So baker goes up fust, and I follows--up the dirty old staircase, till we stood on the landing, opposite to the door, where we could hear a young 'un a whimperin'. So baker knocks, and some one says, "Come in," and in we goes; and Lord, sir, it was a heart-breaking sight, sure-ly. I'm a rough 'un, sir, and used to all sorts of things, and it takes a good deal to get a rise out o' me; but I was done this time, and so was baker. I never see nought as upset me like that did, and I hopes I never shall again. No light--no fire--and pretty nigh no furniture, as far as we could see from the light as shined up into the room from a court at the back, where there was a gas lamp, and that warn't much, as you may suppose, sir. And jest then the lodger in the front room opens the door and offers her candle. I steps back and takes it, and then comes back and shuts the door arter me. Good Lord--Good Lord, what they must ha' suffered. There was a thin, half-dressed, pinched-faced woman, huddling up three little children together; and though they didn't know it, sir, I do. They didn't know as death had knocked at their doors, and was only a-waiting a bit before he came in. Think, sir, a cold November night in a bare garret-like room, and no fire, and no proper coverin', and no proper food, but the mother and children, close up together on a straw mattress, with some rags and an old blanket to cover 'em. "Oh, my God!" said baker. You see, sir, he was rayther strong in what he said, and he pulls off his coat and claps it over the poor wife's shoulders. "Here, pull out them hot taters," he says, and he hurries me so I could hardly get 'em out, but he soon has a hot 'un in each o' the child's hands, and tellin' me to keep 'em goin', he cuts down stairs as hard as he could pelt, and afore you could think it possible, back he comes again, with his arms full o' bundles o' wood, an' he sticks a couple all loose and sets light to 'em, and soon makes a cheerful blaze as made the poor things creep up to, and so close as I was almost obliged to keep the two littlest back, or they would ha' singed baker's coat. Away goes baker agen, and very soon back he comes with one o' them little sacks o' coals--half hundreds yer know, such as they sells poor folks coals in, and then he rams these coals on like fury while the poor woman looks on quite stupid like. "God forgive me," says baker; looking ready to bust, "what could I ha' been thinking of? Here, Bobby," he says, holdin' out a shilling, "go down and get a pot of hot ale and some gin in; a drop'll do even them kids good." I goes down in such a hurry that I forgets all about his shilling, and when they'd all had a taste round, it was wonderful how much better they looked; and then baker says, says he-- "Now you jest stop here half an hour till I gets back."