“Never fight if you can help it, Jabez; but if you fight to save a poor dumb animal from ill-usage, or to protect the weak against the strong, Jotty Brucks is not the man to blame you. Here, lad,” and into the pinafore of Jabez went the remainder of the “humbugs.” He patted the boy on the head, bade him get on with his reading, he did not know what good fortune might come of it, told him to come regularly to church, to love God and God’s creatures, and went away, leaving Bess to prepare her father’s porridge (tea was from twelve to sixteen shillings a pound, and beyond their reach). Almost on the threshold he encountered Simon. “Can’t you keep that young sprig out of mischief? If he begins fighting and quarrelling at six years old, what will he do when he is sixteen?” he cried, gruffly, as he brushed past the tanner, and was far up the yard before the man could think of a reply. A couple of young pigeons were sent for Jabez about a week after, with a large bag of stale cakes and bread to feed them with. The name of the sender was unknown, but anyone acquainted with the habits of Joshua Brookes (who contracted for Mrs. Clowes’s waste pastry, to fill the crops of his own feathered colony) would not have been troubled to guess. Simon stroked his raspy chin, and seemed dubious, cost of keep being a question; but Jabez looked so wistful, his foster-father borrowed tools and answered the appeal by making a triangular cote for them, and Jabez found fresh occupation in their care. Yet occupation was not lacking, young as he was. He could fetch and carry, run short errands, and help Bess to clean. Their living-room no longer waited a week to be swept and dusted, Jabez did it every day, standing on a chair to reach the top of the bureau, where lay the cynosure of his young eyes. He still took his Sunday lessons in field or stream with Simon, and through the week clambered up from monosyllables to dissyllables with Bess. CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. THE BLUE-COAT SCHOOL. The children of the poor begin early to earn their bread. Legislature has stepped in to regulate the age and hours for labour in manufacturing districts, and to provide education for the very humblest. Jabez Clegg was not born in these blissful times, and he only narrowly escaped the common lot. He was not eight years old, yet Simon, on whom war-prices pressed as heavily as on his neighbours, began to discuss with Bess the necessity for sending the lad to Simpson’s factory (where Arkwright’s machinery was first set in motion). “He mun goo as sune as the new year taks a fair grip,” decided Simon, and 1805 was at its last gasp as he said it.