“No, sir,” said Jan. “But I’ve drawn pigs and dogs, and I be mostly able to draw any thing I sees, I think.” The Cheap Jack whistled. “Profiles pays well,” he murmured; “but the tip is the Young Prodigy.” “We’re so pleased to see what a clever boy you are, Jan,” said Sal; “that’s all, my dear. Put the bridle on the horse, John, for we’ve got to go round by the mill.” Whilst the Cheap Jack obeyed her, Sal poked in the cart, from which she returned with three tumblers on a plate. She gave one to her husband, took one herself, and gave the third to Jan. “Here’s to your health, love,” said she; “drink to mine, Jan, and I’ll be a good mother to you.” Jan tasted, and put his glass down again, choking. “It’s so strong!” he said. The Cheap Jack looked furious. “Nice manners they’ve taught this brat of yours!” he cried to Sal. “Do ye think I’m going to take my ’oss a mile out of the road to take him to see his friends, when he won’t so much as drink our good healths?” “Oh! I will, indeed I will, sir,” cried Jan. He had taken a good deal of medicine during his illness, and he had learned the art of gulping. He emptied the little tumbler into his mouth, and swallowed the contents at a gulp. They choked him, but that was nothing. Then he felt as if something seized him in the inside of every limb. After he lost the power of moving, he could hear, and he heard the Cheap Jack say, “I’d go in for the Young Prodigy; genteel from the first; only, if we goes among the nobs, he may be recognized. He’s a rum-looking beggar.” “If you don’t go a drinking every penny he earns,” said Sal, pointedly, “we’ll soon get enough in a common line to take us to Ameriky, and he’ll be safe enough there.” On this Jan thought that he made a most desperate struggle and remonstrance. But in reality his lips never moved from their rigidity, and he only rolled his head upon his shoulder. After which he remembered no more. CHAPTER XXXI. SCREEVING.—AN OLD SONG.—MR. FORD’S CLIENT.—THE PENNY GAFF.—JAN RUNS AWAY. THERE was a large crowd, but large crowds gather quickly in London from small causes. It was in an out-of-the-way spot too, and the police had not yet tried to disperse it. The crowd was gathered round a street-artist who was “screeving,” or drawing pictures on the pavement in colored chalks. A good many men have followed the trade in London with some success, but this artist was a wan, meagre-looking child. It was Jan. He drew with extraordinary rapidity; not with the rapidity of slovenliness, but with the rapidity of a genius in the choice of what Ruskin calls “fateful lines.” At his back stood the hunchback, who “pattered” in description of the drawings as glibly as he used to “puff” his own wares as a Cheap Jack. [Picture: The crowd was gathered . . .]