Her Benny: A Story of Street Life. Hocking Silas Kitto
an' I will too."
After awhile he spoke again. "I say, Nell, ain't yer hungry? for I is. I believe I could eat a grave-stun."
"I was hungry afore faather beat me, but I doesna feel it now," was the reply.
"Well, I seen where mother put the bread an' butter, and if I dunna fork the lot I's not Ben Bates."
"But how will yer get to it, Benny?"
"Aisy 'nough, on'y you must 'elp me."
So without much noise they moved the table into the corner of the room underneath the cupboard, and placing the chair on the top of the table, Benny mounted the top, and was able to reach the cupboard without difficulty.
A fair share of the loaf remained, and "heaps of butter," Benny said.
"Now, Nell," said he, "we'll 'ave a feast."
And a feast they did have, according to Benny's thinking, for very little of either loaf or butter remained when they had finished their repast.
"What will mother say when she finds out?" said Nelly, when they had again lain down.
"We must be off afore she wakes, Nell, and never come back no more."
"Dost 'a mean it, Benny?"
"Ay do I. We mun take all our traps wi' us i' t' morning."
"Where shall us go?"
"Never fear, we'll find a shop somewheres, an' anywheres is better nor this."
"Ay, that's so."
"Now, Nell, we mun sleep a bit, 'cause as how we'll 'ave to be stirring airly."
And soon the brother and sister were fast asleep, locked in each other's arms.
CHAPTER III.
Roughing it
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God, the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
Next morning Benny was stirring early, and when the first faint rays of the coming day peeped through the dust-begrimed and patched-up window, they saw the little fellow busily engaged in gathering together what things he and Nelly possessed previous to their final departure from home.
Nelly still slept on, and several times the brother paused and looked fondly down upon the fair face of the sleeping child. She looked very beautiful, Benny thought, as she lay sleeping there, with a pink spot glowing on either cheek, and the long flaxen hair thrown carelessly back from the pale forehead. Once or twice she murmured in her sheep, and the same happy smile spread over her face that he had noticed the evening before when she sat gazing into Joe Wrag's fire.
"I wonder what she's a-dreamin' on?" he murmured to himself. "Perhaps she sees the hills and flowers and trees agin."
Then he set to work again turning over a heap of rubbish that had been pushed as far back as possible under the stairs. At length a joyful exclamation burst from his lips as he came upon a small heap of potatoes.
"Here's a fortin', an' no mistake; Nell and I'll be able to walk off the lot."
And he brought them out into the room, and wrapped them up in an old handkerchief that his stepmother used to tie round her head when she went out. There were scarcely twenty potatoes altogether, but to Benny they seemed almost an inexhaustible supply.
This being done, he sat down beside his sleeping sister and waited until he should hear any movement in the room above. Gradually the cold grey light of the morning stole into the room, revealing all its squalor and dinginess, and Benny felt that he and Nelly would have to make their escape soon, or else they might be prevented. He felt very loth to awake his sister, she slept so sweetly, and he did not know where they might find a shelter when darkness covered the earth again. But there was no help for it. His father might awake any moment, and the neighbours would soon be stirring in the court and in Bowker's Row. So bending over her, he pressed his lips upon her brow: still she moved not.
"Nelly," he whispered, "it's time to be movin'."
Slowly the great round eyes opened, and looked languidly up into his face.
"Come, stir your pegs, Nell, or we'll be too late."
"Oh, ay," she said, as the recollection of the previous evening came back to her. "We 'as to be off to-day, ain't we?"
"Ay, my gal, we's goin' on our own 'ook now, so look alive."
"Does yer think we's doin' right, Benny?"
"'Course we is, Nell; I'll take care o' yer, never fear."
Thus reassured, she followed Benny silently out of the house and into Bowker's Row; then seeing that no one was about, they set off at a quick trot in the direction from whence they had come the previous night.
Nelly had the utmost confidence in Benny's sagacity, and though she had doubted for a moment whether they were doing the wisest thing in the course they were taking, yet she had little doubt that her brother would be equal to every emergency, and that he would find her a home of some sort. And the child had a vague, undefined feeling that they could not be worse off, whatever might happen. To see her Benny punished as she had so frequently done of late was "pain and grief" to her: not only had he suffered the pinchings of cold and hunger during the day, but he had been compelled to bring home a certain amount every night, or else take the consequences of her father's senseless anger.
And as the child thought of these things she could not wonder that Benny had resolved to run away and seek a home somewhere else. But what of herself? She had on the whole been much better treated, and she thought perhaps her father did not well know what he was doing last night, as he was in drink. Ought she, then, to run away? "Ay, but I canna leave Benny," was her mental response; and having settled that question, she seemed perfectly satisfied to share the fortunes of her brother, whatever they might be, and help him as best she could to fight the battle of life.
As for Benny, he had no qualms of conscience about the matter. He had never heard the command,
"Honour thy father and thy mother," and even if he had, it would not have troubled him on the present occasion. He had a feeling that he had been wronged, cruelly wronged, and that he ought not to stand it any longer. Once the question had crossed his mind, "Had he any right to take those potatoes?" But he answered the question to himself by saying, "Ain't I brought home a haaf a bob every night for th' week, an' then bin kep' without supper? By jabbers, I's paid for those taters, and I'll eat 'em." Moreover, his notions of right and wrong were of the vaguest character. He had some dim recollection of his mother, and how she used to tell him it was wrong to steal, and to tell lies, and to cheat. But the more he tried to recall it, the vaguer the recollection became. Yet sometimes when he was tempted to steal, and would look around to see that no one was watching him, a voice within him would whisper, "Don't, Benny, it is wrong to steal," and he would turn away with a sigh, feeling that there was something in that voice that he dared not disobey.
In after years he held firmly to the belief that his own mother was permitted to be the guardian angel of his childhood, and that it was she who whispered to him when he was tempted to do wrong. He has also been heard to say, that though he regarded it as very wrong for children, under ordinary circumstances, to leave their home without their parents' consent, yet in his case he thought his action perfectly justifiable.
But we must leave this question, with the hope that none of the children who read this story may be driven by cruelty and wrong to a similar course of action, and must follow the little waifs as they threaded their way through the dingy streets that cold December morning. Their object was to reach Joe Wrag's fire before his watch ended, and in this they were successful. Joe was standing before his hut, rubbing his hands over the still glowing grate, though Benny noticed that the fire was burning low.
"We's brought some taters from hum, may we cook 'em on yer fire, Joe?" said Benny, putting on as bold a face as he could. Joe looked at the children for a moment without speaking.
"Please