“Oh no; she’s restin’ straight and easy,” said Flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case.

“Then she don’t know, Flo?”

“It ain’t reached ’er yet, I ’spect,” said Flo. Then hastening to turn the conversation —

“Wot was it as you took, Dick?”

“A purse,” said Dick.

“A purse full o’ money?” questioned Flo.

“There was six bobs and a tanner,” said Dick, “and Jenks said as I did it real clever.”

“That was wot bought us the ’ot roasted goose,” continued Flo.

“Yes. Jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should ’ave a rare treat. They cost three bobs, that ’ere goose and taters. I say, worn’t they jist prime?”

“’Ave you any more o’ that money?” asked Flo, taking no notice of this last query.

“Yes, I ’ave a bob and I ’ave the purse. Jenks said as I was to have the purse, and I means the purse for you, Flo.”

“You needn’t mean it for me, then,” said Flo, raising her gentle little voice, “fur I’d rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you ’as got to give back that ’ere bob to Jenks, Dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won’t neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. I thought as you was sorry, Dick, when I heard you cryin’, but no, you ain’t, and you ’ave furgot mother, that you ’ave.”

At these words Dick burst out crying afresh. Flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise.

“No, I ’aven’t forgot, Flo – I be real orfle sorry.”

“You won’t never do it again?”

“No.”

“And you’ll give back the purse and bob to Jenks, and tell ’im yer’ll ’ave no more to do wid ’is way?”

“Oh! I doesn’t know,” said Dick, “’ee would be real hangry.”

“Very well,” replied Flo; “good-night to you, Dick. I ain’t goin’ to sleep ’long of a thief,” and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler’s stool.

But this proposal filled Dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him.

“’Zactly wot I ses?” asked Flo.

“Yes, Flo, I’ll stick fast to you and never funk.”

“You’ll translate the old boots and shoes wid me fur the next week?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll break orf wid Jenks, and be his pardener no more?”

“Yes,” with a sinking heart.

“Werry well – good-night.”

“But, Flo,” after a long pause, “is you sure as mother isn’t ris from her grave?”

“No, I’m not sure,” answered Flo slowly, “but I thinks at the most, she ’ave on’y got a sort o’ a wake, and I thinks, Dick, ef you never, never is a thief no more, as mother’ll ’ave a good longish rest yet.”

Chapter Five
Jenks Passes his Word

But Flo knew even better than her little brother that it would be easier for Dick to steal the second time than the first.

Very few boys and girls she had ever heard of, none indeed, had left off prigging from stalls, and snatching from bakers’ shops, and thrusting their hands into old gentlemen’s pockets, when once they had begun to do so.

Not punishment, not even prison, could break them. They had their time of confinement, and then out they came, with more thieving propensities than ever.

Her mother had told her stories upon stories of what these children, who looked some of them so innocent, and began in this small way, had ended with – penal servitude for life – sometimes even the gallows.

She had made her hair stand on end with frightful accounts of their last days in the murderers’ cells – how day and night the warder watched them, and how when being led out to execution they passed in some cases over their own graves.

And children once as innocent as Flo and Dick had come to this.

Now Flo knew that as mother had not appeared the first time Dick stole, she might not the second, and then he would gradually cease to be afraid, and learn to be a regular thief.

The only chance was to save him from temptation, to part him from Jenks.

Flo liked Jenks very much – he had a bright way about him, he was never rough with her, but, on the contrary, had not only helped to keep the pot boiling, but had cobbled vigorously over her old boots and shoes, when he happened to come home in time in the evenings.

Still, nice as he was, if he was a thief, and they meant never to be thieves, the sooner they parted company the better.

She knew well that Dick would never have courage to say to Jenks what he ought to say, she knew that this task must be hers.

Accordingly, in the first light of the summer morning, though all they saw of it in the cellar was a slanting ray which came down through the hole in the pavement, when in that early light Jenks stumbled to his feet, and running his fingers through his shaggy hair by way of toilet, ran up the ladder, Flo, rising softly, for fear of waking Dick, followed him.

“Jenks,” she said, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve, “I wants fur to speak to you.”

Jenks turned round with merry eyes.

“I’m yer ’umble servant, my Lady, the Hearl’s wife,” he said, with a mock bow to Flo; but then noticing her white little anxious face, he changed his tone to one of compassion. “Why, wot hever ails you, young ’un? You is all of a tremble. Come along and ’ave a drop of ’ot coffee at the stalls.”

“No, Jenks, I doesn’t want to. Jenks, I come fur to say as you, and me, and Dick mustn’t be pardeners no more. You mustn’t come no more to this yere cellar, Jenks.”

Jenks was about to ask why, but he changed his mind and resumed his mocking tone.

“My Lady, you is alwis werry perlite – you is not one of them fine dames as welwet, and silk, and feathers maks too ’igh and mighty to speak to a chap. Might a poor and ’umble feller ax you then to be so werry obligin’ as to tell ’im the reason of this ’eart-breakin’ horder.”

Here Jenks pretended to whimper.

“Yes, Jenks, I’ll tell you,” said Flo; “’tis because Dick and me isn’t never goin’ to be thiefs, Jenks. Dick did prig the purse yesterday, but ’ees never, never goin’ to do so no more.”

Jenks was silent, and Flo after a pause continued – “I wants fur to be perlite to you, Jenks. I likes you, Jenks, and now I’m goin’ to tell you why.”

“Oh! my heyes,” said Jenks, “that’s an honour. Oh! my stars! can I abear so big an honour? ’Old me, Flo, I feels kind of top ’eavy. Now then, break it heasy, Flo.”

“I never know’d as yer trade was that of a thief, Jenks,” quietly continued the little girl. “I thought as it wor a real nice trade as me and Dick might larn, and we mustn’t larn that, not ef we was to starve. Dick and me must never be thiefs. But, Jenks, I’m not a blamin’ you – it ain’t wrong fur you, Jenks – you ’adn’t never a mother, as telled you to keep an honest boy.”

At these words Jenks started violently, the fun died out of his face, and he looked quite white and shaky.

“Why does you say that?” he asked rather savagely. “How does yer dare say as I ’av’n’t a mother? as honest a woman as hever walked.”

“I doesn’t say it, Jenks. I on’y ses that if you ’ad a mother as was alwis honest, and, no, not ef we was starvin’ would prig anythink, and that mother lay a dyin’, and she axed yer werry soft and lovin’ to keep honest, and never, no never to steal nothink, and you promised yer mother ’cause you loved ’er; would you be a thief then, Jenks?”

“Moonshine!” growled Jenks.

“No, but would you, Jenks?”

“How can I tell?” replied Jenks. “Look yere, Flo, leave off about mothers, do. Wot does I know of such? Say wot yer ’as to say, as I must be gone.”

“I wants you not to come back no more, dear Jenks, and never, never to speak to Dick no more.”

“Dear Jenks, come back no more,” mimicked the boy. “And why not, little sweetheart?”

“’Cause you is a thief, and you is larnin’ thiefin’ to Dick.”

“Oh my! the precious young cove, I didn’t know as ’ee was to be reared hup so tender. But why does you say as I am a thief, Flo – it wor Dick tuk the purse yesterday.”

“But you larned ’im ’ow to take it, Jenks.”

“No, I didn’t, ’ee larned ’imself, ’ee wanted none of my coddlin’ and dressin’. Tell yer ’ee’d make a real stunnin’ thief arter a bit. But I’ll not teach ’im nothink, not I. No, Flo,” (this gravely), “I’ll promise yer this, and yere’s my ’and on it, ef I sees ’im touch so much as a brass farthing, I’ll give ’im a whackin’ as ’ull soon teach ’im to be an honest boy.”

“And you won’t come back no more?”

“I won’t say that – the cellar’s conwenient, and I pays fur ’arf. Yes, I’ll turn in to-night, and as long as I ’ave a mind to. Now I’m orf to my work – wot ain’t that of a thief,” and snapping his fingers disdainfully, Jenks disappeared.

Flo stood for a moment, her hand over her eyes, looking up the hot street. Her mission she felt was only half accomplished, but it was some consolation to know, that the next time Dick acted the part of a thief, his companion, instead of loading him with praise, would bestow on him instead a far-sounding whacking.

Flo did not mind how hard it was, if only it saved her brother from following in the steps of those boys of whom her mother had so often told her.

Chapter Six
Give the Poor Dog a Bone

That knowing dog Scamp was rather puzzled on the evening after his arrival, at the marked change in the manners of Dick and Jenks towards him. Clever as he was, their total change of manner threw him off his guard, and he began to accuse himself of ingratitude in supposing that at any time they had not wished for his company, that at any time they had treated him as an intruder. Not a bit of it. Here were they patting and making much of him; here was that good-natured fellow Jenks allowing him to repose his big, awkward body across his knees, while Flo and Dick, who had been indoors all day very grave and silent, were now in fits of laughter over his rough attempts at play.

“Flo,” said Jenks, pulling some loose coppers out of his ragged vest pocket, “ef you’ll buy wittles fur the dawg fur a week, I’ll pay ’em.”

And then he further produced from some mysterious store a good-sized, juicy bone, cut from a shank of mutton, which bone he rubbed gently against the dog’s nose, finally allowing him to place it between his teeth and take possession of it. As Scamp on the floor munched, and worried, and gnawed that bone, so strong were his feelings of gratitude to Jenks, that he would have found it easy, quite easy, to follow him to the world’s end.

And so Jenks seemed to think, for when supper was over he arose, and giving Dick an almost imperceptible nod, he called Scamp, and the boys and the dog went out.

They walked nearly to the end of the street, and then Jenks caught up Scamp, and endeavoured to hide him with his ragged jacket. This was no easy matter, for in every particular the dog was ungainly – too large in one part, too small in another. Impossible for a tattered coat-sleeve to hide that great rough head, which in sheer affection, caused by the memory of that bone, would push itself up and lick his face. Jenks bestowed upon him in return for this regard several severe cuffs, and was altogether rough and unpleasant in his treatment; and had Scamp not been accustomed to, and, so to speak, hardened to such things, his feelings might and probably would have been considerably hurt. As it was, he took it philosophically, and perceiving that he was not at present to show affection, ceased to do so.

The boys walked down several by-streets, and took some villainous-looking short cuts in absolute silence. Dick went a little in advance of his companion, and kept his eyes well open, and at sight of any policeman exchanged, though without looking round, some signal with Jenks; on which Jenks and Scamp would immediately, in some mysterious way, disappear from view, and Dick would toss a marble or two out of his pocket and pretend to be aiming them one at the other, until, the danger gone by, Jenks and Scamp would once more make their appearance. At last they came to streets of so low a character, where the “nippers,” as they called them, so seldom walked, that they could keep together, and even venture on a little conversation.

Dick, who had been sadly depressed all day, began to feel his spirits rising again. He had quite resolved never, never to be a thief no more, but this expedition would bring them in money in a way that even Flo could hardly disapprove of; at least, even if Flo did disapprove, she could hardly call it dishonest. The dog was theirs, had come to them. If they could get money for the dog would they not be right to take it? They were too poor to keep Scamp.

Just then Dick turned round and encountered a loving, trusting glance from the dumb creature’s affectionate eyes, a sudden fit of compunction came over him, for he knew to what they were selling Scamp.

“S’pose as Scamp beats Maxey’s young ’un?” he questioned to his companion.

“Not ’ee,” said Jenks contemptuously, “’ee’s nothink but a street cur, and that young ’un is a reg’lar tip-topper, I can tell yer.”

“Well, Scamp ’ave sperrit too,” said Dick.

“And ef ’ee ’adn’t, would I bring ’im to Maxey? Would I insult Maxey’s young dawg wid an hout and hout street cur wid no good points? Why, Maxey wouldn’t give a tanner fur a cur widout sperrit, you little greenhorn.”

Here they stopped at the door of a low ale-house, where the company were undoubtedly “doggy.”

Jenks transferred Scamp to Dick’s care, and disappeared into the public, from whence in a few moments he issued with a small stoutly-built man, of ill-looking and most repulsive aspect.

“I ’ave named my price,” said Jenks, putting Scamp down on the ground and beginning to exhibit his different points. “Two bobs and a tanner, and a sight o’ the fight fur me and this ’ere chap.”

“Come, that’s werry fine,” said the man addressed as Maxey; “but ’ow is it, you young willan, you dares to insinniwate as I ’ave dog-fights? Doesn’t you know as dog-fight’s ’gainst the law of the land? You wouldn’t like to see the hinside of Newgate fur bringin’ this ’ere dog to me fur the purpose o’ fightin’ another dog? You didn’t reckon that in the price of the dog. Come now, ef I doesn’t give you into the hands of the perleece, and ef I takes the dog, and puts ’im away tidy, and gives you and yer pardener a tanner between yer? Come, that’s lettin yer off cheap, ain’t it?”

Dick was considerably frightened, but Jenks, taking these threats for what they were worth, held out firmly for two bobs and a tanner, which in the end he obtained a promise of, on condition that for one week he should tie up Scamp at home and feed him well. At the end of that time Maxey was to have him back, who further promised that Jenks and Dick should see the fight.

“And that ’ere’s pretty sport,” said Jenks, as well satisfied he turned away. “Maxey’s young ’uns are alwis tip-toppers. Won’t ’ee just give it to this willan! I guess there’ll be an hawful row, and not much o’ Scamp left, by the time ’tis hover.” But the further details with which Jenks favoured his young companion are too horrible to relate here. In our Christian England these things are done – done in the dark it is true, but still done.

Dog-fights, though punishable by law, are still held, and young boys and old men flock to them, and learn to be lower than the brutes in diabolical cruelty because of them.

It may still however puzzle those who read Scamp’s history to know of what use he could be in a dog-fight, as only thorough-bred dogs can fight well.

Alas! Scamp could be made use of; such dogs as Scamp can further this wicked sport.

Such dogs are necessary in the training of the fighting-dogs. Jenks knew this well, hence his desire to obtain the poor animal.

His use was this – I here quote from Mr Greenwood’s well-known “Low Life Deeps.”

“He at once good-naturedly explained to me the way in which a young (fighting) dog is trained.

“I was given to understand that the first practice a fighting pup had was with a ‘good old gummer,’ that is to say, with a dog which had been a good one in his day, but was now old, and toothless, and incapable of doing more than ‘mumble’ the juvenile antagonist that was set against him, the one great advantage being that the young dog gained practical experience in the making of ‘points.’

“The next stage, as I was informed, in training the young aspirant for pit-honours was to treat him to a ‘real mouthful,’ or, in other words, ‘to let him taste dog’…” What this means, Mr Greenwood goes on partially to explain, but the explanation is too fearful to be repeated here; suffice it to say that Scamp was the dog that Maxey’s young ’un was to taste.

Considerably elated, the boys started off on their way home. The thought of two-and-sixpence, and a sight of a real dog-fight, was quite enough to silence all Dick’s scruples, and Jenks never had any.

Yet once, long ago now, Jenks had cried when the cat pounced on his canary, once Jenks had a kind heart. It was not all hard yet, though very nearly so. Still some things could touch him, some faces, some words, some tones, could reach a vulnerable part within him. He hardly knew himself that the better part of him, not yet quite dead, was touched, he only called it being in a fix. He was in a fix about Dick. It had been his intention, it had been his motive, in coming to live in the Saint Giles’s cellar, to train Dick as a thief, and if possible Flo also.

He was a very expert young hand himself, – no boy in London with lighter fingers, or more clever in dodging the police, than he. He knew that the first requisite for any successful thief was to possess an innocent appearance, and the moment he saw Dick and Flo he knew that their faces would make their own, and probably his fortune, in this criminal trade. He had gone cautiously about his work, for eyes much less sharp than his must have perceived that the children were strictly honest. Their honesty, their horror of theft, had filled him with surprise, and added greatly to his difficulties. He saw, however, that Dick was the weaker of the two, and his scruples he determined first to overcome. It took him some time, a whole month, but at last Dick fell, and Jenks was triumphant. All now was smooth sailing with him, he was in high, the highest spirits. Dick should be taken down skilfully step by step the broad descent, and presently Flo would follow.

The bad boy’s plans were all laid, when suddenly there came an obstacle – such an obstacle too – such a feather of a thing, – only a child’s pleading voice and tearful eyes. What a fool Jenks was to mind so slight a thing!

He was a fool then, for mind it he did. He liked Flo, in his way he was fond of Flo, but she herself might go to ruin sooner than have any of his plans injured. It was not for her sake he hesitated. No. But she had told him why they were honest, why hard crusts and lives full of hunger and want were sweeter to them than luxuries unfairly come by; and strange to say, for some inexplicable reason, this motive for honesty approved itself to the boy, for some reason known only to himself it raised a pain in his hardened heart, it roused the nearly dead conscience within him. He said to himself that the children’s conduct was plucky – real, awful plucky; that it would be a mean act of him to make thieves of them.

For ten minutes after his interview with Flo he resolved that nothing in the world should induce him to do so; he resolved to go away as she had asked him to go away, and leave them to pursue their honest career unmolested, untempted by such as he. But in half-an-hour he had wavered, had partly laughed off Flo’s words, and had called all that stuff about mothers – dead mothers – nonsense.

All day long he was undecided – he came back to the cellar at night undecided; he had gone out with Dick and Scamp still not sure whether to keep his promise to Flo or to break it. How was it that in returning from his interview with Maxey his resolutions to do right wavered more and more?

Perhaps it was because he had committed another cruel and evil deed, and so the little good in him died quickly out; perhaps, as certainly was the case, Satan was tempting him more than ever. Be this as it may, before Jenks fell asleep that night his mind was made up. Flo’s scruples were all folly, Dick had yielded once, he could, would, and should yield again. If he proved obstinate Jenks had means in his possession which would compel him to lead the life he wished. Yes, Jenks resolved that before many months were over their heads, not only Dick, but Flo herself should be a thief. It should not be his fault if Dick and Flo were not two of the cleverest little thieves in London.