However, at last they both yielded a little, and the gentleman gave me £25 in good guineas. When he gave it me he bade me hold out my hand, and he told the money into my hand; and when he had done he asked me if it was right. I said I did not know, but I believed it was. “Why,” says he, “can’t you tell it?” I told him no; I never saw so much money in my life, nor I did not know how to tell money. “Why,” says he, “don’t you know that they are guineas?” No, I told him, I did not know how much a guinea was. “Why, then,” says he, “did you tell me you believed it was right?” I told him, because I believed he would not give it me wrong. “Poor child,” says he, “thou knowest little of the world, indeed. What art thou?” “I am a poor boy,” says I, and cried. “What is your name?” says he. “But hold, I forgot,” said he; “I promised I would not ask your name, so you need not tell me.” “My name is Jacque,” said I. “Why, have you no surname?” said he. “What is that?” said I. “You have some other name besides Jacque,” says he, “han’t you?” “Yes,” says I; “they call me Colonel Jacque.” “But have you no other name?” “No,” said I. “How came you to be Colonel Jacque, pray?” “They say,” said I, “my father’s name was Colonel.” “Is your father or mother alive?” said he. “No,” said I; “my father is dead.” “Where is your mother, then?” said he. “I never had e’er a mother,” said I. This made him laugh. “What,” said he, “had you never a mother? What, then?” “I had a nurse,” said I; “but she was not my mother.” “Well,” says he to the gentleman, “I dare say this boy was not the thief that stole your bills.” “Indeed, sir, I did not steal them,” said I, and cried again. “No, no, child,” said he, “we don’t believe you did. This is a very clever boy,” says he to the other gentleman, “and yet very ignorant and honest; ’tis pity some care should not be taken of him, and something done for him. Let us talk a little more with him.” So they sat down and drank wine, and gave me some, and then the first gentleman talked to me again. “Well,” says he, “what wilt thou do with this money now thou hast it?” “I don’t know,” said I. “Where will you put it?” said he, “In my pocket,” said I. “In your pocket!” said he. “Is your pocket whole? Shan’t you lose it?” “Yes,” said I, “my pocket is whole.” “And where will you put it when you get home?” “I have no home,” said I, and cried again. “Poor child!” said he. “Then what dost thou do for thy living?” “I go of errands,” said I, “for the folks in Rosemary Lane.” “And what dost thou do for a lodging at night?” “I lie at the glass-house,” said I, “at night.” “How, lie at the glass-house! Have they any beds there?” says he. “I never lay in a bed in my life,” said I, “as I remember.” “Why,” says he, “what do you lie on at the glass-house?” “The ground,” says I; “and sometimes a little straw, or upon the warm ashes.”