"I'm going to have a barrer some day, when I gets big enough to manage one. That's a fine trade, you know; selling all them beautiful fruits round about the 'Change--waiting and stopping when you gets a chance, for the pleece won't let you stay anywhere. There's Harry Sanders makes ever so much, only he's a big married man, wife and two little 'uns and a dawg. Sometimes it's pineapples his barrer's full off, then it's cherries, or plums, or peaches, or apples, or pears; at early times, strawberries or sparrowgrass, and all done up nicely in baskets or bundles, so as the big City gents will buy them to take home down in the country. But mother says I must wait ever so long yet, 'cos I'm so little for my age." "Might I come and see you, Bill?" I asked. "You can cum if you like mum, only our room ain't werry comfortable, and the mangle skreeks so, whilst the two littlest often cries a deal, and makes a noise because Sally don't mind 'em well. How old is she? Oh, Sally's six, only she ain't a useful gal, and always was fond of slipping out and playing in the court with the other gals and boys, as always comes up to play because there's no carts and 'busses coming by. You'll come some day, then, mum? Don't you go when I ain't at home. Good-bye, mum. Don't want another indy-rubber ring, do you?" Another day and I was looking out near the Mansion House for my little hero, when my heart sank at the sight of a gathering crowd, generally a danger signal, in that busy way. "What's the matter, my man?" "Matter? Why it's a wonder it don't happen five hundred times a day. That's what it is--a runnin', an' a dodgin', an' a bobbin' about in amongst the 'osses' feet, and a gettin' runned over, as a matter o' course, at last." Yes, at last, as I found on elbowing my way through the gaping crowd, feasting their eyes upon the sight of a little muddied bundle of clothes, above which appeared a little, old-looking, scared, quivering, and pain-wrung countenance, while two muddy hands tightly clutched a dirty parcel of evening papers to his breast. "He ain't much hurt, bless you," said a policeman. "You're all right, ain't yer, old man? Now then, try and get on yer legs." The little muddy object stared wildly round at the many faces, and his lips moved, but no sound came; while as the policeman tried to lift him up, a low, sobbing, heart-wrung cry came from the poor child's breast, and drew a compassionate murmur from the crowd. "It's them Hansoms, you see," said a man beside me; "they cuts along full roosh; and one of 'em caught the poor little chap, threw him down, and the wheel went right over him." "Well, where does it hurt, eh?" said the policeman, not unkindly. The dim eyes were turned up to the speaker; the papers clutched tightly to the muddy breast; the poor child's lip quivered for a moment, and then Nature was kind to the little sufferer, and he fainted.