Dowker did not give him an education or dress him in decent clothes, as he thought this would spoil his instinct and appearance, both of which were essentially useful in their own particular way, so Flip remained ragged and ignorant; but it was his patron's intention to give him a chance of rising in the world when he grew older. He had no name except Flip, and the origin of that was a mystery--no clothes except a pair of baggy trousers and a tattered shirt--and his home was a noisome den in the purlieus of Drury Lane. His language was bad, so was his conduct; yet this small scrap of neglected humanity had in him the makings of a useful member of society. There are many such in London, but the Christians of England prefer to help the savages who don't want them to the savages who do. The Chickaboo Indians have existed for centuries without morals, religion, or clothes, and can very well exist for a longer period while the ragged denizens of the most civilized city in the world are being relieved. Everyone in London knows Drury Lane, that quaint, dirty narrow street leading to the Strand. The very name conjures up the shades of Siddons and Garrick, and the neighbourhood is sacred to the Dramatic Muse. Who has not seen that weather-stained picturesque house from the window of which gossipy old Pepys saw Mistress Nell Gwynne leaning out and watching the milkmaids go down to the Strand Maypole for the pleasant old English dance. But, alas! Nell and the milkmaids with their quaint chronicler have long since passed into the outer darkness--even the Maypole has become but a memory, yet the grim tumble down house still remains in the dirty lane. 'Tis a far cry from Charles to Victoria, and the merry milkmaids with their clinking pails have given place to frowsy old women, battered-looking young ones, and a ragged mixture of men and boys. Not an unpicturesque scene, this dilapidated-looking crowd, slouching over the rugged stones, and an artist would have stopped and admired them, but Dowker was not an artist, so looked not for scenic effect, but for Flip. Flip was sitting considering at the edge of the pavement with his feet, for the sake of coolness, in the gutter, and his eyes fixed on three dirty pennies lying in his own dirty brown palm. "'Am," said Flip, deliberating over the expenditure of his fortune. "'Am an' bread, an' a swig o' beer--my h'eye, wot a tuck h'out I'll 'ave. 'Ere," suddenly, as Dowker touched him with his foot, "what the blazes are you kicking? Why I'm blest if 'taint the guv'nor." He jumped to his feet, and slipped the pennies into the waistband of his trousers, which did duty with him for a pocket. "Wot's h'up, guv'nor," he asked with a leer. Flip's leer was not pleasant--it had such an unholy appearance, "more larks--my h'eye, I thort I'd never twig you agin. 'Ave you bin h'over the gardin-wall arter a prig?" "Hold your tongue," said Dowker sharply. "I want you to do something for me--are you hungry?"