“Bless ’is little ’eart,” exclaimed the big woman. “Bless th’ little ’eart! ’is belly’s empty, that it is. Come reight in, little Priddy lad, there’s waarm teigh (tea) and ’ot buttered crumpets. Sarah Jane,” she shouted towards the rear of the house from whence came the tinkle of spoons rattling in cups and a low hum of voices, “get that tu’pence from under th’ china shep’erdess on’t mantle and bring it reight off. Come in, Priddy, lad, and fill th’ belly!” “If you please, ma’am,” I said, “I can’t stop, if you please. Aunt Millie hasn’t got anything to eat and she’s waiting me. I think I’ll take the money, if you please, and be sharp home, thank you!” “Bless ’is little ’eart,” murmured the big woman, “’ere’s tuppence ’apenny, an’ come ageen, wen tha has’t moor wood to sell.” “If you please,” I interposed, “it’s only tu’pence. I can’t take more; aunt said so!” “Bless ’is ’eart, that’s so,” said the big woman. “Is th’ sure th’ won’t eat a waarm crumpet, little Priddy, lad?” I had to refuse again, and clutching the two pennies, I ran exultantly down the road toward home, where aunt was sitting near the very tiny light that a very tiny piece of coal was giving in the big fireplace. With one penny I purchased a warm loaf and with the other I bought some golden treacle, and that night there was not a lord in England whose supper had the taste to it that mine had. Two days after that, when we were once more without food in the house, and when I had had but a scant breakfast, I met a rough-garbed boy not much older than myself, a homeless waif, known and condemned by the name of “Work ’Ouse Teddy.” This day that I met him, he performed his usual feat of wriggling his fingers on his nose, a horrible, silent, swear gesture, and called out to me, “Hey, Fishy, got a cockle on your nose?” “No,” I replied, being secretly afraid of him, “I’ve not. I’m hungry. I haven’t had any dinner.” “Aw, yer got chunks of money, you have, I knows. Don’t taffy me like that or I’ll squeege yer nose in my thumbs, blast me, I will!” and he made a horrible contortion of his face to frighten me. “I am hungry!” I protested. “We are poor now, Teddy.” Then I told him all our story, as well as I could, and when I told him about selling the kindling, he laughed and said, “Blow me, you codger! You oughter get your meals like I gets um. Say, now, blokey, wot you say to--well, let’s see,” and he mused awhile. Then, “Well, say, wot would yer say to ’taters in gravy, some meat-pie, cold, and a drink of coffee?”