as the porter’s place is worth to take anyone in without a horder.’ ‘Then, what’s to be done with the poor boy?’ ‘Ah, that’s the question,’ said the policeman, and he was right there. What’s to be done with our boys, rich or poor, good or bad, is a question some of us find increasingly hard to answer. ‘Then you can’t help me?’ said the actress. ‘Oh no, mum; we’ve plenty of such boys about.’ ‘What’s to be done?’ said the lady she still looked at the poor boy. ‘Is it right to leave him thus?’ There was a tear in her voice as she spoke. All seemed so hard and unmoved, and the urgency was so pressing. ‘Dear madam,’ said the Mayor, who felt himself bound to say something, ‘the case is a hard one, but there’s no help for it. We can’t encourage such hoys as that. If we did, the town would be overrun with them. They are always begging.’ ‘I wasn’t beggin’,’ said the boy, who now began to feel interested in the discussion. ‘I don’t want to go beggin’. I want a job.’ ‘Ah, all the boys say that,’ said the Vicar, ‘the young rascals! If I had my way, I would give them a good whipping all round.’ ‘Yes, and if we listened to all these stories the bench would have to sit all day long,’ said the Town Clerk, giving the boy a copper and ordering him off. ‘Off,’ said the actress—‘where to?’ ‘To Parker’s Buildings,’ said the Mayor. ‘That’s where these young rascals live. There is not a worse place in the whole town.’ ‘Nor in the country nayther,’ said the policeman. ‘It would be a good job if the whole place were burnt down.’ The policeman always backed up the opinions of his worship the Mayor, as, indeed, he did those of all his betters. It was a habit that paid. ‘Well, the poor boy looks really ill; can’t you get him into the hospital?’ asked the actress. ‘I am sorry,’ said the Vicar, ‘but the committee of the hospital don’t meet for a week, and we can do nothing in such a case. If it had been winter we could have sent him to the soup-kitchen; but in the summer-time we are not prepared for such an irregularity.’ At length a happy thought struck him. Turning to the boy, he said, ‘What’s your name, my little man?’ ‘Little Beast.’ ‘Little Beast! Good heavens! what a name for a child. Who gave you that name?’ ‘Mother. Mother allus calls me Little Beast, ’cause I won’t let her hit brother.’