a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by another on you, till I’m worritted to skins and bones. The inkwhich warn’t my fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me, he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my crossing. It ain’t wery likely I should want him to be inkwhiched. I only wish I wos, myself. I don’t know why I don’t go and make a hole in the water, I’m sure I don’t.”
He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in neglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him. He says to the woman, “Miserable creature, what has he done?”
To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure more amazedly than angrily, “Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found you at last!”
“What has he done?” says Allan. “Has he robbed you?”
“No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kindhearted by me, and that’s the wonder of it.”
Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, waiting for one of them to unravel the riddle.
“But he was along with me, sir,” says the woman. “Oh, you Jo! He was along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a young lady, Lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when I durstn’t, and took him home—”
Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.
“Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and like a thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And that young lady that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful looks, and