"An’t you a thief?" said Mr. Carker, with his hands behind him in his pockets.
"No sir," pleaded Rob.
"You are!" said Mr. Carker.
"I an’t indeed, Sir," whimpered Rob. "I never did such a thing as thieve,Sir, if you ’ll believe me. I know I ’ve been a going wrong Sir, ever since I took to bird-catching and walking-matching. I’m sure a cove might think," said Mr. Toodle Junior, with a burst of penitence, "that singing birds was innocent company, but nobody knows what harm is in them little creeturs and what they brings you down to."
They seemed to have brought him down to a velveteen jacket and trousers very much the worse for wear, a particularly small red waistcoat like a gorget, an interval of blue check, and the hat before mentioned.
"I an’t been home twenty times since them birds got their will of me," said Rob, "and that’s ten months. How can I go home when everybody’s miserable to see me! I wonder," said Biler, blubbering outright, and smearing his eyes with his coat-cuff, "that I haven’t been and drownded myself over and over again."
All of which, including his expression of surprise at not having achieved this last scarce performance, the boy said, just as if the teeth of Mr. Carker drew it out of him, and he had no power of concealing anything with that battery of attraction in full play.
"You ’re a nice young gentleman!" said Mr. Carker, shaking his head at him. "There’s hemp-seed sown for you, my fine fellow!"
"I’m sure Sir," returned the wretched Biler, blubbering again, and again having recourse to his coat cuff: "I shouldn’t care, sometimes, if it was growed too. My misfortunes all began in wagging, Sir; but what could I do, exceptin’ wag?"
"Excepting what?" said Mr. Carker.
"Wag, Sir. Wagging from school."
"Do you mean pretending to go there, and not going?" said Mr. Carker.
"Yes, Sir, that’s wagging, Sir," returned the quondam Grinder, much affected. "I was chivied through the streets, Sir, when I went there, and pounded when I got there. So I wagged, and hid myself, and that began it."
"And you mean to tell me," said Mr. Carker, taking him by the throat again, holding him out at arm’s-length, and surveying him in silence for some moments, "that you want a place, do you?"
"I should be thankful to be tried, Sir," returned Toodle Junior, faintly.
Mr. Carker the Manager pushed him backward into a corner—the boy submitting quietly, hardly venturing to breathe, and never once removing his eyes from his face—and rang the bell.
"Tell Mr. Gills to come here."
Mr. Perch was too deferential to express surprise or recognition of the figure in the corner: and Uncle Sol appeared immediately.
"Mr. Gills!" said Carker, with a smile, "sit down. How do you do? You continue to enjoy your health, I hope?"
"Thank you, Sir," returned Uncle Sol, taking out his pocket-book, and handing over some notes as he spoke. "Nothing ails me in body but old age. Twenty-five, Sir."
"You are as punctual and exact, Mr. Gills," replied the smiling
