At the Back of the North Wind

CHAPTER XIX. DIAMOND’S FRIENDS

ONE day when old Diamond was standing with his nose in his bag between Pall Mall and Cockspur Street, and his master was reading the newspaper on the box of his cab, which was the last of a good many in the row, little Diamond got down for a run, for his legs were getting cramped with sitting. And first of all he strolled with his hands in his pockets up to the crossing, where the girl and her broom were to be found in all weathers. Just as he was going to speak to her, a tall gentleman stepped upon the crossing. He was pleased to find it so clean, for the streets were muddy, and he had nice boots on; so he put his hand in his pocket, and gave the girl a penny. But when she gave him a sweet smile in return, and made him a pretty courtesy, he looked at her again, and said:

“Where do you live, my child?”

“Paradise Row,” she answered; “next door to the Adam and Eve—down the area.”

“Whom do you live with?” he asked.

“My wicked old grannie,” she replied.

“You shouldn’t call your grannie wicked,” said the gentleman.

“But she is,” said the girl, looking up confidently in his face. “If you don’t believe me, you can come and take a look at her.”

The words sounded rude, but the girl’s face looked so simple that the gentleman saw she did not mean to be rude, and became still more interested in her.

“Still you shouldn’t say so,” he insisted.

“Shouldn’t I? Everybody calls her wicked old grannie—even them that’s as wicked as her. You should hear her swear. There’s nothing like it in the Row. Indeed, I assure you, sir, there’s ne’er a one of them can shut my grannie up once she begins and gets right a-going. You must put her in a passion first, you know. It’s no good till you do that—she’s so old now. How she do make them laugh, to be sure!”

Although she called her wicked, the child spoke so as plainly to indicate pride in her grannie’s pre-eminence in swearing.

The gentleman looked very grave to hear her, for he was sorry that such a nice little girl should be in such bad keeping. But he did not know what to say next, and stood for a moment with his eyes on the ground. When he lifted them, he saw the face of Diamond looking up in his.

“Please, sir,” said Diamond, “her grannie’s very cruel to her sometimes, and shuts her out in the streets at night, if she happens to be late.”

“Is this your brother?” asked the gentleman of the girl.

“No, sir.”

“How does he know your grandmother, then? He does not look like one of her sort.”

“Oh no, sir! He’s a good boy—quite.”

Here she tapped her forehead with her finger in a significant manner.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the gentleman, while Diamond looked on smiling.

“The cabbies call him God’s baby,” she whispered. “He’s not right in the head, you know. A tile loose.”

Still Diamond, though he heard every word, and understood it too, kept on smiling. What could it matter what people called him, so long as he did nothing he ought not to do? And, besides, God’s baby was surely the best of names!

“Well, my little man, and what can you do?” asked the gentleman, turning towards him—just for the sake of saying something.

“Drive a cab,” said Diamond.

“Good; and what else?” he continued; for, accepting what the girl had said, he regarded the still sweetness of Diamond’s face as a sign of silliness, and wished to be kind to the poor little fellow.

“Nurse a baby,” said Diamond.

“Well—and what else?”

“Clean father’s boots, and make him a bit of toast for his tea.”

“You’re a useful little man,” said the gentleman. “What else can you do?”

“Not much that I know of,” said Diamond. “I can’t curry a horse, except somebody puts me on his back. So I don’t count that.”

“Can you read?”

“No. But mother can and father can, and they’re going to teach me some day soon.”

“Well, here’s a penny for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And when you have learned to read, come to me, and I’ll give you sixpence and a book with fine pictures in it.”

“Please, sir, where am I to come?” asked Diamond, who was too much a man of the world not to know that he must have the gentleman’s address before he could go and see him.

“You’re no such silly!” thought he, as he put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a card. “There,” he said, “your father will be able to read that, and tell you where to go.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Diamond, and put the card in his pocket.

The gentleman walked away, but turning round a few paces off, saw Diamond give his penny to the girl, and, walking slower heard him say:

“I’ve got a father, and mother, and little brother, and you’ve got nothing but a wicked old grannie. You may have my penny.”

The girl put it beside the other in her pocket, the only trustworthy article of dress she wore. Her grandmother always took care that she had a stout pocket.

“Is she as cruel as ever?” asked Diamond.

“Much the same. But I gets more coppers now than I used to, and I can get summats to eat, and take browns enough home besides to keep her from grumbling. It’s a good thing she’s so blind, though.”

“Why?” asked Diamond.

“‘Cause if she was as sharp in the eyes as she used to be, she would find out I never eats her broken wittles, and then she’d know as I must get something somewheres.”

“Doesn’t she watch you, then?”

“O’ course she do. Don’t she just! But I make believe and drop it in my lap, and then hitch it into my pocket.”

“What would she do if she found you out?”

“She never give me no more.”

“But you don’t want it!”

“Yes, I do want it.”

“What do you do with it, then?”

“Give it to cripple Jim.”

“Who’s cripple Jim?”

“A boy in the Row. His mother broke his leg when he wur a kid, so he’s never come to much; but he’s a good boy, is Jim, and I love Jim dearly. I always keeps off a penny for Jim—leastways as often as I can.—But there I must sweep again, for them busses makes no end o’ dirt.”

“Diamond! Diamond!” cried his father, who was afraid he might get no good by talking to the girl; and Diamond obeyed, and got up again upon the box. He told his father about the gentleman, and what he had promised him if he would learn to read, and showed him the gentleman’s card.

“Why, it’s not many doors from the Mews!” said his father, giving him back the card. “Take care of it, my boy, for it may lead to something. God knows, in these hard times a man wants as many friends as he’s ever likely to get.”

“Haven’t you got friends enough, father?” asked Diamond.

“Well, I have no right to complain; but the more the better, you know.”

“Just let me count,” said Diamond.

And he took his hands from his pockets, and spreading out the fingers of his left hand, began to count, beginning at the thumb.

“There’s mother, first, and then baby, and then me. Next there’s old Diamond—and the cab—no, I won’t count the cab, for it never looks at you, and when Diamond’s out of the shafts, it’s nobody. Then there’s the man that drinks next door, and his wife, and his baby.”

“They’re no friends of mine,” said his father.

“Well, they’re friends of mine,” said Diamond.

His father laughed.

“Much good they’ll do you!” he said.

“How do you know they won’t?” returned Diamond.

“Well, go on,” said his father.

“Then there’s Jack and Mr. Stonecrop, and, deary me! not to have mentioned Mr. Coleman and Mrs. Coleman, and Miss Coleman, and Mrs. Crump. And then there’s the clergyman that spoke to me in the garden that day the tree was blown down.”

“What’s his name!”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you count him, then?”

“He did talk to me, and very kindlike too.”

His father laughed again.

“Why, child, you’re just counting everybody you know. That don’t make ‘em friends.”

“Don’t it? I thought it did. Well, but they shall be my friends. I shall make ‘em.”

“How will you do that?”

“They can’t help themselves then, if they would. If I choose to be their friend, you know, they can’t prevent me. Then there’s that girl at the crossing.”

“A fine set of friends you do have, to be sure, Diamond!”

“Surely she’s a friend anyhow, father. If it hadn’t been for her, you would never have got Mrs. Coleman and Miss Coleman to carry home.”

His father was silent, for he saw that Diamond was right, and was ashamed to find himself more ungrateful than he had thought.

“Then there’s the new gentleman,” Diamond went on.

“If he do as he say,” interposed his father.

“And why shouldn’t he? I daresay sixpence ain’t too much for him to spare. But I don’t quite understand, father: is nobody your friend but the one that does something for you?”

“No, I won’t say that, my boy. You would have to leave out baby then.”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t. Baby can laugh in your face, and crow in your ears, and make you feel so happy. Call you that nothing, father?”

The father’s heart was fairly touched now. He made no answer to this last appeal, and Diamond ended off with saying:

“And there’s the best of mine to come yet—and that’s you, daddy—except it be mother, you know. You’re my friend, daddy, ain’t you? And I’m your friend, ain’t I?”

“And God for us all,” said his father, and then they were both silent for that was very solemn.

CHAPTER XX. DIAMOND LEARNS TO READ

THE question of the tall gentleman as to whether Diamond could read or not set his father thinking it was high time he could; and as soon as old Diamond was suppered and bedded, he began the task that very night. But it was not much of a task to Diamond, for his father took for his lesson-book those very rhymes his mother had picked up on the sea-shore; and as Diamond was not beginning too soon, he learned very fast indeed. Within a month he was able to spell out most of the verses for himself.

But he had never come upon the poem he thought he had heard his mother read from it that day. He had looked through and through the book several times after he knew the letters and a few words, fancying he could tell the look of it, but had always failed to find one more like it than another. So he wisely gave up the search till he could really read. Then he resolved to begin at the beginning, and read them all straight through. This took him nearly a fortnight. When he had almost reached the end, he came upon the following verses, which took his fancy much, although they were certainly not very like those he was in search of.

LITTLE BOY BLUE

 
Little Boy Blue lost his way in a wood.
Sing apples and cherries, roses and honey;
He said, “I would not go back if I could,
It’s all so jolly and funny.”
He sang, “This wood is all my own,
Apples and cherries, roses and honey;
So here I’ll sit, like a king on my throne,
All so jolly and funny.”
A little snake crept out of the tree,
Apples and cherries, roses and honey;
“Lie down at my feet, little snake,” said he,
All so jolly and funny.
A little bird sang in the tree overhead,
Apples and cherries, roses and honey;
“Come and sing your song on my finger instead,
All so jolly and funny.”
The snake coiled up; and the bird flew down,
And sang him the song of Birdie Brown.
Little Boy Blue found it tiresome to sit,
And he thought he had better walk on a bit.
So up he got, his way to take,
And he said, “Come along, little bird and snake.”
And waves of snake o’er the damp leaves passed,
And the snake went first and Birdie Brown last;
By Boy Blue’s head, with flutter and dart,
Flew Birdie Brown with its song in its heart.
He came where the apples grew red and sweet:
“Tree, drop me an apple down at my feet.”
He came where the cherries hung plump and red:
“Come to my mouth, sweet kisses,” he said.
And the boughs bow down, and the apples they dapple
The grass, too many for him to grapple.
And the cheeriest cherries, with never a miss,
Fall to his mouth, each a full-grown kiss.
He met a little brook singing a song.
He said, “Little brook, you are going wrong.
“You must follow me, follow me, follow, I say
Do as I tell you, and come this way.”
And the song-singing, sing-songing forest brook
Leaped from its bed and after him took,
Followed him, followed.  And pale and wan,
The dead leaves rustled as the water ran.
And every bird high up on the bough,
And every creature low down below,
He called, and the creatures obeyed the call,
Took their legs and their wings and followed him all;
Squirrels that carried their tails like a sack,
Each on his own little humpy brown back;
Householder snails, and slugs all tails,
And butterflies, flutterbies, ships all sails;
And weasels, and ousels, and mice, and larks,
And owls, and rere-mice, and harkydarks,
All went running, and creeping, and flowing,
After the merry boy fluttering and going;
The dappled fawns fawning, the fallow-deer following,
The swallows and flies, flying and swallowing;
Cockchafers, henchafers, cockioli-birds,
Cockroaches, henroaches, cuckoos in herds.
The spider forgot and followed him spinning,
And lost all his thread from end to beginning.
The gay wasp forgot his rings and his waist,
He never had made such undignified haste.
The dragon-flies melted to mist with their hurrying.
The mole in his moleskins left his barrowing burrowing.
The bees went buzzing, so busy and beesy,
And the midges in columns so upright and easy.
But Little Boy Blue was not content,
Calling for followers still as he went,
Blowing his horn, and beating his drum,
And crying aloud, “Come all of you, come!”
He said to the shadows, “Come after me;”
And the shadows began to flicker and flee,
And they flew through the wood all flattering and fluttering,
Over the dead leaves flickering and muttering.
And he said to the wind, “Come, follow; come, follow,
With whistle and pipe, and rustle and hollo.”
And the wind wound round at his desire,
As if he had been the gold cock on the spire.
And the cock itself flew down from the church,
And left the farmers all in the lurch.
They run and they fly, they creep and they come,
Everything, everything, all and some.
The very trees they tugged at their roots,
Only their feet were too fast in their boots,
After him leaning and straining and bending,
As on through their boles he kept walking and wending,
Till out of the wood he burst on a lea,
Shouting and calling, “Come after me!”
And then they rose up with a leafy hiss,
And stood as if nothing had been amiss.
Little Boy Blue sat down on a stone,
And the creatures came round him every one.
And he said to the clouds, “I want you there.”
And down they sank through the thin blue air.
And he said to the sunset far in the West,
“Come here; I want you; I know best.”
And the sunset came and stood up on the wold,
And burned and glowed in purple and gold.
Then Little Boy Blue began to ponder:
“What’s to be done with them all, I wonder.”
Then Little Boy Blue, he said, quite low,
“What to do with you all I am sure I don’t know.”
Then the clouds clodded down till dismal it grew;
The snake sneaked close; round Birdie Brown flew;
The brook sat up like a snake on its tail;
And the wind came up with a what-will-you wail;
And all the creatures sat and stared;
The mole opened his very eyes and glared;
And for rats and bats and the world and his wife,
Little Boy Blue was afraid of his life.
Then Birdie Brown began to sing,
And what he sang was the very thing:
“You have brought us all hither, Little Boy Blue,
Pray what do you want us all to do?”
“Go away!  go away!” said Little Boy Blue;
“I’m sure I don’t want you—get away—do.”
“No, no; no, no; no, yes, and no, no,”
Sang Birdie Brown, “it mustn’t be so.
“We cannot for nothing come here, and away.
Give us some work, or else we stay.”
“Oh dear! and oh dear!” with sob and with sigh,
Said Little Boy Blue, and began to cry.
But before he got far, he thought of a thing;
And up he stood, and spoke like a king.
“Why do you hustle and jostle and bother?
Off with you all!  Take me back to my mother.”
The sunset stood at the gates of the west.
“Follow me, follow me” came from Birdie Brown’s breast.
“I am going that way as fast as I can,”
Said the brook, as it sank and turned and ran.
Back to the woods fled the shadows like ghosts:
“If we stay, we shall all be missed from our posts.”
Said the wind with a voice that had changed its cheer,
“I was just going there, when you brought me here.”
“That’s where I live,” said the sack-backed squirrel,
And he turned his sack with a swing and a swirl.
Said the cock of the spire, “His father’s churchwarden.”
Said the brook running faster, “I run through his garden.”
Said the mole, “Two hundred worms—there I caught ‘em
Last year, and I’m going again next autumn.”
Said they all, “If that’s where you want us to steer for,
What in earth or in water did you bring us here for?”
“Never you mind,” said Little Boy Blue;
“That’s what I tell you.  If that you won’t do,
“I’ll get up at once, and go home without you.
I think I will; I begin to doubt you.”
He rose; and up rose the snake on its tail,
And hissed three times, half a hiss, half a wail.
Little Boy Blue he tried to go past him;
But wherever he turned, sat the snake and faced him.
“If you don’t get out of my way,” he said,
“I tell you, snake, I will break your head.”
The snake he neither would go nor come;
So he hit him hard with the stick of his drum.
The snake fell down as if he were dead,
And Little Boy Blue set his foot on his head.
And all the creatures they marched before him,
And marshalled him home with a high cockolorum.
And Birdie Brown sang Twirrrr twitter twirrrr twee—
Apples and cherries, roses and honey;
Little Boy Blue has listened to me—
All so jolly and funny.
 

CHAPTER XXI. SAL’S NANNY

DIAMOND managed with many blunders to read this rhyme to his mother.

“Isn’t it nice, mother?” he said.

“Yes, it’s pretty,” she answered.

“I think it means something,” returned Diamond.

“I’m sure I don’t know what,” she said.

“I wonder if it’s the same boy—yes, it must be the same—Little Boy Blue, you know. Let me see—how does that rhyme go?

Little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn—

Yes, of course it is—for this one went `blowing his horn and beating his drum.’ He had a drum too.

 
Little Boy Blue, come blow me your horn;
The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn,
 

He had to keep them out, you know. But he wasn’t minding his work. It goes—

 
Where’s the little boy that looks after the sheep?
He’s under the haystack, fast asleep.
 

There, you see, mother! And then, let me see—

 
Who’ll go and wake him?  No, not I;
For if I do, he’ll be sure to cry.
 

So I suppose nobody did wake him. He was a rather cross little boy, I daresay, when woke up. And when he did wake of himself, and saw the mischief the cow had done to the corn, instead of running home to his mother, he ran away into the wood and lost himself. Don’t you think that’s very likely, mother?”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” she answered.

“So you see he was naughty; for even when he lost himself he did not want to go home. Any of the creatures would have shown him the way if he had asked it—all but the snake. He followed the snake, you know, and he took him farther away. I suppose it was a young one of the same serpent that tempted Adam and Eve. Father was telling us about it last Sunday, you remember.”

“Bless the child!” said his mother to herself; and then added aloud, finding that Diamond did not go on, “Well, what next?”

“I don’t know, mother. I’m sure there’s a great deal more, but what it is I can’t say. I only know that he killed the snake. I suppose that’s what he had a drumstick for. He couldn’t do it with his horn.”

“But surely you’re not such a silly as to take it all for true, Diamond?”

“I think it must be. It looks true. That killing of the snake looks true. It’s what I’ve got to do so often.”

His mother looked uneasy. Diamond smiled full in her face, and added—

“When baby cries and won’t be happy, and when father and you talk about your troubles, I mean.”

This did little to reassure his mother; and lest my reader should have his qualms about it too, I venture to remind him once more that Diamond had been to the back of the north wind.

Finding she made no reply, Diamond went on—

“In a week or so, I shall be able to go to the tall gentleman and tell him I can read. And I’ll ask him if he can help me to understand the rhyme.”

But before the week was out, he had another reason for going to Mr. Raymond.

For three days, on each of which, at one time or other, Diamond’s father was on the same stand near the National Gallery, the girl was not at her crossing, and Diamond got quite anxious about her, fearing she must be ill. On the fourth day, not seeing her yet, he said to his father, who had that moment shut the door of his cab upon a fare—

“Father, I want to go and look after the girl, She can’t be well.”

“All right,” said his father. “Only take care of yourself, Diamond.”

So saying he climbed on his box and drove off.

He had great confidence in his boy, you see, and would trust him anywhere. But if he had known the kind of place in which the girl lived, he would perhaps have thought twice before he allowed him to go alone. Diamond, who did know something of it, had not, however, any fear. From talking to the girl he had a good notion of where about it was, and he remembered the address well enough; so by asking his way some twenty times, mostly of policemen, he came at length pretty near the place. The last policeman he questioned looked down upon him from the summit of six feet two inches, and replied with another question, but kindly:

“What do you want there, my small kid? It ain’t where you was bred, I guess.”

“No sir” answered Diamond. “I live in Bloomsbury.”

“That’s a long way off,” said the policeman.

“Yes, it’s a good distance,” answered Diamond; “but I find my way about pretty well. Policemen are always kind to me.”

“But what on earth do you want here?”

Diamond told him plainly what he was about, and of course the man believed him, for nobody ever disbelieved Diamond. People might think he was mistaken, but they never thought he was telling a story.

“It’s an ugly place,” said the policeman.

“Is it far off?” asked Diamond.

“No. It’s next door almost. But it’s not safe.”

“Nobody hurts me,” said Diamond.

“I must go with you, I suppose.”

“Oh, no! please not,” said Diamond. “They might think I was going to meddle with them, and I ain’t, you know.”

“Well, do as you please,” said the man, and gave him full directions.

Diamond set off, never suspecting that the policeman, who was a kind-hearted man, with children of his own, was following him close, and watching him round every corner. As he went on, all at once he thought he remembered the place, and whether it really was so, or only that he had laid up the policeman’s instructions well in his mind, he went straight for the cellar of old Sal.

“He’s a sharp little kid, anyhow, for as simple as he looks,” said the man to himself. “Not a wrong turn does he take! But old Sal’s a rum un for such a child to pay a morning visit to. She’s worse when she’s sober than when she’s half drunk. I’ve seen her when she’d have torn him in pieces.”

Happily then for Diamond, old Sal had gone out to get some gin. When he came to her door at the bottom of the area-stair and knocked, he received no answer. He laid his ear to the door, and thought he heard a moaning within. So he tried the door, and found it was not locked! It was a dreary place indeed,—and very dark, for the window was below the level of the street, and covered with mud, while over the grating which kept people from falling into the area, stood a chest of drawers, placed there by a dealer in second-hand furniture, which shut out almost all the light. And the smell in the place was dreadful. Diamond stood still for a while, for he could see next to nothing, but he heard the moaning plainly enough now, When he got used to the darkness, he discovered his friend lying with closed eyes and a white suffering face on a heap of little better than rags in a corner of the den. He went up to her and spoke; but she made him no answer. Indeed, she was not in the least aware of his presence, and Diamond saw that he could do nothing for her without help. So taking a lump of barley-sugar from his pocket, which he had bought for her as he came along, and laying it beside her, he left the place, having already made up his mind to go and see the tall gentleman, Mr. Raymond, and ask him to do something for Sal’s Nanny, as the girl was called.

By the time he got up the area-steps, three or four women who had seen him go down were standing together at the top waiting for him. They wanted his clothes for their children; but they did not follow him down lest Sal should find them there. The moment he appeared, they laid their hands on him, and all began talking at once, for each wanted to get some advantage over her neighbours. He told them quite quietly, for he was not frightened, that he had come to see what was the matter with Nanny.

“What do you know about Nanny?” said one of them fiercely. “Wait till old Sal comes home, and you’ll catch it, for going prying into her house when she’s out. If you don’t give me your jacket directly, I’ll go and fetch her.”

“I can’t give you my jacket,” said Diamond. “It belongs to my father and mother, you know. It’s not mine to give. Is it now? You would not think it right to give away what wasn’t yours—would you now?”

“Give it away! No, that I wouldn’t; I’d keep it,” she said, with a rough laugh. “But if the jacket ain’t yours, what right have you to keep it? Here, Cherry, make haste. It’ll be one go apiece.”

They all began to tug at the jacket, while Diamond stooped and kept his arms bent to resist them. Before they had done him or the jacket any harm, however, suddenly they all scampered away; and Diamond, looking in the opposite direction, saw the tall policeman coming towards him.

“You had better have let me come with you, little man,” he said, looking down in Diamond’s face, which was flushed with his resistance.

“You came just in the right time, thank you,” returned Diamond. “They’ve done me no harm.”

“They would have if I hadn’t been at hand, though.”

“Yes; but you were at hand, you know, so they couldn’t.”

Perhaps the answer was deeper in purport than either Diamond or the policeman knew. They walked away together, Diamond telling his new friend how ill poor Nanny was, and that he was going to let the tall gentleman know. The policeman put him in the nearest way for Bloomsbury, and stepping out in good earnest, Diamond reached Mr. Raymond’s door in less than an hour. When he asked if he was at home, the servant, in return, asked what he wanted.

“I want to tell him something.”

“But I can’t go and trouble him with such a message as that.”

“He told me to come to him—that is, when I could read—and I can.”

“How am I to know that?”

Diamond stared with astonishment for one moment, then answered:

“Why, I’ve just told you. That’s how you know it.”

But this man was made of coarser grain than the policeman, and, instead of seeing that Diamond could not tell a lie, he put his answer down as impudence, and saying, “Do you think I’m going to take your word for it?” shut the door in his face.

Diamond turned and sat down on the doorstep, thinking with himself that the tall gentleman must either come in or come out, and he was therefore in the best possible position for finding him. He had not waited long before the door opened again; but when he looked round, it was only the servant once more.

“Get, away” he said. “What are you doing on the doorstep?”

“Waiting for Mr. Raymond,” answered Diamond, getting up.

“He’s not at home.”

“Then I’ll wait till he comes,” returned Diamond, sitting down again with a smile.

What the man would have done next I do not know, but a step sounded from the hall, and when Diamond looked round yet again, there was the tall gentleman.

“Who’s this, John?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir. An imperent little boy as will sit on the doorstep.”

“Please sir” said Diamond, “he told me you weren’t at home, and I sat down to wait for you.”

“Eh, what!” said Mr. Raymond. “John! John! This won’t do. Is it a habit of yours to turn away my visitors? There’ll be some one else to turn away, I’m afraid, if I find any more of this kind of thing. Come in, my little man. I suppose you’ve come to claim your sixpence?”

“No, sir, not that.”

“What! can’t you read yet?”

“Yes, I can now, a little. But I’ll come for that next time. I came to tell you about Sal’s Nanny.”

“Who’s Sal’s Nanny?”

“The girl at the crossing you talked to the same day.”

“Oh, yes; I remember. What’s the matter? Has she got run over?”

Then Diamond told him all.

Now Mr. Raymond was one of the kindest men in London. He sent at once to have the horse put to the brougham, took Diamond with him, and drove to the Children’s Hospital. There he was well known to everybody, for he was not only a large subscriber, but he used to go and tell the children stories of an afternoon. One of the doctors promised to go and find Nanny, and do what could be done—have her brought to the hospital, if possible.

That same night they sent a litter for her, and as she could be of no use to old Sal until she was better, she did not object to having her removed. So she was soon lying in the fever ward—for the first time in her life in a nice clean bed. But she knew nothing of the whole affair. She was too ill to know anything.