"Your people," repeated Miser Farebrother. "Where you live, you know." "Ain't got no people," said the lad. "Don't live nowhere." "Listen to me, you young scoundrel," said Miser Farebrother, shaking a menacing forefinger at him; "if you're trying to impose upon me by a parcel of lies, you'll find yourself in the wrong box. As sure as I'm the master of this house, I'll have you locked up and fed upon stones and water for the rest of your life." "I ain't trying to impose upon you," persisted the lad, speaking very earnestly; "I ain't telling you a parcel of lies. Look here, your honour, have you got a book?" "What book?" "I don't care what book--any book! Give it me, and I'll kiss it, and swear on it that I've told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "You'll have to tell something more of yourself before I've done with you. Where did you live before you lived nowhere?" "Hailsham, your honour." "Where's that?" "Don't know, your honour." "How far from here?" "Six days, your honour." "None of your nonsense. How far?" "Couldn't tell to a yard, if you was to skin me alive. It took me six days to git here." "You walked?" "Yes, your honour; every step of the way." "Who did you live with at Hailsham?" "Mother." "You said you had none." "More I have. She's dead." "Father too?" "Yes; ever so long ago." "What brought you here?" "My legs." Miser Farebrother restrained his anger--for which there was no sound reason, the lad's manner being perfectly respectful. "What did you come here for?" "To see grandfather. I heerd mother talk of him and grandmother ever so many times, and that they lived down here; so when she was buried I thought I might do worse than come and see 'em." "Have you seen them?" "No, your honour; they're dead too." The lad added, mournfully, "Everybody's dead, I think." "They lived down here, you say?" "Yes; 'most all their lives; in this fine house. They was taking care of it for the master." Some understanding of the situation dawned upon Miser Farebrother, and a dim idea that it might be turned to his use and profit. "What was their name?" "Barley, your honour. That's my name, Tom Barley; and if you'd give me a job I'd be everlastingly thankful."