“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is your porochial stipend for the month.”
Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocketbook; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.
“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to you, I’m sure.”
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and inquired how the children were.
“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. And little Dick.”
“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Mann shook her head.
“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,” said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”
“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here, you Dick!”
After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old man.