From hand to hand, or, The adventure of a Jubilee sixpence

UF00085402_00001.pdf




The Baldwin Library

[AmB ne





FROM HAND TO HAND

THE ADVENTURES OF A JUBILEE SIXPENCE





““THE THOUGHT OF HER LONELINESS MADE THE TEARS
COME FAST.”







FROM HAND TO HAND

OR |

The Adventures of a Jubilee Sixpene

BY

Cc. J. HAMILTON

AUTHOR OF ‘f THE MERRY-GO-ROUND ;””
“RIVALS AT SCHOOL;”? ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK
THOMAS WHITTAKER
2 & 3 Brsre House.

1896.







: pod, onal.
, ee
ancl te 2 by.
Co EIS
ey Bickyedt.





CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I

Il.

Tels

IV.

Vv.

VI.

VIL.

VIII.

IX.

“

GILDED OVER,
FOUND OUT,
AT ONSLOW GARDENS,

BUFFETED ABOUT,

OFF TO THE HOP FIELDS, .

UNDER THE HAY-STACK,
THE GARDENER’S COAT,
THE DESERTED MILL,
THE LAST OF UNCLE BEN,

HOW SUSIE TURNS OUT,

Vv

PAGE

II









FROM HAND TO HAND.

+.



CHAPTER I.
GILDED OVER.

AM a Jubilee Sixpence. Yes! there is
no mistake about it. I am none of
your vulgar, common, every-day six-
pences, but a genuine Jubilee sixpence,
Jirst tssue, with the Royal arms on one
side, and the magic number “1887”

underneath. On the other side stands

out good Queen Victoria’s head.

The first day that I left the mint was
a fine sunshiny June morning in the Jubilee year.
Everything looked bright and shining, and I looked
more bright and shining than anything as I was
tumbled out of a little canvas bag. A great rough
hand clutched me, and a loud voice called out, “ Why,
Jim, we’ve got a fortune in these here Jubilee six-
pences. We’ve nothing to do but to gild them over,
and they’ll pass for half-sovs.”

Another voice answered, “Right you are—so they
will. They haven’t got ‘sixpence’ marked on them

7





8 From Hand to Hand.

like the others have. We’re in the right box this time
and no mistake. Here goes for a washing.”

Directly afterwards, something very hot was poured
over me, and lo and behold! instead of being white,
I was now yellow—the brightest yellow !

It was very uncomfortable. I had been quite satis-
fied to be a silver sixpence, and here I was turned into
a sham half-sovereign! However, there I was, and the
only thing was to wait and see what would come next.

“We must get rid of these as quick as we can,”
said the voice. ‘Here, Susie, where are you, girl?”

The door opened, and a pale-faced little girl about
eight years old looked in. She had fair hair, rather
tangled, and frightened blue eyes. Her print frock was
faded, and there were holes in her pinafore.

“Here Iam, Uncle Ben! What do you want?”

“T want you to put on your hat and run to the near-
est post-office, and ask for ten postal orders for half-
a-sovereign each. Look sharp, don’t lose any time!
What are you turning about the money in your
fingers for, like a ninny?”

““T_J]—What shall I do if they ask me any ques-
tions? These are all right, ain’t they ?”

“Of course they are. No one will ask you any
questions, unless you make an ass of yourself. And,
see here, there’s a shilling to pay for the orders, and
you may keep the twopence for yourself to buy sweets.”

I was soon clasped in Susie’s little, hot hand, along
with nine of my companions, all sham half-sovereigns
like myself, and off we went to the post-office. It was
a small one, in a back street, and there were a number
of penny papers in the window. The office was
crowded with people buying stamps and writing post-
cards and telegrams.

Susie wedged her way in before a fat old woman in
a black bonnet, and called out in a shrill little voice :



Gilded Over. 9

“Ten postal orders, please !”

“ ¥or how much?” asked the post-mistress, crossly.

“ For ten shillings each.”

“Where’s your money?”

“ Here it is !”

Susie’s pale little. face twitched anxiously as the
post-mistress swept us away, but she said nothing.
It was beginning to get dusk, and the gas had not
yet been lit.

The orders were handed out from the little window,
and Susie caught them up, and darted away. I and
my companions were swept into a drawer, and there
we remained for one long summer night. In the
morning, the little post-mistress took us out and began
to count us, putting us into little heaps along with
several good half-sovereigns. While she was doing
this, a tall policeman came in for a package of post-
cards. As he was paying for them, he said,

“Oh! by the way, Mrs. Bird, you must be careful
about these new half-sovereigns.”

“Why so, sir?”

“Well! you see the first issue of the Jubilee six-
pences are exactly like half-sovereigns, and when
they ’re gilded over no one would know the difference.”

“They haven’t got sixpence marked on them, then.”

“No, that’s just how it is. They’re all to be called
in at once.”

“Well, now, that reminds me that a little girl came
in yesterday and asked for ten postal orders for ten
shillings each, and she handed me ten half-sovereigns.”

“Have you got any of them?”

“T think this is one.”

She held me out, and I was grasped in the big
policeman’s huge palm.

“Td better take it over to the bank at the top of
the street,” he said, ‘‘they’ll know about it there



Io From Hand to Haid.

better than I do. Good-day, Mrs. Bird, I’ll call back
in ten minutes.”

He thrust me into his trousers’ pocket along with a
number of common copper pennies. I did not like
the feel of them at all, and tried to get as far away
from them as I could. Now it would be found out
what I was, but it wasn’t my fault, was it?

Just as the policeman got near the bank, he heard
a shout. An oil-shop round the corner had caught
fire, and there were cries of ‘‘ Send for the police, send
for the firemen !—quick—quick !”

The policeman jumped into a cab, and drove off to
the next Fire-Brigade Station, and I was jingled in
his pocket along with all those great greasy pennies
that really are not fit companions for a sixpence—
especially a Jubilee sixpence that is passing for half-
a-sovereign. Already, I felt some of my bright yellow
covering becoming worn and tarnished by contact with
so many ugly coppers. There was so much hurry
and confusion getting the Fire-Brigade men off, that
the policeman forgot all about me. And as he was
coming back to the station, he turned into a poor
little shop in a back street to buy some tobacco. He
took out twopence to pay for it, and somehow or other,
I slipped in between those two dreadful big pennies,
and he went away without me! The name of
Mathews was over the dcor, and a little boy called
Freddy belonged to it. There I was now in the
greasy battered drawer. The shop was only about
five feet long, and a door led into an inner room.
There were clay pipes in the window, some pink and
white sugar sticks, and some tobacco. The panes of
glass were dusty, and one of them was cracked. I
crept in under one of the pennies. Night was coming
on. What was going to happen next?





CHAPTER II.
FOUND OUT.

LL night long, a baby was crying in a
room inside, and the mother was try-
ing to hush it to sleep. At eight
o’clock, the milkman came, and
Freddy, the little boy, ran to take

in the can. He had slept in his clothes,

so he did not want to dress.

“Where’s your penny?” said the
milkman, gruffly. “I don’t give milk
without the money. I’ve been took in too often.”

“T’ll get you the penny,” said Freddy, pattering over
to the drawer in his little bare feet. He snatched up the
penny that covered me, and gave it to the man, but the
bright gleam of my yellow coat had caught his eye ;
he seized me eagerly, calling out, “ Mammy, mammy !”

“Well, what is it?” cried his mother, coming out of
the inside room. She was just putting on a very old
dress, and rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Seems as if I never was to get a bit o’ rest. As
soon as the baby stops, you begin.”

“But, look here,” cried Freddy, holding me up.
“It’s something good, see what this is.”

“Why, it’s half-a-sovren !”

“That’s just what it is,” said Freddy.





12 From Hand to Handa.

“And how in the living earth did it get there?”
said his mother, looking at me closer. “I didn’t take
it yesterday. I took threppence for sugar sticks, and
a penny for a pipe, and ttuppence for tobacco. It
was a p'leeceman that bought the tobacco.”

“P’raps he put in the half-sovren to get us into
trouble,” said Freddy, who was now pulling on a pair
of very patched boots, much too large for him.

“No, no! he wasn’t the sort of man to do that.
He spoke quite civil and pleasant, and said, ‘Good
arternoon, ma’am, when he went out. It does seem
funny how it got there.”

“Praps an angel brought it,” suggested Freddy,
“like the ravens did when they brought Elijah bread
and flesh in the desert. We read about it in the
Sunday school only last Sunday.”

“Well, it do seem like as if it had dropped from
the clouds. I haven’t had as much money in the
house, I don’t know the day when—not since your
poor father died, two months back last Tuesday.”

The thought of her loneliness made the tears come
fast, she caught up a handkerchief that was hanging
on the clothes-line, and buried her face init. Her sobs
awoke the baby boy, and Freddy took him in his arms
to quiet him. When his mother stopped crying, he said,
“ What are we to do with this bit of gold, mother?”

“ Do with tt, boy! we’ve plenty to do with it. We
want a quartern loaf and a bit of butter, and two
ounces of the best tea.”

“ And half-a-pound of rashers.”

“Yes, and a pound of sugar. I should like a good
cup of tea after the night I’ve had with the baby.”

“Well, you lie quiet, mother, and Ill hurry up and
make the fire, and run over to Mrs. Beggs’. My! she
will be surprised when she sees we have a whole half-
sovren to spend.”



Found Out. 13

Mrs. Mathews went back to the inner room, while
Freddy ran here and there, looking for matches and
paper and fire-wood. The fire soon began to burn up,
and then he filled the kettle and put it on. All this
time I was lying in a tin mug, where Freddy had hid
me. It certainly was a very poor place. The inner
room was filled up with a large bedstead, covered
with a faded patch-work quilt. The cupboard door
stood open, but there was nothing in it except a
salt-cellar, a tea-pot with a broken nose, a heel of
bread, as hard as a stone, and a sugar-bowl, with a
tiny sprinkle of sugar at the bottom. A very thin
tabby cat jumped, mewing, out of the window. Some
ragged clothes were drying on a clothes-line.

“Tm agoin’, mother,” said Freddy, looking into the
bedroom. “The fire’s burning up grand, and I’ll be
back in no time.”

“Very well, leave the door on the latch, and don’t
make so much noise; now the baby’s quiet, p’raps
I’ll get a wink of sleep. It’s a good thing this
money’s come to us, anyhow, and I thank the Lord
for it.”

“1 s’pose it’s all right to spend it,” cried Freddy.

“Why, yes! What else kin we do? We don’t
know how it was left, or a mite about it.”

Freddy turned up the tin mug, and grasping me in
his dirty little hand, he ran off to a shop a few doors
down. It was a large place, and Mrs. Beggs, a very
large woman, stood behind the counter. ‘“ Now,
Freddy Mathews,” she said, sharply, “I’m not agoin’
to let your mother have any more goods on credit.
It’s not that I don’t pity her, poor soul, left with two
children, and one only a baby, but I have myself and
my children to look to, and I can’t afford it. You owe
me three and eightpence already.”

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Freddy, humbly, “ but you



14 From Hand to Hand.

see,” holding me up above his head, “to-day we’ve
got the money to pay.” ;

“Oh!” said Mrs. Beggs, “That’s another story,
I’m glad to see it. Well! and what do you want?”

“ A quartern loaf and half-a-pound of rashers, and
a pound of sugar, and quarter, of a pound of butter,
and two ounces of the best tea,” said Freddy, very fast.

“ That’ll come to one and sevenpence half-penny,”
said Mrs. Beggs, looking up from her slate.

“ Then, please, ma’am, take it out of this, and give
me the change. Hurry up, do!”

While Freddy was speaking, Mrs. Beggs was
measuring out the tea, then she weighed the butter,
cut off four rashers of bacon with a sharp knife, and
took down a loaf from the shelf. As she handed it to
Freddy, she took the half-sovereign and turned it
round. Then looking sharply at the boy, she said,
“ Where did you get this ?”

He coloured. “I found it, ma’am, found it in the
drawer this morning.”

“ Nonsense, boy ; some one must have put it there.
Half-sovereigns don’t get into drawers of theirselves

“T don't know how it got there,” said Freddy.
“T only know it was there. Oh, ma’am, do give me
them things! I’m so hungry, and mother’s so tired.”

“T tell you what I’ll do,” said Mrs. Beggs. “ You
may take the things, and Ill keep the half-s sovereign.
To tell the truth, I don't like the look of it. Seems to
me it has been doctored somehow.”

“ Doctored /” repeated Freddy, beginning to cry.

“Yes ; it doesn’t look to me quite right. Mind,
{ don’t say you did it; but I’d like to ask my son
Tom about it. He knows a powerful lot, does Tom.”

“And shan’t I get any change?” whimpered is reddy.

“Yes, if it’s all right you will ; ; if it’s not, you won't.
There, run away now, I’ve got a lot to do.”



Found Out. 15

Freddy ran away with his load of things, but there
was a cloud on his bright face. He thought he would
have brought back at least eight silver shillings, and
he had not even one. Freddy had hardly turned his
back before a smart, dapper-looking young man, in
a white apron, came into the shop.

“Ah, Tom!” said Mrs. Beggs, “just look here ;
little Freddy Mathews has brought in half-a-sovereign.
He doesn’t seem to know how he came by it. Says
he found it in the drawer, and somehow it looks queer
tome. I want to know what you think.”

“ Hand it over,” said Tom.

“ Well?” exclaimed Mrs. Beggs, as her son scraped
me with a pen-knife, and turned me over.

“T shouldn’t wonder,” said Tom, thoughtfully, “if it
wasn’t one of them there Jubilee sixpences that they ’ve
been gilding over ; but I’ll run across with it to Mr.
Duncan at the pawn-shop——/e’s sure to know.”

So away went Tom Beggs with me in his hand.

“Well, what do you say?” asked Tom, as Mr.
Duncan held me up to the light.

“Tt’s no more a half-sovereign than this here pen-
knife in my hand. Look here, don’t you see how the
gilding is wearing off at the corners. How did you
come by it?”

“Little Freddy Mathews brought it in just now;
said he found it in the drawer.”

“Likely story! We’d better go over and have
a word with him. He could be sent to jail for this.”

So the two men bustled off into Mrs. Mathew’s
little shop.

Freddy was standing at the door. His pale face
brightened as he saw them coming, and he held out
his dirty little hand for the change.

“Not so fast, youngster,” said Tom Beggs, sharply.
“Do you know that you’ve been trying to pass off bad



16 From Hand to Hand.

money? This isn’t a half-sovereign at all. It’s a
Jubilee sixpence gilded over, that’s what it is. Look
at it.”

“J—JI didn’t know. I—I couldn’t tell,” stammered
poor Freddy, beginning to cry. “I found it in the
drawer this morning, and mother said it had dropped
from the clouds.”

“We could have you dropped into prison,” said Mr.
Duncan, stiffly. ‘ Do you know that, young ’un?”

“Oh, please, sir, don’t send me to prison,” cried
Freddy. ‘“ What wozld mother do without me, and
indeed—indeed I didn’t know it wasn’t a good half-
sovereign ; it looked just like one.”

“Well, we won’t be too hard on you,” said good-
natured Tom Beggs. “We'll let you off this time ;
but you must never try that trick again.”

“And what shall I do with the bread—we’ve got
some of it left—and the rashers?” asked Freddy,
wiping his eyes on the cuff of his jacket.

“Oh, you may keep them; the sixpence is right
enough, and it’s worth something now for a curiosity.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Freddy; but the brightness
had gone out of his face, and I never wished so much
to be a real half-sovereign as I did then.

“Tell you what it is, Tom,” said Mr. Duncan, as he
and Tom Beggs walked down the street, “ they’re
calling in the first issue of Jubilee sixpences, and in
six months’ time they’ll be getting scarce.”

“Yes, I know. I mean to keep it.”

“T think I should like to have it,” said Mr. Duncan,
who had taken me in his broad, horny fingers, and was
turning me over. “Let me see, how much did you
borrow from me last week?”

“ Two pounds thirteen.”

“Well, I’ll take this from you, and you’ll only owe
me two pounds ten. That’s fair, isn’t it?”



Found Out. 17

“Yes, I s’pose so,” said Tom, sullenly.

“You see, I’ve got a fancy for this little coin ; but
it’s not worth more than two shillings at the very
most.”

Mr. Duncan thrust me into his pocket, and with a
nod to Tom, he walked away. He soon hailed an
empty cab and got into it. We drove far into the
country, and now we were going up a long avenue to
a large, tall house. Here Mr. Duncan got out. There
was an auction going on, and the click -of the
auctioneer’s hammer was going down every few
minutes.

“ Going—going—gone !” he cried. “This beauti-
ful clock, gilt, enamelled, on a marble stand, for one
pound one—one pound two—one pound three and
six—thank you—one pound three and six—one pound
four— any one go higher than one pound four ?”

“ One pound five,” cried Mr. Duncan.

“Thank you—one pound five—and for one pound
five, it’s gone!”

Down went the hammer. Mr. Duncan elbowed his
way to the front, and began to bid for other things:
and everything he bid for, he got. -

When he went to the desk to pay, he took out a
handful of gold sovereigns, and I was slipped in
amongst them. It was getting dark, and the gas was
not yet lighted.

“ Eight pounds, ten shillings, sir,” said the clerk.

“ Here it is,” said Mr. Duncan, pouring out the gold.
“ Five, six, eight and a-half.”

‘Thank you, sir,” said the clerk, sweeping us up
into a little bag, “much obliged.”

Mr. Duncan went off, and I was very glad not to
see himagain. He would have punished poor Freddy,
who was innocent ; he was not ashamed to pass me
worse off himself, and to escape free.

B





CHAPTER III.

AT ONSLOW GARDENS.




f) ELL, here I was out in the world
\s again, jingling about ina linen bag,
ay and going, I could not tell where.

Suddenly, a number of us were poured

out on a sort of counter, crowds of
people were coming and going, and
there was a sharp click of turnstiles.

Lj We were at the gate of the Zoological
“Gardens in Regent’s Park, it was Saturday,
and lots of boys and girls were brought to
spend their half-holiday here, and to have a ride on
the camels and elephants.

“ Change for a sovereign !” cried a stout old gentle-
man, putting one down, “and be quick.”

“Yes, sir, how many?”

“Two, this young lady and myself.”

“ All right, sir, eighteen shillings,” and I was handed
out along with eight shillings.

The gentleman took us up carelessly, and was
putting us into his pocket, when a blue-eyed little
girl, with long flaxen hair, cried out, “Oh! grand-
papa, take care. Do you see that is half-a-sovereign?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll take care, Florrie. But it is well to
remind me, for I lost one yesterday at the station.”

18



At Onslow Gardens. 19

“Lost one! A whole half-sovereign. What a

ity !”

“Yes, but it can’t be helped now. By-the-by, would
you like to have this one?” taking me out.

“Oh! grandpapa, zzdeed | would. A whole half-
sovereign, for my very very own.”

“Yes, why not? Be sure not to lose it.”

“Oh! there’s no fear of that. See, I will put it
into my nice new little red purse that Aunt Mary
gave me. There’s nothing in it, not a shilling.
Thank you ever so much, dear grandpapa, I feel quite
rich.”

We had now arrived at the lion’s cages, and Florrie
had so much to do looking at them, and then at the
monkeys and the bears, that she could think of nothing
else. Then she fed the elephants with biscuits, and
after a ride on the largest of them, she and Mr.
Harwood—that was the old gentleman’s name—looked
at the snakes.

“ Now, I think,” said he, “it is time for us to go
home.” He hailed a cab, and told the man to drive
to 97 Onslow Gardens. As we went along, Florrie
took me out, and looked at me now and then.

“ How bright this nice little half-sovereign is!” she
cried, nestling up to her grandpapa. “TI shall try and
keep it as long as ever I can.”

“But you mustn’t be a miser, Florrie. Money is
given us to be spent, not to be hoarded—to be wed/
spent, that is, not wasted on things you can do with-
out.”

“JT tell you what I will do, grandpapa. I will get
a little book, and write down how I spend every penny
of this beautiful little half-sovereign, wouldn’t that be
a good plan?”

“Yes, very good. Here we are at home!”

The cab stopped at a large house with pillars out-



20 From Hand to Hand.

side, and Florrie and her grandpapa got out. She
flew up the stairs to a pleasant room on the second
floor. The walls were covered with coloured pictures,
and there was a folding-screen also covered with
pictures. Behind this screen was a little white bed,
and in the bed, was a pale little girl, younger than
Florrie, with darker hair, and big wandering eyes.
She was very thin, and her face was sad and sweet
and patient. Over her head was a print of the Good
Shepherd carrying a lamb in his arms. There were
tall palms here and there, and boxes of flowers in the
windows, and on a table by the bed was a bunch of
hot-house grapes, and a glass of crimson roses. The
little girl’s face brightened as Florrie rushed in.

“Well, Florrie, did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh, indeed, I did. We saw the lions, and the
giraffes, and the ostriches, and a dear wee little
monkey—how I should like to have him!”

“ And you had a ride on the elephant?”

“Ves, a splendid ride. I wish you’d been with us,
eh

Lil sighed. “Ah! I can never go anywhere,” she
said.

‘Does your back hurt you very much, dear?”
asked Florrie.

“Not unless I move. I haven’t been up to-day.”

“T daresay you will get up to-morrow. But oh!
Lil, I was forgetting to tell you, grandpapa has given
me half-a-sovereign all for myself.”

“What will you do with it?”

“T don’t know. I don’t want anything very badly.
What would you do if you had it?”

“T think I should give it to the Diet Kitchen at
Plaistow, or perhaps to the Hospital for Sick Children.
I know so well what it is to be sick.”

“That would be very good of you,” said Florrie,



At Onslow Gardens. 2I

“but I don’t think I should like to part with it just
yet.” She put her hand into her pocket, and felt for
the little red purse.

“What don’t you like to part with, Florrie?” said a
voice at the door.

“Oh! Ronald, do come in,” said Florrie, as a tall,
good-looking boy peeped in, “I want to tell you about
the Zoo. I had such a good time.”

“T don’t want to hear,” said Ronald, coming in
with his hands: in his pockets, ‘‘I1 have been there
lots of times. I know all you can tell.”

“ But you don’t know about my half-sovereign.”

“What half-sovereign ?”

“Why, the half-sovereign that grandpapa gave me
this afternoon to do just as I like with.”

“Where is it? Let me have a look at it.”

“Here it is,” cried Florrie, drawing me out of her
little red purse. ‘Look at it ; isn’t it bright?”

“Strikes me it is a little ¢oo bright,” said Ronald,
taking me to the window. “Here, I’ll strike a match
and have a better look at it.” He lit the gas, and
held me close to it. “I don’t believe it is a real half-
sovereign at all, Florrie.”

“ You tiresome boy ! you just say that to annoy me.”

“No, really. Honour bright. Look here where
the gilding is coming off at the edges.”

“T don’t want to look,” said Florrie, half crying.
“You always like to say disagreeable things. Didn't
you say my very prettiest doll, Portia Jane, has a
squint, and I know she hasn’t, and I know my half-
sovereign is real pure gold, or else grandpapa wouldn’t
have given it to me.”

“He mayn’t have looked close at it,” said Ronald.
“T’ll bring it down and show it to him.”

I was soon in a large, cosy room lined with books.
Old Mr. Harwood was sitting in an arm-chair reading



22 From Hand to Hand.

the newspaper by the lamp, a pair of eyeglasses over
his nose. He looked up at Ronald.

“Well, Ronald, what is it now?”

“JT want to show you this half-sovereign that you
gave Florrie to-day. I don’t believe it is a good one.”

“Let me look at it. It seems all right.”

“No, see here at the edges where it is rubbed.
You know I’ve been going in for chemistry, and
Mr. Bensen gave mea bottle of testing acid. I will
run and fetch it.” :

Mr. Harwood took up his newspaper again, and
Florrie, who had followed her brother into the room,
took me up affectionately between her finger and
thumb, saying: “Ronald is a horrid, disagreeable
boy to say such things of my dear little half-sovereign.
I can’t bear him.”

“Hush, hush, my dear,” said the old gentleman.
“Perhaps he may be right. The man at the turnstile
pushed the change over to me, and I took it up
without looking much at it; it seemed all right, but
one can never tell when these gilded half-sovereigns
may be palmed off. Ah! here comes Ronald with
his bottle.”

Along with the bottle Ronald brought a saucer.
Into this saucer I was put, and a sharp, biting fluid
was poured over me. As if by magic, my bright
yellow covering disappeared, and I was white again !

“There, you see,” cried Ronald eagerly. “I was
right. The gilding has all come off.”

“So it has,” said Mr. Harwood. “It is nothing but
a sixpence.” .

“A Jubilee sixpence,” cried Ronald. “I saw in the
paper that they are all called in. They were exactly
like half-a-sovereign, and it did not do. It was so
easy to gild them over you see.”

“You’re a sharp lad, Ronald,” said Mr. Harwood,





‘ISN’ IT A BEAUTY ?”—f, 25.

23



24 From Hand to Hand.

looking at him, “sharper than I am. Come, Florrie
dear, don’t cry any more about that unlucky half-
sovereign. You musn’t be cheated out of it anyway.
See here,” putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket,
“T have another, and you shall have it. It’s not as
bright as the sham one, but it is genuine. It will be
a lesson to you that all is not gold that glitters.”

“Thank you ever so much, dear grandpa,” cried
Florrie, kissing him. “ But don’t you think something
ought to be done to that man at the turnstile?” ]

“Well, no, I am not going to mind about him.
I am sure he didn’t know that it was a gilded half-
sovereign. I saw him take it out of a cash box with
some others. I can bear the loss better than he can.”

“Won't you give me the Jubilee sixpence, grandpa?”
asked Ronald. “1 haven't got one for my collection.”

“Very well! Take it and welcome! Runaway now,
both of you, as fast as you can, for I want to finish
this leading article before dinner.”

Away went Florrie, and away I went, firmly grasped
in Ronald’s damp inky fingers.

He brought me into his own private den, next to
his sister’s room, with a door opening between them.
It was crammed with all sorts of things—stuffed birds,
beetles, butterflies, birds’ eggs, shells, sea-weed, fish-
ing tackle, and in a glass case by the window, was a
collection of coins. Into this case, I was put and
labelled, “Jubilee Sixpence, First Issue, 1887.”
There was one good thing, I could not disappoint
anybody now, but I found it very dull lying there on a
blue velvet bed, and never moving from the same spot.
The glass case seemed so cramped and narrow, but
there I must lie, and there seemed no chance at all
that I should ever get out. Florrie used to play with
some other children in the square. Their merry shouts
and laughter rang out on the summer air. Often,



At Onslow Gardens. 25

when the door was open, Lil's clear little voice was
heard singing to herself. There was some great
injury to her spine, and she would never be able to
walk or even to stand alone. She had a canary to
keep her company, and a little black-and-tan dog that
was generally curled up by her side. Florrie used
to spring into the room with her skipping-rope, and
sometimes she used to ride on the big rocking-horse.
“Aren't you very tired lying there so still, Lil,” she
asked, coming over to her sister’s bed.

“Well, just a little, but not much. I make-believe
that I am in a great wood—with big trees, ever so
big—and I hear the leaves whispering to me and the
angels calling.”

“Not the angels, dear !”

“Yes, angels of Jesus. Ye is with me, Florrie, so
you see I can’t be very lonely, and He sends His
angels now and then, such lovely ones, with white
wings and sweet voices, and they tell me such beauti-
ful things about heaven. 1 don’t mind lying here at
all, indeed I don’t. Grandpa has given me a half-
sovereign. I’m going to send it to the Children’s
Hospital.”

“Ah! How much better you are than Iam! I’ve
spent mine to-day buying my doll a perambulator.”

“Did you, dear? I should like to see it.”

“T’ll run and fetch it,” said Florrie. ‘ Here,” she
said, as she wheeled the perambulator in full view "
of Lil. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

“Yes, but I thought you had one already.”

“Oh, that old thing, it’s all broken to pieces.
Ronald took off the wheels to make some of his horrid
machines. He’s always breaking my things. But he
was right about the Jubilee sixpence.”





CHAPTER IV.
BUFFETED ABOUT.

®\ NE day a change came to me, but it was
\ a change for the worse, not for the
better. Ronald went back to school
after the holidays, and the morning
after he left, his favourite den was
thoroughly cleaned out. The fishing-
rods were taken down from the walls,
the rifles were cleaned, and the cases
with birds’ eggs and butterflies were all
put along by the wall, the case with the collection of
coins, in which I was, was dragged out on the lobby.
Scrubbing and sweeping began in good earnest, the
housemaid, as she swept out the dust, knocked her
long broom against the case, smash went the glass,
and out I rolled, and fell amongst a heap of torn
letters, broken glass, and dust! There was a position
for a Jubilee sixpence, first issue! But this was not
all. The housemaid in her hurry brushed me into
the dust-pan, and threw me into the ash-pit. There
I remained for a long, long time. If the glass case,
where I reposed on a blue velvet bed, was dull, what
was it now to be thrown into a dirty hole, with rotten
cabbage stalks, broken bottles, half-burnt cinders, and
old corks !
26





Buffeted About. 27

Once or twice Florrie said, “I wonder what has
become of Ronald’s Jubilee sixpence. Do look, Jane,
if it could have been thrown out into this ash-pit. He
will be so angry when he finds it is lost.”

“Lor bless you, miss, it’s not there; I looked all
through the rubbish before I threw it in. Come away,
do, you’ll soil your nice clean frock.”

It was a great pity that I was not able to call out,
“Herelam!” There I had to lie, forgotten by every-
body, and getting more and more coated with dust in
that horrid dark hole.

At last, one fine October morning, two dustmen
came with their cart, and began to shovel away the
rubbish. Luckily, the sun was shining brightly, and
it shone full on me, one of my sides was quite clear of
dust, and I rolled over on it.

“Hullo, Bill,” cried one of the men, “hold hard.
What’s that?”

“Nothing at all, you fool! you’re always thinking
you’ve got something.”

“But it zs something this time, look here!” And
picking me out of the dust, he held me up in the air.
“ There!” he cried, “what’s that?”.

“Why, it’s a sixpence!” said Bill, sulkily. “No
great find, after all. If it had been ’arf-a-sovereign,
now, I should have said something.”

“Tt’s the first bit of luck we’ve ’ad to-day, anyway,
and sixpence is better than nothing.”

“Well, take it over to the public, and let’s ’ave a
drink ; my throat’s as dry as a lime kiln. You may
stand treat, old boy.”

“No, no, I’m not going to drink, I’ve had enough
of that. Let me see what’s the date of this sixpence?
1887. That’s the Jubilee year. I’ve ’eard tell that
these ere Jubilee sixpences are worth a lot of money.”

“ Better take it in to the house and ask.”



28 From Hand to Hana.

“That’s no go, the house is shut up, there’s no one
in it but an old woman. No, I’ll bring it round to
Mr. Simmonds at the bakery; he’s a good ’un to
know, he’s allus reading the papers.”

So I was taken off to a baker’s shop round the
corner in the Fulham Road.

Mr. Simmonds was at home in his parlour, and he
came out as the two dust-men entered.

“Well, what have you got there?” he asked.

“] think it’s one of these ’ere Jubilee sixpences, sir,”
said Joe, the man who had picked me up. “We want
you to look at it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Simmonds, turning me round, “it
certainly is, but it’s in a very dirty condition.
I don’t think these Jubilee sixpences are worth as
much as people say, still Ill give you a shilling for it
if you like to take it.”

Joe looked at Bill, and Bill looked at Joe, and
finally they agreed to take it, and went out of the shop
well satisfied with their bargain. Mr. Simmonds, on
his part, was very well satisfied with his purchase; he
went back to the parlour, still holding me in his hand,
and took up the Zxchange and Mart that was lying on
the table.

“Let’s see!” he said to his wife, “ What offers for
Jubilee sixpences? Three-and-six is the highest.
Take out the expenses of advertising, and you don’t
make much. However, I’ll advertise this one, and
see what I’ll clear. Any way, I won’t be a loser.”

He sat down and wrote, “Jubilee Sixpence, first
issue. Apply J. S., 406 Fulham Road.”

He went off to post his letter, and before he went he
put me into a little glass jug on the mantel-piece. A
few minutes afterwards Mrs. Simmonds went out to
mind the shop; and Jemima, the little nurse-maid
came in with the baby in her arms, and began to walk



Buffeted About. 29

up and down with him. He was in a very cross tem-
per, for he had been awake all the night with his
teeth ; every time he passed the little glass jug he
stretched out his arms for it, and cried to get it.
“What do you want with that ’ere jug,” said Jemima,
shaking him, “you cross, cantankerous little creature,
there’s no bearing you to-day. There! if you must
have it, you must, I s’pose, but I know you’ll break
it.” The baby had hardly clutched hold of the jug
when it fell out of his little fat hand and was broken
in a hundred pieces. Worse than all, I fell, too, and
rolled under the fender. ‘There, now, I hope you’re
pleased,” said Jemima, giving the baby such a shake,
that he roared with all his might. Then, kneeling
down, she began to collect the bits of broken glass
and to throw them behind the fire. As she did so,
she spied me, and dragged me out.

“My gracious! a sixpence. I wonder how it got
here !”

“Jemima, Jemima,” called Mrs. Simmonds from
the shop, “ what are you doing with the baby?”

“T’m not doing anything with him, mum,” cried
Jemima. ‘He’s enough to worrit any one out of their
senses. He caught hold of the little glass jug on the
chimbley-piece, and now he’s broke it to smash.”

““Why did you let him? I was so fond of that little
glass jug, I’ve had it for twenty years; my poor
mother gave it to me when I was a mite of a child.”

“Well, I can’t help it,’ answered Jemima. “See
how I’ve cut my hands picking up the bits of glass,
and look here, mum, I found this ’ere sixpence.”

“Ah! we’d better drop it into the till. I suppose
your master forgot it.”

Into the till I was dropped, and just then a blind
man with an old violin in his hand, came in to buy a
loaf of bread.



30 From Hand to Hand.

“Why, Ben,” said Mrs. Simmonds, “it’s a long
time since you’ve been round here. 1 suppose you’ve
been making a lot of money.”

“JT made tenpence halfpenny yesterday,” gruffly
replied the man, “and that’s not much to keep two
and to pay for lodging.”

“But you made more to-day. I see you’ve gota
shilling.”

“Yes, I came in to change it. I want a threppenny
loaf, and that’ll just leave ninepence to go on with.
* Ah! you well-to-do folk don’t know how we poor
have to live.”

“But you weren’t poor always,” said Mrs. Sim-
monds, “you had plenty of money before you were
sent to jail.”

““Sh—sh !” ejaculated the blind man, “give me my
change and let me go!”

Mrs. Simmonds handed him the loaf of bread and
swept the shilling into the drawer; then she pushed
over the change, three pennies and me/ She thought
I was a mere ordinary sixpence; she little knew that
I was the precious Jubilee coin that her husband
had just advertised. But things often turn out dif-
ferently from what people expect. As blind Ben
dropped me into his greasy pocket I knew the touch
of his fingers—he was the same man, the same
“Uncle Ben,” who had gilded me over, and made
me into a half-sovereign. He had gone down in
the world since, and was now quite shabby and out
at elbows. The little girl, who was looking hungrily
at the fresh rolls in the baker’s window, was no
other than Susie—the same Susie who had taken
me to the post office, and had first sent me out
into the world as a half-sovereign. She was taller
and thinner and more frightened looking than she
had been in those days, but I knew her all the same,



Buffeted About. 31

in spite of her battered hat, and her torn and faded
calico frock.

- She caught the loaf that Ben threw her, and hid it
under her shawl, then leaning on her arm, he passed
down the street, and turned into a lane. At the cor-
ner was a public-house, and here he stopped, drew out
his violin, and began to play “ Daisy Bell.”

Several children and a few idle men gathered round
him, and one or two threw him a copper.

“Now, Sue, sing,” said one of them. So Susie
stepped out, and clearing her voice, began. She sang
several verses, and then stopped short.

“Go on, can’t you?” growled Ben, “we might make
some money if you kept on at this.”

“Id rather sing about the angels,” said Susie, “it’s
such a pretty tune, and I know it better.”

“ Well, here goes,” said Ben crossly, scraping away
at his violin, and Susie with a stronger voice began—

“ Hark, hark, my soul, angelic songs are swelling
O’er earth’s green fields and ocean’s wave-beat shore,
How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling
Of that new life when sin shall be no more,
Angels of Jesus,
Angels of light,
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night !”

A nurse girl, wheeling a rickety perambulator,
stopped to listen; a butcher’s boy with his tray of
meat on his shoulder, loitered at the corner, and a
thin, worn-looking woman, whose arms were full of
brown paper parcels, leaned against the railings.
Blind Ben drew his bow across his violin impatiently ;
he had already taken three coppers and was eager for
more.

“ Go on !” he whispered hoarsely, and Susie began
again, rather more hesitatingly than before,



32 From Hand to Handa.

“Onward we go, for still we hear them singing
Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come,
And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing,
The music of the...

Here Susie’s memory failed, and she could not
remember another word.

“Go on, I tell you!” growled Ben, “why don’t you
go on?”

“T can’t, I can’t,” whispered Susie, “I’ve forgotten
what comes next. I only heard it the time we went
to the free tea over at the Steinway Hall. They sang
it beautiful, and they gave me a printed paper with
the words on it. I learned some of them, but I lost
the paper, and I can’t think of them.”

“You’re the biggest fool ever was,” grumbled Ben.
“J ll pay you out for this, miss. You might have
made a lot of money if you’d only had your wits
about you.”

The children ran back to their hop-scotch ; the
nurse-girl wheeled her perambulator away; the
butchers boy steadied his tray of meat on his
shoulder, and turned round the corner. As Ben
found no more prospect of coppers, he took Susie by
the shoulders, and shook her.

“Leave go of that child!” said the pale woman
with the brown paper parcels. “Don’t you see how
she’s trembling. Poor little mite, she did her best,
and it made me feel better to hear her. There’s
a penny for you, my dear, though I can’t very well
afford to give it ; and if you don’t leave go of her, you
cruel man, I'll tell the police of you.”

Blind Ben grumbled that he would do as he liked,
but he stopped shaking Susie, put up his violin, and
they both went down the lane, and turned into an
open door. At the third flight of stairs on the top
landing, Ben took out-a key and unlocked a door,



Buffeted About. 33

which opened into a small low room under the slates.
The fire was out, and Susie began to collect some bits
of wood and paper and a few half-burnt cinders. Then
‘she put a match to them, and they began to crackle.
Meanwhile, Ben sat in the window-seat, and felt for
his earnings.

“ Four and five are nine, ninepence and threepence
make a shilling, and here’s this new sixpence I got at
the baker’s, and a three-penny bit I had before—that
makes one and ninepence ; and if you only do what
you’re told, Susie, and don’t be an idiot as you were
this morning, we’ll make a hat-full of money at the
hopping next week.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Susie. “I wish that horrid
stuff hadn’t got into your eyes and made you blind.
But you can see just a bit, can’t you?”

“Shut up! ’Twas that old Tom that split on me,
and told the police, and got me put into prison. He’s
the one that did me the most harm; I’d like to have
it out with him.”

The feeble flicker in the fire grew stronger, till by
dint of blowing from Susie’s mouth, it became a blaze.
She put on an old black kettle, and made tea. Ben
fried sausages, and cut thick slices from the loaf.
After this, he drank a good deal out of a black bottle
that he took from a cupboard in the wall.

Susie, quite wearied out, lay down on a heap ot
clothes in a corner of the room, and was soon fast
asleep.

“None of your laziness in the morning,” growled
Ben, as he went to his own bed. “You must be up
bright and early, for we’re off to the hopping at six
o’clock.”





CHAPTER V.
OFF TO THE HOP FIELDS.

LIND BEN was as good as his word.
He and Susie were off bright and
early. We were on our way to Vic-
toria before half-past seven. Susie
had to be content with the cold tea
left from the night before and a hunch

of bread, which she ate as she went

along.

It was a fine September morning ; the
sun was up, and looked ruddy and joyful—the day
promised well. _It seemed likely that we should part
company at Victoria, but blind Ben happened to have
some shillings with him in a canvas bag; so with
them he paid his own and Susie’s railway fare, and
I still remained in a corner of his pocket. Once or
twice he took me out to make sure that I was safe.
We were soon packed into a third-class carriage, and
were slowly steaming out of foggy London into the
free open country. I was glad of it. I had had quite
enough of city life. The carriage was so full that two
men and three boys were standing up in it. One
delicate little woman had a baby in her lap, and
another child squeezed in beside her. Three girls,
with very large hats trimmed with big yellow daisies,

34





Off to the Hop Fields. 35

sat next to her, and then came Susie and blind Ben,
with the violin and a big bundle.

“Are you goin’ to give us some music, master ?”
asked one of the girls.

“ Well, yes, I was thinkin’ of it. What would you
like? ‘Linger longer, Loo’?”

“Yes. Come, my dear,” said the girl to Susie, “if
you don’t mind, I’il change places with you. I like
a bit of music, and I want to sit next your father.”

“ He’s not my father,” cried Susie.

“Well, your uncle, then. Here goes!”

Susie now found herself next to the little pale-
faced woman with the baby, who made room for her,
and said pleasantly,

“Ever been at the ’opping before, my dear ?”

“ No, never,” answered Susie.

“Dear me, I’ve been heaps of times. It makes a
nice change to be out in the open air, and sce the
fields.”

“Won't you let me take the baby for you?” asked
Susie. “I used to mind a baby once.”

“ Indeed, I will, and welcome ; my arms are tired
out with her. She wants a lot of dandling. She’s a
poor, weakly thing; can’t get her legs nohow. Why,
Bobby there, when he was her age, he’d stand on his
feet. 1’m only mindin’ this one; her poor mother
died when she was born. I used to keep a little shop ;
but I had to give it up. I couldn’t make it pay ; and
now I mind children, and do charing sometimes, and
Freddy, my boy, he’s the best boy in the world. He’s
got a good place in a boot and shoe shop ; he’s errand
boy, and earns eight shillings a-week. He’s a fine
scholar, and getting on well,” added she, proudly.

Was this the Freddy who had taken me for a half-
sovereign? Yes, and this was Mrs. Mathews, his
mother, who had sat crying while Freddy took the



36 From Hand to Hand.

baby in his arms. She now opened her bag, and
took out thick slices of bread and cheese and cold
bacon. She gave some of them to Susie.

“Ts your boy with you?” she asked. “ Freddy—
the one as is the good scholar.”

“No; but I expect he’ll come later on. Your
uncle is a fine player, isn’t he? What a lot of
coppers he’s taken! Is he good to you, my dear?”

“No, indeed, he ain’t,” answered Susie, giving the
baby a hug. “He’s awful cross. He often shakes
and beats me when he’s ’ad a drop too much.”

“ Poor little mite!”

“T wonder if your boy, Freddy, knows the words of
any songs?”

“Lots of em; he’s often singing.”

“T wonder if he knows ‘ Angels of Jesus.’”

““T dessay he does ; he knows a’most everything.”

“T ’eard it at a free tea,” continued Susie, “and
they gave me a paper; but I expect he”—glancing
over at Ben—“ got hold of it to light his pipe. Any-
how, it’s lost, and I can’t mind the words. It’s a
sweet, pretty tune. Ill sing it to you sometime.”

“ Do, my dear—I like singing.”

Blind Ben was playing away all this time, and
a man with a concertina joined in. They struck up
a polka, and the girls stamped with their feet, and
shrieked with laughter. One of them snatched a
boy’s hat off his head, and held it out of the window,
and when it blew away they screamed and shouted.
He was obliged to tie a red handkerchief about his
head, for the hot sun was streaming into the dusty,
crowded carriage. This was a train that stopped at
every station, and no one seemed to get out; but
crowds wanted to get in.

When the hat went round for the third time,
Ben had quite a rain of pennies, and was in a very



Off to the Hop Fields. a7.

good humour. As he crammed them into his pocket,
he took me out, and held me between his teeth.

“Let me look at that sixpence,” said a respectable
old man. “ Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to take it
from you. Ah! I thought so. Why, this is a Jubilee
sixpence. Why don’t you sell it?”

“ T shouldn t make anything by it.”

“Yes, you would. Lots of people want to buy
them. Isawan advertisement in one of these papers”
-—taking up one from behind the seat. “ Here it is—
‘Jubilee sixpences wanted. Will give four shillings
for first issue.’ There you see, the gentleman as wants
’em lives not far from where we’re goin’. ‘Easterly
Park, Canterbury.’ You’d have no trouble sending
your Jubilee sixpence to him. You can take it your-
self, and get your four shillings.”

Ben muttered sulkily, “Ill see about it,” and fold-
ing me ina piece of paper, he put me back into his
pocket. It seemed likely that we should soon part
company ; but though I would not be sorry to leave
blind Ben, I should be sorry to be away from Susie.
At last the hop-fields, with their tall poles and hanging
festoons of green leaves, began to appear. Bags and
baskets were packed up ; the girls put on their hats,
and Ben put up his violin. When we got out of the
train, Susie clung to Mrs. Mathews, and said good-
bye to her and the baby with many tears.

“You ’ve been so good to me,” she said.

“ But we’ll see you again, my dear,” said the good-
natured little woman. “If you’re in any trouble, be
sure to come to us—Ivy Cottage, Balham. I’m most
always at home with the children, and Freddy comes
back in the evening. He’ll like to see you.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be sure to come,”
cried Susie, and then she had to run away, for blind
Ben was calling her.





CHAPTER VI.
UNDER THE HAY-STACK.

HERE was not a room to be had in the
little town; the hoppers had taken
possession of every hole and corner,

so we went further on—out into the open

country. It was a beautiful September
afternoon. Susie often stopped to listen to
the corncrakes amongst the grass, and to
admire the tall dahlias, red and yellow and
white, in the cottage gardens. Sometimes

Ben took out his violin and played a merry

tune, and the village children gathered round and began

to dance. One of them put a rosy-cheeked apple into

Susie’s hand, and another gave her a hunch of bread

and honey. Ben looked crossly at her as she ate it.

“JT never saw such a child for eating,” he said;
“always wanting to stuff yourself with something or
other.”

“T’m sure I haven’t had much to-day,” answered
Susie. “Only for what Mrs. Mathews gave me in
the train, I’d be starving.”

“T’m not starving,” said Ben, “and I only had one
slice of bread and cheese.”

“ But you drank a good deal out of the green bottle,”
said Susie. “I saw you.”

38






Under the Hay-Stack. 39

“You see a precious lot more than you ought to,”
growled Ben. ‘‘By-the-by, have you thought of
them words about the angels? If you could sing the
whole thing straight off you ought to make a hatful of
money. Them are the things some folks like best.”

“No, I can’t mind them,” answered Susie, “but
Mrs. Mathews says her boy, Freddy, knows them.”

“Much good that does,” grumbled Ben. ‘We may
never catch sight of her or her boy.”

“T hope we shall !” exclaimed Susie, eagerly.

“And I hope we shan’t. She’d be cramming your
head with all sorts of trumpery. Your business is to
stick by me, and do as you’re told.”

Susie edged away down the path, and stopped
before a gate. It was the gate to a farm-yard, and
there were three freshly-made haystacks; one of them
had not yet been thatched.

“Doesn’t the hay smell good?” said Susie, snuffing
itup. ‘“ How nice it would be to sleep here !”

“So we can,” said Ben, poking about with his stick,
“it would save our night’s lodging.”

“But we might be found out.”

“There’s no fear. Look here, between these stacks
some of the hay has fallen down, I feel it under my
feet. You can make a heap of it for yourself, and I'll
make another. There’s no one stirring in the farm.”

“No, and it’s a good way off,” said Susie, looking
round at the grey house among the trees. ‘ But what -
shall we do for a fire ?”

“We don’t want no fire,” growled Ben. “ Isn’t there
a cottage anywhere about?”

“Yes, I saw one down the road, near the cross
roads.”

“Well! we can go there. They’ll give us some
hot water, and I’ve got tea here in my pocket.”

The woman at the cottage had a kettle on the fire;



40 From Hand to Hand.

she gave them hot water, cups and saucers, milk and
sugar, and plenty of bread and butter, for which Ben,
rather grudgingly, paid her sixpence. I thought it
would be my turn to go, but Ben carefully wrapped
me up in the paper again, and paid with an old well-
worn sixpence, which had been given him in change
at the station.

_ “TI never saw such a child to eat as you are, Susie,”
he said, “you’d eat all before you, and never look a
bit the better for it.”

“Poor little mite! she looks a’most starved,” said
the woman. “She wants fresh country air, that’s
what she wants. Come from Lunnon to the hopping,
I’ll we bound, aren’t you, my dear.”

Susie said “Yes!” and Ben took his stick, and asked
if there wasn’t a “ public” somewhere near.

“Why, yes, there’s the Beehive just round the
corner.”

“JT want to get my bottle filled,” said Ben. “I
generally take a drop of something afore 1 go to bed—
it keeps off the rheumatics.”

So saying, he went off, leaving Susie playing with
three tortoise-shell kittens. He stayed for an hour at
the Beehive, smoking and talking to a man who
dropped in to have a talk with any one he could
find.

“It’s a bad year for the hopping, master,” he said,
shaking his head, “very bad—the weather’s been too
dry, the hops is all burnt up to nothing.”

“Tf J don’t make a good thing of it,” said Ben, “171
make tracks to go off to the sea. There’ll be a good
lot of people there till October, and there’s nothing
doing in town.”

“Well, see that you don’t come across Farmer
Stubblefield ; he’s real mad if he sees anybody about
his place—he swears he’ll have them taken up.”





Lie bhi eeta nate ip ge tae



Oitstsers




\ S SS oN

Sy





5








“*rr’s A BAD YEAR FOR THE HOPPING, MASTER,’ IE SAID.”

41



42 From Hand to Hand.

“Who is he? Where does he live?”

“Over there,” said the man, pointing to the grey
house amongst the trees. “ Didn’t you pass it?”

“ He’s no right to drive any one away,” said Ben.

“Well, you see, he doesn’t like the hoppers, and
they do give a lot of trouble.”

Ben said nothing. He waited till nine o’clock, when
it was getting dark, and then he took his stick and
made his way to the cottage. Poor Susie was tired
waiting for him, and had fallen asleep on the bench
outside the door.

“Come, where are you, child?” cried Ben, tapping
his stick on the ground. “ Where are you?”

“Here I am!” cried Susie, starting up. “ Where
are we? Oh! I know.”

“Come along with you,” growled Ben, laying his
heavy hand on her shoulder. “You know where
we’ve got to go.”

“To the haystacks !” cried Susie. “Oh! Ido hope
we shan’t be found out.”

“ Not a bit of fear,” answered Ben, “as long as you
keep quiet, and don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Susie led Ben through the gate in between the hay-
stacks; he rolled himself up on one of the heaps of
hay, took out his pipe, and began to smoke. Susie
was some way off; she lay down and crept under the
haystack, but for a long time she did not sleep, there
were so many strange sights and sounds around her—
trees and grass—the distant lowing of cows, and the
chirp of the grasshoppers. At last, however, she fell
asleep, and slept soundly. The village clock struck
one! everything was still. Two! Ben, who had
been sitting up smoking his pipe, turned on his side
and groaned heavily. Three! A little crackling
amongst the dry wisps of hay. Four! Susie started
up from her sleep and rubbed her eyes. What was



Under the Hay-Stack. 43

this strange glare she saw ? what was this hissing heat
against her face—why, it was fire !

“Wake up, Uncle Ben !” she cried, seizing the blind
man by the arm. “Wake up, the place is on fire,
we'll be burnt. Come away, come away.”

Ben staggered to his feet, the cuff of his coat where
his pipe had fallen, before it kindled the hay, was
already smouldering into a blaze. Susie caught it
between her hands, and crushed the fire out.

Then seizing her bundle, she cried, “ Now, let’s go
to the house, and call them up.”

“We'll do nothing of the kind,” muttered Ben.
“Let them alone, they’ll find it out fast enough.
Why, they’d murder us, if they knew what we’d
done. No, no, we'll be off as fast as we can.”

“But the hay’ll be all burnt.”

“Tet it burn!” said Ben. ‘ Who cares?”

But the alarm had been already given ; some one
in the house had seen the blaze, and now, in the early
dawn, five men were hurrying out with buckets of
water, and ladders, and pitch-forks—anything that
came first to hand.

“They’ve seen it, they’ve seen it!” cried Susie.
“Come, we can’t do any good, we’d best run off as
fast as we can.”

She took Ben by the arm, and they hurried out to
the high-road. Already the lower part of the hay-
stack had caught fire, and the flames burst out redder
and redder.

“Oh my, how it does burn!” cried Susie. “Isn't
it dreadful! Oh, how frightened I am !”

“You shut up!” cried Ben, “it’s nothing to you.
It’s just an accident, that’s all.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Susie. “It wouldn’t have
happened if we hadn’t been there. It was your pipe
that did it.”



44 From Hand to Hand.

“Now, if I hear you say that again, I'll just take
and chuck you into the next pond. You’ll be giving
information against me to the police, I suppose, you
ungrateful little baggage. I that have minded youand
cared for you ever since——”

“Ever since when?” said Susie.

“Ever since I picked you up in the street.”

“Ah! then you’re not my real uncle.”

.“T never said I wasn’t,” said Ben, “did I? Look
over and see what’s up at the farm.”

They had now reached the top of a little hill, and
Susie looked down.

“Oh! how it burns!” she cried, “I can hear it
crackle. Now, they’re pouring water on it. Now,
there’s a man on a ladder—there’s two men, they’re
shouting—ah ! one of them fell—no ! he’s up again—
ah! the water hissed that time—they’ll put it out.
Ah! there it is blazing again ever so high. Oh! it’s
dreadful, dreadful /”

“Well, Farmer Stubblefield was never a man to do
a good turn to the poor,” said Ben, “so it’s well for
him to lose something now and then.”

“ How do you know ?” said Susie.

“JT heard it last night at the Beehive. Come, we
must hurry on. If we could only get a lift on
a waggon, we might be at Canterbury before
night.”

“But I’ve had no breakfast,” said Susie, “and I’m
all in a tremble with fright.”

“You’d be more in a tremble if the police got hold
of you.”

“Me! why, I’ve done nothing !”

“You’ve been under the haystack, haven’t you?”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! how I wish I could run
away,” sobbed Susie, “you’re always making me get
into scrapes.”



Under the Hay-Stack. 45

“Vou be quiet! A nice way you’d be in without
me.”

We were now in a quiet part of the road, with over-
arching trees on either side; a little stream ran down
from a hill, and there were hop-fields in the distance.
Presently a man driving a trap came along the road.

“You’re out early,” he said to Ben, “it’s not six
o’clock.”

“Ves, I have to be,” growled Ben. ‘I couldn’t get
a bed last night. I hadn’t enough to pay for it.”

“Well, get up, you and the little girl, and I'll take
you a bit of the road. There’s been a terrible fire
over at Farmer Stubblefield’s haystacks.”

“ Has there?”

“Ves, but they’re getting it a bit under now. He’s
sent for the fire-engines. It’s some of these hoppers
did it, I expect.”

“Yes, very like ; they’re a rum lot some of ’em.”

“You are not one of them, I suppose?” said the
man, looking sharply at Ben.

“ No, I’m just a poor blind man, sir, that came down
yesterday with my little girl, to try and make a few
shillings by playing the fiddle. It’s all I’ve got to
depend on.”

“Well, I daresay you’ll make a good thing of it.
The hop-pickers are always fond of a bit of music to
cheer them up. But how’s this?” he said, catching
hold of Ben’s sleeve, “the cuff of your coat is all
burnt. You must have been near the fire.”

“Well, some of the sparks did fly out when we
were passing the cross-roads. I didn’t see them. It’s
a poor thing to be blind, sir; I’ve no one but this
child to look after me. Can you tell me if Easterly
Park is anywhere near ?”

“Easterly Park! It’s about eleven miles away.
Do you want to get there to-day?”



46 From Hand to Hand.

“Well, I was thinking of it. The gentleman as
lives there has been advertising for Jubilee sixpences,
and I happen to have one,” taking me out of the piece
of paper. “He says he’ll give four shillings for it, and
that’s a good bit of money for a poor body like me.”

“Ah! it’s Mr. Uppingham ; he’s a great man for
curiosities. Well! I hope you’ll get it. That’s the
shortest way to Easterly,” pointing to a by-road. “If
you turn down there, and take the first to the right,
and the second to the left, you’ll be in the village of
Easterly, and the Park is a big white house with
pillars to it, standing amongst a lot of trees.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ben, slowly getting off the
dog-cart, while Susie jumped down from the back
seat. ‘‘I’m much obliged to you for taking us up.”

“Oh! that’s nothing. I’m sorry I can’t take you
farther, but our ways aren’t the same. Keep onasI .
told you, and you’ll be at Easterly before eleven.
It’s a pity you’ve got your coat burnt, people might
think you’d had something to do with this fire at
Farmer Stubblefield’s. Gocd-day !”

Ben stood still for some minutes, till the dog-cart
had disappeared round a corner.

“Come on,” cried Susie, seizing his hand, ‘come
on down this by-road as he said. This is the way to
Easterly.”

“1’m not going there just now,” said Ben. “If he
says anything about this burn, the police’ll get wind
of it, and I may be popped into jail. No! no! do
you see a path anywhere through the fields?”

“Yes, I do,” said Susie, “a little weeny one, and
there’s a stile—such a funny forked one—over there,
that’ll bring us into it.”

“That'll do,” said Ben, “we'll take that; you go
first,” poking along with his stick, “and I7ll follow
you.”





CHAPTER VII.
THE GARDENER’S COAT.

T was now early morning. The sun had
risen, bright and glorious, the cocks
were crowing, and the cattle were
grazing under the trees. All the world
was awake. As we went along the
field-path, we passed some blackberry
hedges. Susie pulled down the

prickly branches, and began to eat black-

berries as fast as she could, cramming them
into her mouth till her lips and hands were stained
with juice.

“Oh! how good they are,” she cried, “I never had
such a lot before, and such juicy ones.”

“J can’t think how you like them. I wish I had
my pipe; it dropped into the hay when the fire began.”

“You can get another. I think we’re coming toa
village. Yes! there are the church bells ringing.”

“ What are they ringing for? ’Tisn’t Sunday.”

“@h! sometimes people go to church on working-
days, early in the morning. JZ should like to go.”

“What for?” growled Ben.

“Just to look in and see what they’re doing.”

“You can go if you like, and Ill stay here.”

“There’s a nice little gate into the churchyard,”

47





48 From Hand to Hand.

said Susie, “look here, and a great big tomb-stone
where you can sit down.”

Ben sat down, and wiped his hot face with a red
cotton handkerchief.

“Tt’s a long time since I’ve been in the country
and heard the church bells ring like this,” he said.
“Why, goodness me,” catching hold of his waistcoat-
pocket, “I hope I haven't lost the Jubilee sixpence,-—
no, here it is, ’twas just slipping out. There’s a hole
in the pocket; it’s a good thing I found it out.”

“Give it tome!” cried Susie, taking me from him.
“722 keep it. Jy pocket has not got a hole.”

“Take care you don’t lose it,” growled Ben.

“No fear !” said Susie, gaily.

Just then the church bell stopped, and she stole
noiselessly into the porch and through the door.
There were some school children, two ladies, a little
girl, and one gentleman. Susie knelt down when she
saw them kneel. “I ave done what I ought not to
have done,” she whispered, as she followed the words.
“J know I have, but I want to be better. I want to
get away from Uncle Ben.” From the bench by the
door, she listened to the psalms and lessons, and one
verse she repeated over to herself, “Call upon Me in
the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee.” When
the short service was over, her eye was caught by the
leaves of a tattered hymn-book which was lying under
the pew. She picked them up and put them together.
As she. did so, she read the words, ‘‘ Angels of Jesus.”
And there, sure enough, was the long-wished-for end
of the verse,

“ And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing,

The music of the Gospel leads us home.”

Susie read on—

“Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing,

The voice of Jesus sounds o’er land and sea,



The Gardener's Coat. 49

And laden souls, by thousands meekly stealing,
Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee,
Angels of Jesus,
Angels of light,
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.”

“Tve got it!” cried Susie, eagerly, “I’ve got it at
last.” She was thinking of putting the torn leaves
into her pocket, when the clergyman, a kind, grey-
haired old man, passed by and looked at her.

“Tf you please, sir,” stammered Susie, “may I have
this old hymn-book? It’s all to pieces, you see.”

“Of course you may. I’ll seeif I have a new one
to give you in the Rectory. Are you all by yourself?”

“No, sir,” said Susie, ‘“‘ Uncle Ben is outside.”

“ Have you been walking far this morning ?”

‘‘ Indeed we have, ever since five o’clock.”

“ Have you had any breakfast ?”

“T?ve had some blackberries, that’s all.”

The clergyman smiled. ‘“ You look as if you wanted
something more than blackberries,” he said. “I'll
send you some breakfast, and your uncle, too. You
can sit in the summer-house over there.”

“Oh, thank you! sir, thank you,” said Susie. She
ran over to blind Ben, who was half-asleep, and cried,
“Only think, we’re going to have some breakfast—get
up!”

“Where are you going?” he growled, looking up
with a frightened stare.

“To the summer-house at the Rectory,” cried Susie,
tugging at his hand, “and I’ve got all the words of
‘Angels of Jesus.’ See here!” And she showed the
torn leaves of the old hymn-book.

“ That’s not much of a find, any way,” grunted Ben.

Susie had no difficulty in finding the summer-house.
It had a thatched roof and a floor and seats made of
logs of wood; in the middle was a round table, also

D

)



50 From Hand to Hand.

made of logs of wood. A neat parlour-maid soon
brought out a teapot, cups and saucers, slices of bread
and butter, and two eggs. “My!” said Susie, her
eyes sparkling, “Isn’t this prime?” Plate after plate
of bread and butter and jam disappeared before her.
Blind Ben did not eat much, he seemed restless and
disturbed.

“What’s that lying on the grass?” he said to Susie,
his eyes peering dimly out. ‘Is ita man?”

“No—it’s a coat—the gardener’s coat; he left it
there when he went into breakfast.”

“Ah! that’s good, that’ll do nicely.” He went
over to it and picked it up; then he threw off his own
coat with the burnt sleeve, and put on the other. It
was not new by any means, but it was better than
Ben’s old greasy garment.

“What.are you doing?” cried Susie. “Are you
going to steal the gardener’s coat?”

“Not to steal it, only to exchange it. A fair
exchange is no robbery, my little dear. Come along !”

“No,” said Susie, sturdily ; ‘I’m going to stay here,
and thank the kind people for my good breakfast.”

“You’re not going to do anything of the kind.
You’re to come along with me as fast as your legs ’Il
carry you. It’s the luckiest chance in the world that
I came on this coat, for that burn on the sleeve might
tell tales on me, and I’d be clapped into prison.”

“Oh! you wicked old man,” muttered Susie, “now
I shan’t get my new hymn-book.”

“You've got the old one, and that’ll do you quite
as well,” said Ben. “Come, I say! Ifyou don’t, I’ll
lay my stick about your back, that I will !”

Susie, whimpering and reluctant, had to obey. Out
of the Rectory gate the two wanderers hurried—out
into the high road, and past the village, into the
common.





CHAPTER VIII.

THE DESERTED MILL.

the edge of the common, we fell in
with a gang of gipsies, who were
camping out. They had a caravan
and two horses, a pony and three
donkeys, that were all browsing about
on the furze-covered common. The
gipsies were very glad when they saw
Ben’s violin, for they were fond of music,
and wanted him to play for them. So
he sat down under a hedge, and played some dance
tunes, and the little gipsy children danced.

In the evening the caravan was harnessed, and the
gipsies travelled on to another place; we went with
them. They stopped at an open piece of ground near
a wood; here they all got out, a fire was made, and a
huge iron pot hung over it. After they had eaten
their breakfast, they all went different ways, the
women went to tell fortunes, the men to mend kettles,
and sometimes to steal a fat chicken or duck which
came in their way. If Ben made any money by play-
ing his violin, they made him give it all up to them,
and he soon got tired of staying with them, and
wanted to.escape. But they kept a watch on him and
Susie. Fatima, a little gipsy girl, with curly black hair,

51





52 From Hand to Hand.

and a red handkerchief tied round her head, was always
on the alert, and ready to give the alarm. One day
when she was playing with Susie, I fell on the ground.

“Why, what’s that?” she cried. “Oh! I see, only
a sixpence.”

“It’s a Jubilee sixpence,” exclaimed Susie; “it’s
worth four shillings.”

“You bet it isn’t !”

“Tt zs. A grand gentleman at Easterly Park would
give it to-morrow.”

“You’d better try him. Easterly is over there, not
a mile from here. Why don’t you run away from the
old’un? He’s downright ugly, I saw him smack you
yesterday.”

“T’m afraid to,” said Susie ; “besides, the sixpence
ain’t mine, it’s his!”

“Tt’s all the same, he wouldn’t be able to catch
you. He’s quite blind, isn’t he?”

“ Well, he can see a little, when he wants to.”

All the same, Fatima’s words worked on Susie, and
she sometimes thought she would run away, get the
four shillings, and make her way to her friend, Mrs.
Mathews.

“But I should be ashamed to tell her what I’d
done,” she said, “and I should never be able to sing
‘Angels of Jesus’ to her.”

One night there was a great disturbance in the
gipsies’ encampment: the leader of the gang had
stolen a horse, and the police were looking for him,
so the gipsies agreed to separate, some going one way,
and some another. In the confusion, Ben and Susie
slipped away; it was a cold, wet night, and they
groped their way along with great difficulty. Once
or twice, they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs atter
them, and Ben crept into a damp ditch, and made
Susie do the same.









































THE GIPSY CAMP.



54 From Hand to Fland.

“Tf I was caught,” he said, “it might be a bad
business for me along of that fire.”

“ And the gardener’s coat,” said Susie. “Oh! how
I’d like to live in that place where the summer-house
is, and the church, and the lovely flowers. I’d feel
real good there ; I hate to be like this.”

Ben made no answer. All that day we wandered
about in lanes and woods, keeping out of the beaten
tracks. Poor Susie was wet to the skin, and so tired,
she could hardly drag her legs along. Ben began to
cough, and his voice grew hoarser and hoarser.

“Tt was well I found a pipe in the gardener’s coat
pocket,” he said; “I lost mine in that old fire, worse
luck !”

He took it out and smoked gloomily, and drank out
of his green bottle. In the evening, we came to a
deserted mill; the glass in the windows was all
broken, and the great, black wheel was still. Yet
there was some shelter from the rain, the floors
were not quite broken, and in places the roof was
whole. Ben crept under the shadow of the wall and
lay down; his eyes were wild and hollow, and his
breath came in quick, short gasps.

“You do look bad,” said Susie.

“T feel bad,” he answered, shortly. “I’m cold all
over, I can’t get my breath.”

“There is a grate,” said Susie, “it’s all over rust,
but perhaps I can make a fire, if the sticks will only
burn.”

“You can try. ‘I’ve got matches—plenty of them.”

Susie looked about under the trees, and soon came
back with her pinafore full of sticks and leaves, but
they were so wet, that it was a long time before any-
thing came from them except a cloud of thick, blue
smoke ; at last, a tiny gleam of flame shot out, and
then Susie got a saucepan out of the bundle, and



The Deserted Mitt. 55

heated some water, and made a mug of tea. But Ben
only held it to his lips, and warmed his hands by
holding it ; he could not drink it.

“Here, you may have it,” he said to Susie. She
drank it eagerly, and sopped a few dry crusts in it.
Then she put her feet to the fire, and fell sound
asleep. The rats sometimes looked up through the
broken boards, and then flopped with a splash into
the dark water; but even they only roused Susie for
a minute, she was so thoroughly tired out. In the
middle of the night she was roused by Ben calling to
her in quick, hoarse gasps, ‘‘Susie! Susie!”

“Yes,” she answered, starting up, “ What is it?”

“JT can’t breathe—I’m choking. You must run for
the doctor.”

“JT don’t know where to find him.”

“There must be a house near—a village I expect;
I heard a dog barking, and I heard cocks crowing.
Over there—to the right.”

Susie darted out in the grey, early dawn of morning.
She followed the crowing of the cocks, and soon found
herself before a long, low thatched farm-house. A
dog began to bark furiously, and Susie trembled and
screamed for help. Then a head was put out of an
up-stairs window, and a woman’s voice called ‘“‘ Who’s
there? What do you want?”

“There’s a blind man took bad over at the old mill
yonder. I want to get a doctor for him.”

“There’s no doctor here. You’ll have to go to the
village for Dr. Parker. He lives in the red house
opposite the Blue Lion. Go straight on, you can’t
miss it; a red house with green blinds.”

The window was shut, and Susie flew on till she
came to the red house, which had a brass plate with
the name “Dr. Parker.” She tugged at the beli, and
presently a key grated in the lock, two bolts were



56 From Hand to Hana.

drawn, and an old woman stood before Susie. She
glared through her spectacles, and cried, angrily:
“What do you want, child? coming at this hour to
disturb the house.”

“Please, don’t be angry. I want the doctor for
Uncle Ben, he’s so ill, you can’t think x

“Dr. Parker is up at the Park; he’s sleeping there to-
night. You’ll have to go there if you want to find him.”

“What Park?”

“Why, Easterly Park, to be sure; Mr. Upping-
ham’s. That large white house over there in the
trees, with the pillars to it. Don’t you see?”

Susie dd see, and off she flew as fast as her legs
would go. She went through the iron gate, passed
the trim, ivy-covered lodge, and stood before the
great hall-door. She was afraid to ring or knock, and
stood there trembling. Presently a maid came out
with a mop and a bucket of water.

“Why, here’s a little girl,” she cried. “What do
you want, my dear?”

At the word “my dear,” Susie broke down, and
sobbed aloud.

“ Now, what’s the matter—don’t cry—cheer up, ana
tell us all about it.”

“J want the doctor,” sobbed Susie. ‘Uncle Ben is
dying over at the old mill, and he sent me to bring
the doctor to him.”

“Tl tell him,” said the good-natured girl, and she
hurried away.

Ina few minutes a stout, grey-haired man appeared ;
it was Dr. Parker.

“You’re quite sure the man is very ill,” he said to
Susie.

“Oh! he is indeed, he can hardly speak. He’s
been a very wicked man; but he is blind, and has
no one to take care of him.”





The Deserted Milt. 57

“ Aha! so this is the blind man we’ve been looking
for so long,” said Dr. Parker. “Ill call Mr. Upping-
ham ; he’ll go with me; he’s a magistrate, he ought
to come.”

“He’s the one that wants the Jubilee sixpences,”
said Susie. “I’ve got a Jubilee sixpence for him,”
and she took me out of her pocket, and wiped me in
her damp pinafore.

When Mr. Uppingham, who was a little, pale, thin
man, came into the hall, she held me up, and cried,
triumphantly, “I’ve got something for you !”

“ A Jubilee sixpence, first issue,” he said, turning
me round. “ How did you know I wanted it?”

“A man in the train read it out of a paper. He
said that you would give four shillings for a Jubilee
sixpence, and we were coming with it, but you can
have this one for nothing if you won’t put Uncle Ben
in prison.”

“We'll see about that,” said Mr. Uppingham,
thrusting me into his pocket. ‘‘ However, I’m very
glad to get it, and you shall have your four shillings.”

The good-natured housemaid brought Susie out a
glass of milk and a piece of bread and butter, and
then we all set off to the deserted mill, Susie leading
the way, while I was transferred from her damp
pocket to Mr. Uppingham’s morocco leather purse.







CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST OF UNCLE BEN.






| f\ fi) E found blind Ben lying crouched
/ against the wall. He moaned when
' we came up, but he did not speak.

i “Uncle Ben!” cried Susie, “I’ve
brought the doctor—here he is!”

Ben muttered something about ‘‘Too
late!” and then his head fell on his
shoulder, and his breath came in quick
short gasps.

“I’m afraid it zs too late,” said Dr. Parker,
“we'll have to send him to the Cottage Hospital.”

“Tll order a cart to come at once,” said Mr.
Uppingham, hurrying away.

When we came back, we found that the doctor had
poured something down Ben’s throat, which had
revived him; he was now sitting up, and a faint
colour had come into his hollow cheeks.

“T?ll never do any good,” he was:saying. “I’Il
never get over this—I’ve been a bad man—all my
life—twice in prison—once for forging my master’s
name—and once for passing bad money.”

“And the little girl?”

“She’s no kin to me; she’s a lost child. I found
her one day crying in the street.”

58°



The Last of Uncle Ben. 59

“Ah! I’m glad I’m no kin to him,” said Susie. “I
never thought I was. But I didn’t run away from
him, no, not when he’s badly treated me.”

Ben was lifted into the cart, and brought to the
Cottage Hospital, a little way out of the village.
Susie stayed with him, and so did Mr. Uppingham.
Towards evening, he got delirious, and talked of
things he had seen long ago.

“Do you know of anything that might soothe him?”
said Mr. Uppingham to Susie.

“No—except ‘Angels of Jesus.’ If I sung it to
him, perhaps it might quiet him a bit.”

So she sung it, all the verses straight through to
the end. Ben slowly lifted up his head.

“You’ve got it all now, Susie, child.”

“Yes, every word. I was a long time learning it,
but I’ll never forget it now, never !”

“No, don’t! You’ll keep her here now,” said Ben
to Mr. Uppingham, “in one of these villages where
the church-bells ring?”

“Yes, I intend to do so.”

“ And send her to school, and keep her at her book,
and teach her to be a good girl. I think she will;
she comes of a good stock, p’raps, not like me.”

He sighed heavily, and then said: “ Susie, in the
room we had over at the Fulham Road—you know
where it is?—there’s a cupboard in the wall—
here’s the key of it.” He took a black ribbon off his
neck with a key tied to it.

“Yes,” said Susie, leaning forward to catch the
words that now came hoarse and indistinct. “Well?”

“You’ll find an old Bible at the back, and pinned
in between the leaves are two ten pound notes.”

“Two ten pound notes!” repeated Susie, in an
awed whisper.

“Yes, you can take them out, and they’ll pay for



60 From Hand to Hand.

my burying, and what’s over, you can have for your-
self. No, you needn't draw back, the money’s honestly
come by—every penny of it.”

“But, Uncle Ben, you’re not goin’ quite away, are

our”

“Seems like it. I haven’t been too kind to you,
child, you ought to be glad to get rid of me.”

“No, no, I’m not! You’re all I have,” cried Susie.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Uppingham, “you mustn’t
be talking so much. The poor man isn’t able for it.”

“ Pray for me, sir,” said Ben, lifting up his troubled
face. “Pray to God to have mercy on my soul! I’ve
been a great sinner.”

“But Christ is the Saviour of even the greatest
sinner,” said Mr. Lee, the clergyman, who just
came in at the door. “Let us pray, that God, for
Christ’s sake, will not cast out this poor sinful wan-
derer.” He knelt down and prayed so earnestly that
the tears streamed down Susie’s face. When they
rose from their knees, Mr. Uppingham bent over Ben.

“Tt is all over,” he said, “he is dead. The doctor
said he could not last more than an hour or two.
Come, my little girl, 1’ll have to bring you home with
me, till I find someone to take care of you.”

So Susie went to Easterly Park, and so did I, safe
in Mr. Uppingham’s morocco leather purse. Next
day, I was brought into a large book-covered room,
and put into a beautiful case on a pink-satin bed,
along with a complete set of Jubilee coins, from a
gold five pound piece to a threepenny bit.

It is very grand here, but rather quiet. I am look-
ing forward to seeing Susie again. I know I shall
see her, but not often. Our paths are different.
Sometimes, I almost wish I was going about in the
world again from hand to hand. But, no! on the
whole, I don’t! It is better to be here.





CHAPTER X.

HOW SUSIE TURNS OUT.

) To S the Jubilee sixpence can no longer
Es follow Susie’s fortunes, we must only
take up the story and tell our readers
how she got on. After Ben’s funeral,
Mr. Uppingham did his best to find
out Susie’s relations, but all in vain.
She only remembered that her mother
used to live in a back lane, that she
made shirts, and had a dreadful cough ;
one day she was taken to the hospital, and died there.
Then a cross, fat woman took Susie to mind a baby.
She had a hard time of it, and was often beaten and
starved. At last she ran away, and Ben found her
crying in the streets, and coaxed her to go home with
him, by telling her he was her uncle.

The money he had left was now enough to keep
her for the next few years. Mr. Uppingham found
her a comfortable home in the village of Easterly.
He put her under the care of Mrs. Jackson, a nice
old lady, who had been house-keeper at the Park for
many years, and now lived in a snug little thatched
cottage, all by herself, with her big black cat, Tippoo.
Susie went to school every day, and soon learned to
read, write, and sing. She even tried to play Ben’s

61





62 From Hand to Hand.

violin, that always hung on a nail on the kitchen
wall.



SUSIE’S GUARDIAN.

Mrs. Jackson taught Susie
—~ a great many things, and
“+ often when Mr. Uppingham

proposed taking her away,
Sex she said, with a shake of
her head, “No, sir, I can’t
spare her, she’s my right
hand.”

One of the pleasantest
times Susie ever had, was
when Freddy Mathews was sent down to spend a
fortnight’s holiday at Easterly. She loved to show



flow Susie Turns Out. 63

him all the sights of the country—the windmill, the
river, the great chestnut trees, and they had many
delightful hours swinging in the woods, and making
hay in the fields. Freddy had never seen a bird’s
nest before, nor apples growing in the orchards. He
had never picked gooseberries off the bushes, or heard
the grasshopper. When he went back to London to
his work at the boot and shoe shop, Susie picked him
a great bunch of roses and hollyhocks and lupins and
rosemary to bring with him to his mother, and Mrs.
Jackson sent a pot of honey from her own bees.
“He’s a real good boy, is Freddy,” remarked the
old lady, “always wipes his boots when he comes in,
and never worries poor old Tippoo or pulls his tail.”
The whole village went to see Freddy off at the
station and bid him good-bye. When Susie was
sixteen, it so happened that a new housemaid was
wanted at the Park, and Mr. Uppingham said, “ Why
not try Susie?” So Susie was tried, and Mrs. Jack-
son had taught her so well, that she turned out a
thoroughly good servant, trusted by everyone. In
the summer, there was an excursion from London to
Easterly Park, and this time, not only Freddy, but
Mrs. Mathews and little Bobby came. It was only to
’ spend a long July holiday ; but what a day it was!
Susie went to meet her friends at the station, and
they were all surprised to see how tall she had grown.
And how neat she was in her trim black dress, and
pretty hat with snowdrops in it! Freddy had a great
deal to tell her—how his wages had been increased,
and how he was trying to save his money to buy
a nice little house. Mrs. Mathews was now quite
comfortable, for troublesome Bobby had left school,
and was employed as a telegraph messenger boy.
After dinner, which was given in a tent under
the trees, Susie brought her friends into the house,



64. From Hand to Hand.

and showed them all the beauties of it. She took
them into the library, and showed them the Jubilee
sixpence lying in the case.

“There it is!” she said. “I put ascratch on it just
there. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose it. How glad I am
now that I didn’t run away and leave poor Uncle Ben.”

“Ah! yes,” said Mrs. Mathews, “there’s ups and
downs in everything. I’ve had my share of them.
But there’s one thing, we must just trust the Lord, and
He’ll bring us safe through them. He has brought
me through mine, I know.”

THE END.



“ LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.



23), 9450

fre Bicknell —
PAVILION NY












The Baldwin Library

[AmB ne


FROM HAND TO HAND

THE ADVENTURES OF A JUBILEE SIXPENCE


““THE THOUGHT OF HER LONELINESS MADE THE TEARS
COME FAST.”




FROM HAND TO HAND

OR |

The Adventures of a Jubilee Sixpene

BY

Cc. J. HAMILTON

AUTHOR OF ‘f THE MERRY-GO-ROUND ;””
“RIVALS AT SCHOOL;”? ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK
THOMAS WHITTAKER
2 & 3 Brsre House.

1896.




: pod, onal.
, ee
ancl te 2 by.
Co EIS
ey Bickyedt.


CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I

Il.

Tels

IV.

Vv.

VI.

VIL.

VIII.

IX.

“

GILDED OVER,
FOUND OUT,
AT ONSLOW GARDENS,

BUFFETED ABOUT,

OFF TO THE HOP FIELDS, .

UNDER THE HAY-STACK,
THE GARDENER’S COAT,
THE DESERTED MILL,
THE LAST OF UNCLE BEN,

HOW SUSIE TURNS OUT,

Vv

PAGE

II



FROM HAND TO HAND.

+.



CHAPTER I.
GILDED OVER.

AM a Jubilee Sixpence. Yes! there is
no mistake about it. I am none of
your vulgar, common, every-day six-
pences, but a genuine Jubilee sixpence,
Jirst tssue, with the Royal arms on one
side, and the magic number “1887”

underneath. On the other side stands

out good Queen Victoria’s head.

The first day that I left the mint was
a fine sunshiny June morning in the Jubilee year.
Everything looked bright and shining, and I looked
more bright and shining than anything as I was
tumbled out of a little canvas bag. A great rough
hand clutched me, and a loud voice called out, “ Why,
Jim, we’ve got a fortune in these here Jubilee six-
pences. We’ve nothing to do but to gild them over,
and they’ll pass for half-sovs.”

Another voice answered, “Right you are—so they
will. They haven’t got ‘sixpence’ marked on them

7


8 From Hand to Hand.

like the others have. We’re in the right box this time
and no mistake. Here goes for a washing.”

Directly afterwards, something very hot was poured
over me, and lo and behold! instead of being white,
I was now yellow—the brightest yellow !

It was very uncomfortable. I had been quite satis-
fied to be a silver sixpence, and here I was turned into
a sham half-sovereign! However, there I was, and the
only thing was to wait and see what would come next.

“We must get rid of these as quick as we can,”
said the voice. ‘Here, Susie, where are you, girl?”

The door opened, and a pale-faced little girl about
eight years old looked in. She had fair hair, rather
tangled, and frightened blue eyes. Her print frock was
faded, and there were holes in her pinafore.

“Here Iam, Uncle Ben! What do you want?”

“T want you to put on your hat and run to the near-
est post-office, and ask for ten postal orders for half-
a-sovereign each. Look sharp, don’t lose any time!
What are you turning about the money in your
fingers for, like a ninny?”

““T_J]—What shall I do if they ask me any ques-
tions? These are all right, ain’t they ?”

“Of course they are. No one will ask you any
questions, unless you make an ass of yourself. And,
see here, there’s a shilling to pay for the orders, and
you may keep the twopence for yourself to buy sweets.”

I was soon clasped in Susie’s little, hot hand, along
with nine of my companions, all sham half-sovereigns
like myself, and off we went to the post-office. It was
a small one, in a back street, and there were a number
of penny papers in the window. The office was
crowded with people buying stamps and writing post-
cards and telegrams.

Susie wedged her way in before a fat old woman in
a black bonnet, and called out in a shrill little voice :
Gilded Over. 9

“Ten postal orders, please !”

“ ¥or how much?” asked the post-mistress, crossly.

“ For ten shillings each.”

“Where’s your money?”

“ Here it is !”

Susie’s pale little. face twitched anxiously as the
post-mistress swept us away, but she said nothing.
It was beginning to get dusk, and the gas had not
yet been lit.

The orders were handed out from the little window,
and Susie caught them up, and darted away. I and
my companions were swept into a drawer, and there
we remained for one long summer night. In the
morning, the little post-mistress took us out and began
to count us, putting us into little heaps along with
several good half-sovereigns. While she was doing
this, a tall policeman came in for a package of post-
cards. As he was paying for them, he said,

“Oh! by the way, Mrs. Bird, you must be careful
about these new half-sovereigns.”

“Why so, sir?”

“Well! you see the first issue of the Jubilee six-
pences are exactly like half-sovereigns, and when
they ’re gilded over no one would know the difference.”

“They haven’t got sixpence marked on them, then.”

“No, that’s just how it is. They’re all to be called
in at once.”

“Well, now, that reminds me that a little girl came
in yesterday and asked for ten postal orders for ten
shillings each, and she handed me ten half-sovereigns.”

“Have you got any of them?”

“T think this is one.”

She held me out, and I was grasped in the big
policeman’s huge palm.

“Td better take it over to the bank at the top of
the street,” he said, ‘‘they’ll know about it there
Io From Hand to Haid.

better than I do. Good-day, Mrs. Bird, I’ll call back
in ten minutes.”

He thrust me into his trousers’ pocket along with a
number of common copper pennies. I did not like
the feel of them at all, and tried to get as far away
from them as I could. Now it would be found out
what I was, but it wasn’t my fault, was it?

Just as the policeman got near the bank, he heard
a shout. An oil-shop round the corner had caught
fire, and there were cries of ‘‘ Send for the police, send
for the firemen !—quick—quick !”

The policeman jumped into a cab, and drove off to
the next Fire-Brigade Station, and I was jingled in
his pocket along with all those great greasy pennies
that really are not fit companions for a sixpence—
especially a Jubilee sixpence that is passing for half-
a-sovereign. Already, I felt some of my bright yellow
covering becoming worn and tarnished by contact with
so many ugly coppers. There was so much hurry
and confusion getting the Fire-Brigade men off, that
the policeman forgot all about me. And as he was
coming back to the station, he turned into a poor
little shop in a back street to buy some tobacco. He
took out twopence to pay for it, and somehow or other,
I slipped in between those two dreadful big pennies,
and he went away without me! The name of
Mathews was over the dcor, and a little boy called
Freddy belonged to it. There I was now in the
greasy battered drawer. The shop was only about
five feet long, and a door led into an inner room.
There were clay pipes in the window, some pink and
white sugar sticks, and some tobacco. The panes of
glass were dusty, and one of them was cracked. I
crept in under one of the pennies. Night was coming
on. What was going to happen next?


CHAPTER II.
FOUND OUT.

LL night long, a baby was crying in a
room inside, and the mother was try-
ing to hush it to sleep. At eight
o’clock, the milkman came, and
Freddy, the little boy, ran to take

in the can. He had slept in his clothes,

so he did not want to dress.

“Where’s your penny?” said the
milkman, gruffly. “I don’t give milk
without the money. I’ve been took in too often.”

“T’ll get you the penny,” said Freddy, pattering over
to the drawer in his little bare feet. He snatched up the
penny that covered me, and gave it to the man, but the
bright gleam of my yellow coat had caught his eye ;
he seized me eagerly, calling out, “ Mammy, mammy !”

“Well, what is it?” cried his mother, coming out of
the inside room. She was just putting on a very old
dress, and rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Seems as if I never was to get a bit o’ rest. As
soon as the baby stops, you begin.”

“But, look here,” cried Freddy, holding me up.
“It’s something good, see what this is.”

“Why, it’s half-a-sovren !”

“That’s just what it is,” said Freddy.


12 From Hand to Handa.

“And how in the living earth did it get there?”
said his mother, looking at me closer. “I didn’t take
it yesterday. I took threppence for sugar sticks, and
a penny for a pipe, and ttuppence for tobacco. It
was a p'leeceman that bought the tobacco.”

“P’raps he put in the half-sovren to get us into
trouble,” said Freddy, who was now pulling on a pair
of very patched boots, much too large for him.

“No, no! he wasn’t the sort of man to do that.
He spoke quite civil and pleasant, and said, ‘Good
arternoon, ma’am, when he went out. It does seem
funny how it got there.”

“Praps an angel brought it,” suggested Freddy,
“like the ravens did when they brought Elijah bread
and flesh in the desert. We read about it in the
Sunday school only last Sunday.”

“Well, it do seem like as if it had dropped from
the clouds. I haven’t had as much money in the
house, I don’t know the day when—not since your
poor father died, two months back last Tuesday.”

The thought of her loneliness made the tears come
fast, she caught up a handkerchief that was hanging
on the clothes-line, and buried her face init. Her sobs
awoke the baby boy, and Freddy took him in his arms
to quiet him. When his mother stopped crying, he said,
“ What are we to do with this bit of gold, mother?”

“ Do with tt, boy! we’ve plenty to do with it. We
want a quartern loaf and a bit of butter, and two
ounces of the best tea.”

“ And half-a-pound of rashers.”

“Yes, and a pound of sugar. I should like a good
cup of tea after the night I’ve had with the baby.”

“Well, you lie quiet, mother, and Ill hurry up and
make the fire, and run over to Mrs. Beggs’. My! she
will be surprised when she sees we have a whole half-
sovren to spend.”
Found Out. 13

Mrs. Mathews went back to the inner room, while
Freddy ran here and there, looking for matches and
paper and fire-wood. The fire soon began to burn up,
and then he filled the kettle and put it on. All this
time I was lying in a tin mug, where Freddy had hid
me. It certainly was a very poor place. The inner
room was filled up with a large bedstead, covered
with a faded patch-work quilt. The cupboard door
stood open, but there was nothing in it except a
salt-cellar, a tea-pot with a broken nose, a heel of
bread, as hard as a stone, and a sugar-bowl, with a
tiny sprinkle of sugar at the bottom. A very thin
tabby cat jumped, mewing, out of the window. Some
ragged clothes were drying on a clothes-line.

“Tm agoin’, mother,” said Freddy, looking into the
bedroom. “The fire’s burning up grand, and I’ll be
back in no time.”

“Very well, leave the door on the latch, and don’t
make so much noise; now the baby’s quiet, p’raps
I’ll get a wink of sleep. It’s a good thing this
money’s come to us, anyhow, and I thank the Lord
for it.”

“1 s’pose it’s all right to spend it,” cried Freddy.

“Why, yes! What else kin we do? We don’t
know how it was left, or a mite about it.”

Freddy turned up the tin mug, and grasping me in
his dirty little hand, he ran off to a shop a few doors
down. It was a large place, and Mrs. Beggs, a very
large woman, stood behind the counter. ‘“ Now,
Freddy Mathews,” she said, sharply, “I’m not agoin’
to let your mother have any more goods on credit.
It’s not that I don’t pity her, poor soul, left with two
children, and one only a baby, but I have myself and
my children to look to, and I can’t afford it. You owe
me three and eightpence already.”

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Freddy, humbly, “ but you
14 From Hand to Hand.

see,” holding me up above his head, “to-day we’ve
got the money to pay.” ;

“Oh!” said Mrs. Beggs, “That’s another story,
I’m glad to see it. Well! and what do you want?”

“ A quartern loaf and half-a-pound of rashers, and
a pound of sugar, and quarter, of a pound of butter,
and two ounces of the best tea,” said Freddy, very fast.

“ That’ll come to one and sevenpence half-penny,”
said Mrs. Beggs, looking up from her slate.

“ Then, please, ma’am, take it out of this, and give
me the change. Hurry up, do!”

While Freddy was speaking, Mrs. Beggs was
measuring out the tea, then she weighed the butter,
cut off four rashers of bacon with a sharp knife, and
took down a loaf from the shelf. As she handed it to
Freddy, she took the half-sovereign and turned it
round. Then looking sharply at the boy, she said,
“ Where did you get this ?”

He coloured. “I found it, ma’am, found it in the
drawer this morning.”

“ Nonsense, boy ; some one must have put it there.
Half-sovereigns don’t get into drawers of theirselves

“T don't know how it got there,” said Freddy.
“T only know it was there. Oh, ma’am, do give me
them things! I’m so hungry, and mother’s so tired.”

“T tell you what I’ll do,” said Mrs. Beggs. “ You
may take the things, and Ill keep the half-s sovereign.
To tell the truth, I don't like the look of it. Seems to
me it has been doctored somehow.”

“ Doctored /” repeated Freddy, beginning to cry.

“Yes ; it doesn’t look to me quite right. Mind,
{ don’t say you did it; but I’d like to ask my son
Tom about it. He knows a powerful lot, does Tom.”

“And shan’t I get any change?” whimpered is reddy.

“Yes, if it’s all right you will ; ; if it’s not, you won't.
There, run away now, I’ve got a lot to do.”
Found Out. 15

Freddy ran away with his load of things, but there
was a cloud on his bright face. He thought he would
have brought back at least eight silver shillings, and
he had not even one. Freddy had hardly turned his
back before a smart, dapper-looking young man, in
a white apron, came into the shop.

“Ah, Tom!” said Mrs. Beggs, “just look here ;
little Freddy Mathews has brought in half-a-sovereign.
He doesn’t seem to know how he came by it. Says
he found it in the drawer, and somehow it looks queer
tome. I want to know what you think.”

“ Hand it over,” said Tom.

“ Well?” exclaimed Mrs. Beggs, as her son scraped
me with a pen-knife, and turned me over.

“T shouldn’t wonder,” said Tom, thoughtfully, “if it
wasn’t one of them there Jubilee sixpences that they ’ve
been gilding over ; but I’ll run across with it to Mr.
Duncan at the pawn-shop——/e’s sure to know.”

So away went Tom Beggs with me in his hand.

“Well, what do you say?” asked Tom, as Mr.
Duncan held me up to the light.

“Tt’s no more a half-sovereign than this here pen-
knife in my hand. Look here, don’t you see how the
gilding is wearing off at the corners. How did you
come by it?”

“Little Freddy Mathews brought it in just now;
said he found it in the drawer.”

“Likely story! We’d better go over and have
a word with him. He could be sent to jail for this.”

So the two men bustled off into Mrs. Mathew’s
little shop.

Freddy was standing at the door. His pale face
brightened as he saw them coming, and he held out
his dirty little hand for the change.

“Not so fast, youngster,” said Tom Beggs, sharply.
“Do you know that you’ve been trying to pass off bad
16 From Hand to Hand.

money? This isn’t a half-sovereign at all. It’s a
Jubilee sixpence gilded over, that’s what it is. Look
at it.”

“J—JI didn’t know. I—I couldn’t tell,” stammered
poor Freddy, beginning to cry. “I found it in the
drawer this morning, and mother said it had dropped
from the clouds.”

“We could have you dropped into prison,” said Mr.
Duncan, stiffly. ‘ Do you know that, young ’un?”

“Oh, please, sir, don’t send me to prison,” cried
Freddy. ‘“ What wozld mother do without me, and
indeed—indeed I didn’t know it wasn’t a good half-
sovereign ; it looked just like one.”

“Well, we won’t be too hard on you,” said good-
natured Tom Beggs. “We'll let you off this time ;
but you must never try that trick again.”

“And what shall I do with the bread—we’ve got
some of it left—and the rashers?” asked Freddy,
wiping his eyes on the cuff of his jacket.

“Oh, you may keep them; the sixpence is right
enough, and it’s worth something now for a curiosity.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Freddy; but the brightness
had gone out of his face, and I never wished so much
to be a real half-sovereign as I did then.

“Tell you what it is, Tom,” said Mr. Duncan, as he
and Tom Beggs walked down the street, “ they’re
calling in the first issue of Jubilee sixpences, and in
six months’ time they’ll be getting scarce.”

“Yes, I know. I mean to keep it.”

“T think I should like to have it,” said Mr. Duncan,
who had taken me in his broad, horny fingers, and was
turning me over. “Let me see, how much did you
borrow from me last week?”

“ Two pounds thirteen.”

“Well, I’ll take this from you, and you’ll only owe
me two pounds ten. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Found Out. 17

“Yes, I s’pose so,” said Tom, sullenly.

“You see, I’ve got a fancy for this little coin ; but
it’s not worth more than two shillings at the very
most.”

Mr. Duncan thrust me into his pocket, and with a
nod to Tom, he walked away. He soon hailed an
empty cab and got into it. We drove far into the
country, and now we were going up a long avenue to
a large, tall house. Here Mr. Duncan got out. There
was an auction going on, and the click -of the
auctioneer’s hammer was going down every few
minutes.

“ Going—going—gone !” he cried. “This beauti-
ful clock, gilt, enamelled, on a marble stand, for one
pound one—one pound two—one pound three and
six—thank you—one pound three and six—one pound
four— any one go higher than one pound four ?”

“ One pound five,” cried Mr. Duncan.

“Thank you—one pound five—and for one pound
five, it’s gone!”

Down went the hammer. Mr. Duncan elbowed his
way to the front, and began to bid for other things:
and everything he bid for, he got. -

When he went to the desk to pay, he took out a
handful of gold sovereigns, and I was slipped in
amongst them. It was getting dark, and the gas was
not yet lighted.

“ Eight pounds, ten shillings, sir,” said the clerk.

“ Here it is,” said Mr. Duncan, pouring out the gold.
“ Five, six, eight and a-half.”

‘Thank you, sir,” said the clerk, sweeping us up
into a little bag, “much obliged.”

Mr. Duncan went off, and I was very glad not to
see himagain. He would have punished poor Freddy,
who was innocent ; he was not ashamed to pass me
worse off himself, and to escape free.

B


CHAPTER III.

AT ONSLOW GARDENS.




f) ELL, here I was out in the world
\s again, jingling about ina linen bag,
ay and going, I could not tell where.

Suddenly, a number of us were poured

out on a sort of counter, crowds of
people were coming and going, and
there was a sharp click of turnstiles.

Lj We were at the gate of the Zoological
“Gardens in Regent’s Park, it was Saturday,
and lots of boys and girls were brought to
spend their half-holiday here, and to have a ride on
the camels and elephants.

“ Change for a sovereign !” cried a stout old gentle-
man, putting one down, “and be quick.”

“Yes, sir, how many?”

“Two, this young lady and myself.”

“ All right, sir, eighteen shillings,” and I was handed
out along with eight shillings.

The gentleman took us up carelessly, and was
putting us into his pocket, when a blue-eyed little
girl, with long flaxen hair, cried out, “Oh! grand-
papa, take care. Do you see that is half-a-sovereign?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll take care, Florrie. But it is well to
remind me, for I lost one yesterday at the station.”

18
At Onslow Gardens. 19

“Lost one! A whole half-sovereign. What a

ity !”

“Yes, but it can’t be helped now. By-the-by, would
you like to have this one?” taking me out.

“Oh! grandpapa, zzdeed | would. A whole half-
sovereign, for my very very own.”

“Yes, why not? Be sure not to lose it.”

“Oh! there’s no fear of that. See, I will put it
into my nice new little red purse that Aunt Mary
gave me. There’s nothing in it, not a shilling.
Thank you ever so much, dear grandpapa, I feel quite
rich.”

We had now arrived at the lion’s cages, and Florrie
had so much to do looking at them, and then at the
monkeys and the bears, that she could think of nothing
else. Then she fed the elephants with biscuits, and
after a ride on the largest of them, she and Mr.
Harwood—that was the old gentleman’s name—looked
at the snakes.

“ Now, I think,” said he, “it is time for us to go
home.” He hailed a cab, and told the man to drive
to 97 Onslow Gardens. As we went along, Florrie
took me out, and looked at me now and then.

“ How bright this nice little half-sovereign is!” she
cried, nestling up to her grandpapa. “TI shall try and
keep it as long as ever I can.”

“But you mustn’t be a miser, Florrie. Money is
given us to be spent, not to be hoarded—to be wed/
spent, that is, not wasted on things you can do with-
out.”

“JT tell you what I will do, grandpapa. I will get
a little book, and write down how I spend every penny
of this beautiful little half-sovereign, wouldn’t that be
a good plan?”

“Yes, very good. Here we are at home!”

The cab stopped at a large house with pillars out-
20 From Hand to Hand.

side, and Florrie and her grandpapa got out. She
flew up the stairs to a pleasant room on the second
floor. The walls were covered with coloured pictures,
and there was a folding-screen also covered with
pictures. Behind this screen was a little white bed,
and in the bed, was a pale little girl, younger than
Florrie, with darker hair, and big wandering eyes.
She was very thin, and her face was sad and sweet
and patient. Over her head was a print of the Good
Shepherd carrying a lamb in his arms. There were
tall palms here and there, and boxes of flowers in the
windows, and on a table by the bed was a bunch of
hot-house grapes, and a glass of crimson roses. The
little girl’s face brightened as Florrie rushed in.

“Well, Florrie, did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh, indeed, I did. We saw the lions, and the
giraffes, and the ostriches, and a dear wee little
monkey—how I should like to have him!”

“ And you had a ride on the elephant?”

“Ves, a splendid ride. I wish you’d been with us,
eh

Lil sighed. “Ah! I can never go anywhere,” she
said.

‘Does your back hurt you very much, dear?”
asked Florrie.

“Not unless I move. I haven’t been up to-day.”

“T daresay you will get up to-morrow. But oh!
Lil, I was forgetting to tell you, grandpapa has given
me half-a-sovereign all for myself.”

“What will you do with it?”

“T don’t know. I don’t want anything very badly.
What would you do if you had it?”

“T think I should give it to the Diet Kitchen at
Plaistow, or perhaps to the Hospital for Sick Children.
I know so well what it is to be sick.”

“That would be very good of you,” said Florrie,
At Onslow Gardens. 2I

“but I don’t think I should like to part with it just
yet.” She put her hand into her pocket, and felt for
the little red purse.

“What don’t you like to part with, Florrie?” said a
voice at the door.

“Oh! Ronald, do come in,” said Florrie, as a tall,
good-looking boy peeped in, “I want to tell you about
the Zoo. I had such a good time.”

“T don’t want to hear,” said Ronald, coming in
with his hands: in his pockets, ‘‘I1 have been there
lots of times. I know all you can tell.”

“ But you don’t know about my half-sovereign.”

“What half-sovereign ?”

“Why, the half-sovereign that grandpapa gave me
this afternoon to do just as I like with.”

“Where is it? Let me have a look at it.”

“Here it is,” cried Florrie, drawing me out of her
little red purse. ‘Look at it ; isn’t it bright?”

“Strikes me it is a little ¢oo bright,” said Ronald,
taking me to the window. “Here, I’ll strike a match
and have a better look at it.” He lit the gas, and
held me close to it. “I don’t believe it is a real half-
sovereign at all, Florrie.”

“ You tiresome boy ! you just say that to annoy me.”

“No, really. Honour bright. Look here where
the gilding is coming off at the edges.”

“T don’t want to look,” said Florrie, half crying.
“You always like to say disagreeable things. Didn't
you say my very prettiest doll, Portia Jane, has a
squint, and I know she hasn’t, and I know my half-
sovereign is real pure gold, or else grandpapa wouldn’t
have given it to me.”

“He mayn’t have looked close at it,” said Ronald.
“T’ll bring it down and show it to him.”

I was soon in a large, cosy room lined with books.
Old Mr. Harwood was sitting in an arm-chair reading
22 From Hand to Hand.

the newspaper by the lamp, a pair of eyeglasses over
his nose. He looked up at Ronald.

“Well, Ronald, what is it now?”

“JT want to show you this half-sovereign that you
gave Florrie to-day. I don’t believe it is a good one.”

“Let me look at it. It seems all right.”

“No, see here at the edges where it is rubbed.
You know I’ve been going in for chemistry, and
Mr. Bensen gave mea bottle of testing acid. I will
run and fetch it.” :

Mr. Harwood took up his newspaper again, and
Florrie, who had followed her brother into the room,
took me up affectionately between her finger and
thumb, saying: “Ronald is a horrid, disagreeable
boy to say such things of my dear little half-sovereign.
I can’t bear him.”

“Hush, hush, my dear,” said the old gentleman.
“Perhaps he may be right. The man at the turnstile
pushed the change over to me, and I took it up
without looking much at it; it seemed all right, but
one can never tell when these gilded half-sovereigns
may be palmed off. Ah! here comes Ronald with
his bottle.”

Along with the bottle Ronald brought a saucer.
Into this saucer I was put, and a sharp, biting fluid
was poured over me. As if by magic, my bright
yellow covering disappeared, and I was white again !

“There, you see,” cried Ronald eagerly. “I was
right. The gilding has all come off.”

“So it has,” said Mr. Harwood. “It is nothing but
a sixpence.” .

“A Jubilee sixpence,” cried Ronald. “I saw in the
paper that they are all called in. They were exactly
like half-a-sovereign, and it did not do. It was so
easy to gild them over you see.”

“You’re a sharp lad, Ronald,” said Mr. Harwood,


‘ISN’ IT A BEAUTY ?”—f, 25.

23
24 From Hand to Hand.

looking at him, “sharper than I am. Come, Florrie
dear, don’t cry any more about that unlucky half-
sovereign. You musn’t be cheated out of it anyway.
See here,” putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket,
“T have another, and you shall have it. It’s not as
bright as the sham one, but it is genuine. It will be
a lesson to you that all is not gold that glitters.”

“Thank you ever so much, dear grandpa,” cried
Florrie, kissing him. “ But don’t you think something
ought to be done to that man at the turnstile?” ]

“Well, no, I am not going to mind about him.
I am sure he didn’t know that it was a gilded half-
sovereign. I saw him take it out of a cash box with
some others. I can bear the loss better than he can.”

“Won't you give me the Jubilee sixpence, grandpa?”
asked Ronald. “1 haven't got one for my collection.”

“Very well! Take it and welcome! Runaway now,
both of you, as fast as you can, for I want to finish
this leading article before dinner.”

Away went Florrie, and away I went, firmly grasped
in Ronald’s damp inky fingers.

He brought me into his own private den, next to
his sister’s room, with a door opening between them.
It was crammed with all sorts of things—stuffed birds,
beetles, butterflies, birds’ eggs, shells, sea-weed, fish-
ing tackle, and in a glass case by the window, was a
collection of coins. Into this case, I was put and
labelled, “Jubilee Sixpence, First Issue, 1887.”
There was one good thing, I could not disappoint
anybody now, but I found it very dull lying there on a
blue velvet bed, and never moving from the same spot.
The glass case seemed so cramped and narrow, but
there I must lie, and there seemed no chance at all
that I should ever get out. Florrie used to play with
some other children in the square. Their merry shouts
and laughter rang out on the summer air. Often,
At Onslow Gardens. 25

when the door was open, Lil's clear little voice was
heard singing to herself. There was some great
injury to her spine, and she would never be able to
walk or even to stand alone. She had a canary to
keep her company, and a little black-and-tan dog that
was generally curled up by her side. Florrie used
to spring into the room with her skipping-rope, and
sometimes she used to ride on the big rocking-horse.
“Aren't you very tired lying there so still, Lil,” she
asked, coming over to her sister’s bed.

“Well, just a little, but not much. I make-believe
that I am in a great wood—with big trees, ever so
big—and I hear the leaves whispering to me and the
angels calling.”

“Not the angels, dear !”

“Yes, angels of Jesus. Ye is with me, Florrie, so
you see I can’t be very lonely, and He sends His
angels now and then, such lovely ones, with white
wings and sweet voices, and they tell me such beauti-
ful things about heaven. 1 don’t mind lying here at
all, indeed I don’t. Grandpa has given me a half-
sovereign. I’m going to send it to the Children’s
Hospital.”

“Ah! How much better you are than Iam! I’ve
spent mine to-day buying my doll a perambulator.”

“Did you, dear? I should like to see it.”

“T’ll run and fetch it,” said Florrie. ‘ Here,” she
said, as she wheeled the perambulator in full view "
of Lil. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

“Yes, but I thought you had one already.”

“Oh, that old thing, it’s all broken to pieces.
Ronald took off the wheels to make some of his horrid
machines. He’s always breaking my things. But he
was right about the Jubilee sixpence.”


CHAPTER IV.
BUFFETED ABOUT.

®\ NE day a change came to me, but it was
\ a change for the worse, not for the
better. Ronald went back to school
after the holidays, and the morning
after he left, his favourite den was
thoroughly cleaned out. The fishing-
rods were taken down from the walls,
the rifles were cleaned, and the cases
with birds’ eggs and butterflies were all
put along by the wall, the case with the collection of
coins, in which I was, was dragged out on the lobby.
Scrubbing and sweeping began in good earnest, the
housemaid, as she swept out the dust, knocked her
long broom against the case, smash went the glass,
and out I rolled, and fell amongst a heap of torn
letters, broken glass, and dust! There was a position
for a Jubilee sixpence, first issue! But this was not
all. The housemaid in her hurry brushed me into
the dust-pan, and threw me into the ash-pit. There
I remained for a long, long time. If the glass case,
where I reposed on a blue velvet bed, was dull, what
was it now to be thrown into a dirty hole, with rotten
cabbage stalks, broken bottles, half-burnt cinders, and
old corks !
26


Buffeted About. 27

Once or twice Florrie said, “I wonder what has
become of Ronald’s Jubilee sixpence. Do look, Jane,
if it could have been thrown out into this ash-pit. He
will be so angry when he finds it is lost.”

“Lor bless you, miss, it’s not there; I looked all
through the rubbish before I threw it in. Come away,
do, you’ll soil your nice clean frock.”

It was a great pity that I was not able to call out,
“Herelam!” There I had to lie, forgotten by every-
body, and getting more and more coated with dust in
that horrid dark hole.

At last, one fine October morning, two dustmen
came with their cart, and began to shovel away the
rubbish. Luckily, the sun was shining brightly, and
it shone full on me, one of my sides was quite clear of
dust, and I rolled over on it.

“Hullo, Bill,” cried one of the men, “hold hard.
What’s that?”

“Nothing at all, you fool! you’re always thinking
you’ve got something.”

“But it zs something this time, look here!” And
picking me out of the dust, he held me up in the air.
“ There!” he cried, “what’s that?”.

“Why, it’s a sixpence!” said Bill, sulkily. “No
great find, after all. If it had been ’arf-a-sovereign,
now, I should have said something.”

“Tt’s the first bit of luck we’ve ’ad to-day, anyway,
and sixpence is better than nothing.”

“Well, take it over to the public, and let’s ’ave a
drink ; my throat’s as dry as a lime kiln. You may
stand treat, old boy.”

“No, no, I’m not going to drink, I’ve had enough
of that. Let me see what’s the date of this sixpence?
1887. That’s the Jubilee year. I’ve ’eard tell that
these ere Jubilee sixpences are worth a lot of money.”

“ Better take it in to the house and ask.”
28 From Hand to Hana.

“That’s no go, the house is shut up, there’s no one
in it but an old woman. No, I’ll bring it round to
Mr. Simmonds at the bakery; he’s a good ’un to
know, he’s allus reading the papers.”

So I was taken off to a baker’s shop round the
corner in the Fulham Road.

Mr. Simmonds was at home in his parlour, and he
came out as the two dust-men entered.

“Well, what have you got there?” he asked.

“] think it’s one of these ’ere Jubilee sixpences, sir,”
said Joe, the man who had picked me up. “We want
you to look at it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Simmonds, turning me round, “it
certainly is, but it’s in a very dirty condition.
I don’t think these Jubilee sixpences are worth as
much as people say, still Ill give you a shilling for it
if you like to take it.”

Joe looked at Bill, and Bill looked at Joe, and
finally they agreed to take it, and went out of the shop
well satisfied with their bargain. Mr. Simmonds, on
his part, was very well satisfied with his purchase; he
went back to the parlour, still holding me in his hand,
and took up the Zxchange and Mart that was lying on
the table.

“Let’s see!” he said to his wife, “ What offers for
Jubilee sixpences? Three-and-six is the highest.
Take out the expenses of advertising, and you don’t
make much. However, I’ll advertise this one, and
see what I’ll clear. Any way, I won’t be a loser.”

He sat down and wrote, “Jubilee Sixpence, first
issue. Apply J. S., 406 Fulham Road.”

He went off to post his letter, and before he went he
put me into a little glass jug on the mantel-piece. A
few minutes afterwards Mrs. Simmonds went out to
mind the shop; and Jemima, the little nurse-maid
came in with the baby in her arms, and began to walk
Buffeted About. 29

up and down with him. He was in a very cross tem-
per, for he had been awake all the night with his
teeth ; every time he passed the little glass jug he
stretched out his arms for it, and cried to get it.
“What do you want with that ’ere jug,” said Jemima,
shaking him, “you cross, cantankerous little creature,
there’s no bearing you to-day. There! if you must
have it, you must, I s’pose, but I know you’ll break
it.” The baby had hardly clutched hold of the jug
when it fell out of his little fat hand and was broken
in a hundred pieces. Worse than all, I fell, too, and
rolled under the fender. ‘There, now, I hope you’re
pleased,” said Jemima, giving the baby such a shake,
that he roared with all his might. Then, kneeling
down, she began to collect the bits of broken glass
and to throw them behind the fire. As she did so,
she spied me, and dragged me out.

“My gracious! a sixpence. I wonder how it got
here !”

“Jemima, Jemima,” called Mrs. Simmonds from
the shop, “ what are you doing with the baby?”

“T’m not doing anything with him, mum,” cried
Jemima. ‘He’s enough to worrit any one out of their
senses. He caught hold of the little glass jug on the
chimbley-piece, and now he’s broke it to smash.”

““Why did you let him? I was so fond of that little
glass jug, I’ve had it for twenty years; my poor
mother gave it to me when I was a mite of a child.”

“Well, I can’t help it,’ answered Jemima. “See
how I’ve cut my hands picking up the bits of glass,
and look here, mum, I found this ’ere sixpence.”

“Ah! we’d better drop it into the till. I suppose
your master forgot it.”

Into the till I was dropped, and just then a blind
man with an old violin in his hand, came in to buy a
loaf of bread.
30 From Hand to Hand.

“Why, Ben,” said Mrs. Simmonds, “it’s a long
time since you’ve been round here. 1 suppose you’ve
been making a lot of money.”

“JT made tenpence halfpenny yesterday,” gruffly
replied the man, “and that’s not much to keep two
and to pay for lodging.”

“But you made more to-day. I see you’ve gota
shilling.”

“Yes, I came in to change it. I want a threppenny
loaf, and that’ll just leave ninepence to go on with.
* Ah! you well-to-do folk don’t know how we poor
have to live.”

“But you weren’t poor always,” said Mrs. Sim-
monds, “you had plenty of money before you were
sent to jail.”

““Sh—sh !” ejaculated the blind man, “give me my
change and let me go!”

Mrs. Simmonds handed him the loaf of bread and
swept the shilling into the drawer; then she pushed
over the change, three pennies and me/ She thought
I was a mere ordinary sixpence; she little knew that
I was the precious Jubilee coin that her husband
had just advertised. But things often turn out dif-
ferently from what people expect. As blind Ben
dropped me into his greasy pocket I knew the touch
of his fingers—he was the same man, the same
“Uncle Ben,” who had gilded me over, and made
me into a half-sovereign. He had gone down in
the world since, and was now quite shabby and out
at elbows. The little girl, who was looking hungrily
at the fresh rolls in the baker’s window, was no
other than Susie—the same Susie who had taken
me to the post office, and had first sent me out
into the world as a half-sovereign. She was taller
and thinner and more frightened looking than she
had been in those days, but I knew her all the same,
Buffeted About. 31

in spite of her battered hat, and her torn and faded
calico frock.

- She caught the loaf that Ben threw her, and hid it
under her shawl, then leaning on her arm, he passed
down the street, and turned into a lane. At the cor-
ner was a public-house, and here he stopped, drew out
his violin, and began to play “ Daisy Bell.”

Several children and a few idle men gathered round
him, and one or two threw him a copper.

“Now, Sue, sing,” said one of them. So Susie
stepped out, and clearing her voice, began. She sang
several verses, and then stopped short.

“Go on, can’t you?” growled Ben, “we might make
some money if you kept on at this.”

“Id rather sing about the angels,” said Susie, “it’s
such a pretty tune, and I know it better.”

“ Well, here goes,” said Ben crossly, scraping away
at his violin, and Susie with a stronger voice began—

“ Hark, hark, my soul, angelic songs are swelling
O’er earth’s green fields and ocean’s wave-beat shore,
How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling
Of that new life when sin shall be no more,
Angels of Jesus,
Angels of light,
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night !”

A nurse girl, wheeling a rickety perambulator,
stopped to listen; a butcher’s boy with his tray of
meat on his shoulder, loitered at the corner, and a
thin, worn-looking woman, whose arms were full of
brown paper parcels, leaned against the railings.
Blind Ben drew his bow across his violin impatiently ;
he had already taken three coppers and was eager for
more.

“ Go on !” he whispered hoarsely, and Susie began
again, rather more hesitatingly than before,
32 From Hand to Handa.

“Onward we go, for still we hear them singing
Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come,
And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing,
The music of the...

Here Susie’s memory failed, and she could not
remember another word.

“Go on, I tell you!” growled Ben, “why don’t you
go on?”

“T can’t, I can’t,” whispered Susie, “I’ve forgotten
what comes next. I only heard it the time we went
to the free tea over at the Steinway Hall. They sang
it beautiful, and they gave me a printed paper with
the words on it. I learned some of them, but I lost
the paper, and I can’t think of them.”

“You’re the biggest fool ever was,” grumbled Ben.
“J ll pay you out for this, miss. You might have
made a lot of money if you’d only had your wits
about you.”

The children ran back to their hop-scotch ; the
nurse-girl wheeled her perambulator away; the
butchers boy steadied his tray of meat on his
shoulder, and turned round the corner. As Ben
found no more prospect of coppers, he took Susie by
the shoulders, and shook her.

“Leave go of that child!” said the pale woman
with the brown paper parcels. “Don’t you see how
she’s trembling. Poor little mite, she did her best,
and it made me feel better to hear her. There’s
a penny for you, my dear, though I can’t very well
afford to give it ; and if you don’t leave go of her, you
cruel man, I'll tell the police of you.”

Blind Ben grumbled that he would do as he liked,
but he stopped shaking Susie, put up his violin, and
they both went down the lane, and turned into an
open door. At the third flight of stairs on the top
landing, Ben took out-a key and unlocked a door,
Buffeted About. 33

which opened into a small low room under the slates.
The fire was out, and Susie began to collect some bits
of wood and paper and a few half-burnt cinders. Then
‘she put a match to them, and they began to crackle.
Meanwhile, Ben sat in the window-seat, and felt for
his earnings.

“ Four and five are nine, ninepence and threepence
make a shilling, and here’s this new sixpence I got at
the baker’s, and a three-penny bit I had before—that
makes one and ninepence ; and if you only do what
you’re told, Susie, and don’t be an idiot as you were
this morning, we’ll make a hat-full of money at the
hopping next week.”

“Oh dear!” sighed Susie. “I wish that horrid
stuff hadn’t got into your eyes and made you blind.
But you can see just a bit, can’t you?”

“Shut up! ’Twas that old Tom that split on me,
and told the police, and got me put into prison. He’s
the one that did me the most harm; I’d like to have
it out with him.”

The feeble flicker in the fire grew stronger, till by
dint of blowing from Susie’s mouth, it became a blaze.
She put on an old black kettle, and made tea. Ben
fried sausages, and cut thick slices from the loaf.
After this, he drank a good deal out of a black bottle
that he took from a cupboard in the wall.

Susie, quite wearied out, lay down on a heap ot
clothes in a corner of the room, and was soon fast
asleep.

“None of your laziness in the morning,” growled
Ben, as he went to his own bed. “You must be up
bright and early, for we’re off to the hopping at six
o’clock.”


CHAPTER V.
OFF TO THE HOP FIELDS.

LIND BEN was as good as his word.
He and Susie were off bright and
early. We were on our way to Vic-
toria before half-past seven. Susie
had to be content with the cold tea
left from the night before and a hunch

of bread, which she ate as she went

along.

It was a fine September morning ; the
sun was up, and looked ruddy and joyful—the day
promised well. _It seemed likely that we should part
company at Victoria, but blind Ben happened to have
some shillings with him in a canvas bag; so with
them he paid his own and Susie’s railway fare, and
I still remained in a corner of his pocket. Once or
twice he took me out to make sure that I was safe.
We were soon packed into a third-class carriage, and
were slowly steaming out of foggy London into the
free open country. I was glad of it. I had had quite
enough of city life. The carriage was so full that two
men and three boys were standing up in it. One
delicate little woman had a baby in her lap, and
another child squeezed in beside her. Three girls,
with very large hats trimmed with big yellow daisies,

34


Off to the Hop Fields. 35

sat next to her, and then came Susie and blind Ben,
with the violin and a big bundle.

“Are you goin’ to give us some music, master ?”
asked one of the girls.

“ Well, yes, I was thinkin’ of it. What would you
like? ‘Linger longer, Loo’?”

“Yes. Come, my dear,” said the girl to Susie, “if
you don’t mind, I’il change places with you. I like
a bit of music, and I want to sit next your father.”

“ He’s not my father,” cried Susie.

“Well, your uncle, then. Here goes!”

Susie now found herself next to the little pale-
faced woman with the baby, who made room for her,
and said pleasantly,

“Ever been at the ’opping before, my dear ?”

“ No, never,” answered Susie.

“Dear me, I’ve been heaps of times. It makes a
nice change to be out in the open air, and sce the
fields.”

“Won't you let me take the baby for you?” asked
Susie. “I used to mind a baby once.”

“ Indeed, I will, and welcome ; my arms are tired
out with her. She wants a lot of dandling. She’s a
poor, weakly thing; can’t get her legs nohow. Why,
Bobby there, when he was her age, he’d stand on his
feet. 1’m only mindin’ this one; her poor mother
died when she was born. I used to keep a little shop ;
but I had to give it up. I couldn’t make it pay ; and
now I mind children, and do charing sometimes, and
Freddy, my boy, he’s the best boy in the world. He’s
got a good place in a boot and shoe shop ; he’s errand
boy, and earns eight shillings a-week. He’s a fine
scholar, and getting on well,” added she, proudly.

Was this the Freddy who had taken me for a half-
sovereign? Yes, and this was Mrs. Mathews, his
mother, who had sat crying while Freddy took the
36 From Hand to Hand.

baby in his arms. She now opened her bag, and
took out thick slices of bread and cheese and cold
bacon. She gave some of them to Susie.

“Ts your boy with you?” she asked. “ Freddy—
the one as is the good scholar.”

“No; but I expect he’ll come later on. Your
uncle is a fine player, isn’t he? What a lot of
coppers he’s taken! Is he good to you, my dear?”

“No, indeed, he ain’t,” answered Susie, giving the
baby a hug. “He’s awful cross. He often shakes
and beats me when he’s ’ad a drop too much.”

“ Poor little mite!”

“T wonder if your boy, Freddy, knows the words of
any songs?”

“Lots of em; he’s often singing.”

“T wonder if he knows ‘ Angels of Jesus.’”

““T dessay he does ; he knows a’most everything.”

“T ’eard it at a free tea,” continued Susie, “and
they gave me a paper; but I expect he”—glancing
over at Ben—“ got hold of it to light his pipe. Any-
how, it’s lost, and I can’t mind the words. It’s a
sweet, pretty tune. Ill sing it to you sometime.”

“ Do, my dear—I like singing.”

Blind Ben was playing away all this time, and
a man with a concertina joined in. They struck up
a polka, and the girls stamped with their feet, and
shrieked with laughter. One of them snatched a
boy’s hat off his head, and held it out of the window,
and when it blew away they screamed and shouted.
He was obliged to tie a red handkerchief about his
head, for the hot sun was streaming into the dusty,
crowded carriage. This was a train that stopped at
every station, and no one seemed to get out; but
crowds wanted to get in.

When the hat went round for the third time,
Ben had quite a rain of pennies, and was in a very
Off to the Hop Fields. a7.

good humour. As he crammed them into his pocket,
he took me out, and held me between his teeth.

“Let me look at that sixpence,” said a respectable
old man. “ Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to take it
from you. Ah! I thought so. Why, this is a Jubilee
sixpence. Why don’t you sell it?”

“ T shouldn t make anything by it.”

“Yes, you would. Lots of people want to buy
them. Isawan advertisement in one of these papers”
-—taking up one from behind the seat. “ Here it is—
‘Jubilee sixpences wanted. Will give four shillings
for first issue.’ There you see, the gentleman as wants
’em lives not far from where we’re goin’. ‘Easterly
Park, Canterbury.’ You’d have no trouble sending
your Jubilee sixpence to him. You can take it your-
self, and get your four shillings.”

Ben muttered sulkily, “Ill see about it,” and fold-
ing me ina piece of paper, he put me back into his
pocket. It seemed likely that we should soon part
company ; but though I would not be sorry to leave
blind Ben, I should be sorry to be away from Susie.
At last the hop-fields, with their tall poles and hanging
festoons of green leaves, began to appear. Bags and
baskets were packed up ; the girls put on their hats,
and Ben put up his violin. When we got out of the
train, Susie clung to Mrs. Mathews, and said good-
bye to her and the baby with many tears.

“You ’ve been so good to me,” she said.

“ But we’ll see you again, my dear,” said the good-
natured little woman. “If you’re in any trouble, be
sure to come to us—Ivy Cottage, Balham. I’m most
always at home with the children, and Freddy comes
back in the evening. He’ll like to see you.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be sure to come,”
cried Susie, and then she had to run away, for blind
Ben was calling her.


CHAPTER VI.
UNDER THE HAY-STACK.

HERE was not a room to be had in the
little town; the hoppers had taken
possession of every hole and corner,

so we went further on—out into the open

country. It was a beautiful September
afternoon. Susie often stopped to listen to
the corncrakes amongst the grass, and to
admire the tall dahlias, red and yellow and
white, in the cottage gardens. Sometimes

Ben took out his violin and played a merry

tune, and the village children gathered round and began

to dance. One of them put a rosy-cheeked apple into

Susie’s hand, and another gave her a hunch of bread

and honey. Ben looked crossly at her as she ate it.

“JT never saw such a child for eating,” he said;
“always wanting to stuff yourself with something or
other.”

“T’m sure I haven’t had much to-day,” answered
Susie. “Only for what Mrs. Mathews gave me in
the train, I’d be starving.”

“T’m not starving,” said Ben, “and I only had one
slice of bread and cheese.”

“ But you drank a good deal out of the green bottle,”
said Susie. “I saw you.”

38



Under the Hay-Stack. 39

“You see a precious lot more than you ought to,”
growled Ben. ‘‘By-the-by, have you thought of
them words about the angels? If you could sing the
whole thing straight off you ought to make a hatful of
money. Them are the things some folks like best.”

“No, I can’t mind them,” answered Susie, “but
Mrs. Mathews says her boy, Freddy, knows them.”

“Much good that does,” grumbled Ben. ‘We may
never catch sight of her or her boy.”

“T hope we shall !” exclaimed Susie, eagerly.

“And I hope we shan’t. She’d be cramming your
head with all sorts of trumpery. Your business is to
stick by me, and do as you’re told.”

Susie edged away down the path, and stopped
before a gate. It was the gate to a farm-yard, and
there were three freshly-made haystacks; one of them
had not yet been thatched.

“Doesn’t the hay smell good?” said Susie, snuffing
itup. ‘“ How nice it would be to sleep here !”

“So we can,” said Ben, poking about with his stick,
“it would save our night’s lodging.”

“But we might be found out.”

“There’s no fear. Look here, between these stacks
some of the hay has fallen down, I feel it under my
feet. You can make a heap of it for yourself, and I'll
make another. There’s no one stirring in the farm.”

“No, and it’s a good way off,” said Susie, looking
round at the grey house among the trees. ‘ But what -
shall we do for a fire ?”

“We don’t want no fire,” growled Ben. “ Isn’t there
a cottage anywhere about?”

“Yes, I saw one down the road, near the cross
roads.”

“Well! we can go there. They’ll give us some
hot water, and I’ve got tea here in my pocket.”

The woman at the cottage had a kettle on the fire;
40 From Hand to Hand.

she gave them hot water, cups and saucers, milk and
sugar, and plenty of bread and butter, for which Ben,
rather grudgingly, paid her sixpence. I thought it
would be my turn to go, but Ben carefully wrapped
me up in the paper again, and paid with an old well-
worn sixpence, which had been given him in change
at the station.

_ “TI never saw such a child to eat as you are, Susie,”
he said, “you’d eat all before you, and never look a
bit the better for it.”

“Poor little mite! she looks a’most starved,” said
the woman. “She wants fresh country air, that’s
what she wants. Come from Lunnon to the hopping,
I’ll we bound, aren’t you, my dear.”

Susie said “Yes!” and Ben took his stick, and asked
if there wasn’t a “ public” somewhere near.

“Why, yes, there’s the Beehive just round the
corner.”

“JT want to get my bottle filled,” said Ben. “I
generally take a drop of something afore 1 go to bed—
it keeps off the rheumatics.”

So saying, he went off, leaving Susie playing with
three tortoise-shell kittens. He stayed for an hour at
the Beehive, smoking and talking to a man who
dropped in to have a talk with any one he could
find.

“It’s a bad year for the hopping, master,” he said,
shaking his head, “very bad—the weather’s been too
dry, the hops is all burnt up to nothing.”

“Tf J don’t make a good thing of it,” said Ben, “171
make tracks to go off to the sea. There’ll be a good
lot of people there till October, and there’s nothing
doing in town.”

“Well, see that you don’t come across Farmer
Stubblefield ; he’s real mad if he sees anybody about
his place—he swears he’ll have them taken up.”


Lie bhi eeta nate ip ge tae



Oitstsers




\ S SS oN

Sy





5








“*rr’s A BAD YEAR FOR THE HOPPING, MASTER,’ IE SAID.”

41
42 From Hand to Hand.

“Who is he? Where does he live?”

“Over there,” said the man, pointing to the grey
house amongst the trees. “ Didn’t you pass it?”

“ He’s no right to drive any one away,” said Ben.

“Well, you see, he doesn’t like the hoppers, and
they do give a lot of trouble.”

Ben said nothing. He waited till nine o’clock, when
it was getting dark, and then he took his stick and
made his way to the cottage. Poor Susie was tired
waiting for him, and had fallen asleep on the bench
outside the door.

“Come, where are you, child?” cried Ben, tapping
his stick on the ground. “ Where are you?”

“Here I am!” cried Susie, starting up. “ Where
are we? Oh! I know.”

“Come along with you,” growled Ben, laying his
heavy hand on her shoulder. “You know where
we’ve got to go.”

“To the haystacks !” cried Susie. “Oh! Ido hope
we shan’t be found out.”

“ Not a bit of fear,” answered Ben, “as long as you
keep quiet, and don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Susie led Ben through the gate in between the hay-
stacks; he rolled himself up on one of the heaps of
hay, took out his pipe, and began to smoke. Susie
was some way off; she lay down and crept under the
haystack, but for a long time she did not sleep, there
were so many strange sights and sounds around her—
trees and grass—the distant lowing of cows, and the
chirp of the grasshoppers. At last, however, she fell
asleep, and slept soundly. The village clock struck
one! everything was still. Two! Ben, who had
been sitting up smoking his pipe, turned on his side
and groaned heavily. Three! A little crackling
amongst the dry wisps of hay. Four! Susie started
up from her sleep and rubbed her eyes. What was
Under the Hay-Stack. 43

this strange glare she saw ? what was this hissing heat
against her face—why, it was fire !

“Wake up, Uncle Ben !” she cried, seizing the blind
man by the arm. “Wake up, the place is on fire,
we'll be burnt. Come away, come away.”

Ben staggered to his feet, the cuff of his coat where
his pipe had fallen, before it kindled the hay, was
already smouldering into a blaze. Susie caught it
between her hands, and crushed the fire out.

Then seizing her bundle, she cried, “ Now, let’s go
to the house, and call them up.”

“We'll do nothing of the kind,” muttered Ben.
“Let them alone, they’ll find it out fast enough.
Why, they’d murder us, if they knew what we’d
done. No, no, we'll be off as fast as we can.”

“But the hay’ll be all burnt.”

“Tet it burn!” said Ben. ‘ Who cares?”

But the alarm had been already given ; some one
in the house had seen the blaze, and now, in the early
dawn, five men were hurrying out with buckets of
water, and ladders, and pitch-forks—anything that
came first to hand.

“They’ve seen it, they’ve seen it!” cried Susie.
“Come, we can’t do any good, we’d best run off as
fast as we can.”

She took Ben by the arm, and they hurried out to
the high-road. Already the lower part of the hay-
stack had caught fire, and the flames burst out redder
and redder.

“Oh my, how it does burn!” cried Susie. “Isn't
it dreadful! Oh, how frightened I am !”

“You shut up!” cried Ben, “it’s nothing to you.
It’s just an accident, that’s all.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Susie. “It wouldn’t have
happened if we hadn’t been there. It was your pipe
that did it.”
44 From Hand to Hand.

“Now, if I hear you say that again, I'll just take
and chuck you into the next pond. You’ll be giving
information against me to the police, I suppose, you
ungrateful little baggage. I that have minded youand
cared for you ever since——”

“Ever since when?” said Susie.

“Ever since I picked you up in the street.”

“Ah! then you’re not my real uncle.”

.“T never said I wasn’t,” said Ben, “did I? Look
over and see what’s up at the farm.”

They had now reached the top of a little hill, and
Susie looked down.

“Oh! how it burns!” she cried, “I can hear it
crackle. Now, they’re pouring water on it. Now,
there’s a man on a ladder—there’s two men, they’re
shouting—ah ! one of them fell—no ! he’s up again—
ah! the water hissed that time—they’ll put it out.
Ah! there it is blazing again ever so high. Oh! it’s
dreadful, dreadful /”

“Well, Farmer Stubblefield was never a man to do
a good turn to the poor,” said Ben, “so it’s well for
him to lose something now and then.”

“ How do you know ?” said Susie.

“JT heard it last night at the Beehive. Come, we
must hurry on. If we could only get a lift on
a waggon, we might be at Canterbury before
night.”

“But I’ve had no breakfast,” said Susie, “and I’m
all in a tremble with fright.”

“You’d be more in a tremble if the police got hold
of you.”

“Me! why, I’ve done nothing !”

“You’ve been under the haystack, haven’t you?”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! how I wish I could run
away,” sobbed Susie, “you’re always making me get
into scrapes.”
Under the Hay-Stack. 45

“Vou be quiet! A nice way you’d be in without
me.”

We were now in a quiet part of the road, with over-
arching trees on either side; a little stream ran down
from a hill, and there were hop-fields in the distance.
Presently a man driving a trap came along the road.

“You’re out early,” he said to Ben, “it’s not six
o’clock.”

“Ves, I have to be,” growled Ben. ‘I couldn’t get
a bed last night. I hadn’t enough to pay for it.”

“Well, get up, you and the little girl, and I'll take
you a bit of the road. There’s been a terrible fire
over at Farmer Stubblefield’s haystacks.”

“ Has there?”

“Ves, but they’re getting it a bit under now. He’s
sent for the fire-engines. It’s some of these hoppers
did it, I expect.”

“Yes, very like ; they’re a rum lot some of ’em.”

“You are not one of them, I suppose?” said the
man, looking sharply at Ben.

“ No, I’m just a poor blind man, sir, that came down
yesterday with my little girl, to try and make a few
shillings by playing the fiddle. It’s all I’ve got to
depend on.”

“Well, I daresay you’ll make a good thing of it.
The hop-pickers are always fond of a bit of music to
cheer them up. But how’s this?” he said, catching
hold of Ben’s sleeve, “the cuff of your coat is all
burnt. You must have been near the fire.”

“Well, some of the sparks did fly out when we
were passing the cross-roads. I didn’t see them. It’s
a poor thing to be blind, sir; I’ve no one but this
child to look after me. Can you tell me if Easterly
Park is anywhere near ?”

“Easterly Park! It’s about eleven miles away.
Do you want to get there to-day?”
46 From Hand to Hand.

“Well, I was thinking of it. The gentleman as
lives there has been advertising for Jubilee sixpences,
and I happen to have one,” taking me out of the piece
of paper. “He says he’ll give four shillings for it, and
that’s a good bit of money for a poor body like me.”

“Ah! it’s Mr. Uppingham ; he’s a great man for
curiosities. Well! I hope you’ll get it. That’s the
shortest way to Easterly,” pointing to a by-road. “If
you turn down there, and take the first to the right,
and the second to the left, you’ll be in the village of
Easterly, and the Park is a big white house with
pillars to it, standing amongst a lot of trees.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ben, slowly getting off the
dog-cart, while Susie jumped down from the back
seat. ‘‘I’m much obliged to you for taking us up.”

“Oh! that’s nothing. I’m sorry I can’t take you
farther, but our ways aren’t the same. Keep onasI .
told you, and you’ll be at Easterly before eleven.
It’s a pity you’ve got your coat burnt, people might
think you’d had something to do with this fire at
Farmer Stubblefield’s. Gocd-day !”

Ben stood still for some minutes, till the dog-cart
had disappeared round a corner.

“Come on,” cried Susie, seizing his hand, ‘come
on down this by-road as he said. This is the way to
Easterly.”

“1’m not going there just now,” said Ben. “If he
says anything about this burn, the police’ll get wind
of it, and I may be popped into jail. No! no! do
you see a path anywhere through the fields?”

“Yes, I do,” said Susie, “a little weeny one, and
there’s a stile—such a funny forked one—over there,
that’ll bring us into it.”

“That'll do,” said Ben, “we'll take that; you go
first,” poking along with his stick, “and I7ll follow
you.”


CHAPTER VII.
THE GARDENER’S COAT.

T was now early morning. The sun had
risen, bright and glorious, the cocks
were crowing, and the cattle were
grazing under the trees. All the world
was awake. As we went along the
field-path, we passed some blackberry
hedges. Susie pulled down the

prickly branches, and began to eat black-

berries as fast as she could, cramming them
into her mouth till her lips and hands were stained
with juice.

“Oh! how good they are,” she cried, “I never had
such a lot before, and such juicy ones.”

“J can’t think how you like them. I wish I had
my pipe; it dropped into the hay when the fire began.”

“You can get another. I think we’re coming toa
village. Yes! there are the church bells ringing.”

“ What are they ringing for? ’Tisn’t Sunday.”

“@h! sometimes people go to church on working-
days, early in the morning. JZ should like to go.”

“What for?” growled Ben.

“Just to look in and see what they’re doing.”

“You can go if you like, and Ill stay here.”

“There’s a nice little gate into the churchyard,”

47


48 From Hand to Hand.

said Susie, “look here, and a great big tomb-stone
where you can sit down.”

Ben sat down, and wiped his hot face with a red
cotton handkerchief.

“Tt’s a long time since I’ve been in the country
and heard the church bells ring like this,” he said.
“Why, goodness me,” catching hold of his waistcoat-
pocket, “I hope I haven't lost the Jubilee sixpence,-—
no, here it is, ’twas just slipping out. There’s a hole
in the pocket; it’s a good thing I found it out.”

“Give it tome!” cried Susie, taking me from him.
“722 keep it. Jy pocket has not got a hole.”

“Take care you don’t lose it,” growled Ben.

“No fear !” said Susie, gaily.

Just then the church bell stopped, and she stole
noiselessly into the porch and through the door.
There were some school children, two ladies, a little
girl, and one gentleman. Susie knelt down when she
saw them kneel. “I ave done what I ought not to
have done,” she whispered, as she followed the words.
“J know I have, but I want to be better. I want to
get away from Uncle Ben.” From the bench by the
door, she listened to the psalms and lessons, and one
verse she repeated over to herself, “Call upon Me in
the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee.” When
the short service was over, her eye was caught by the
leaves of a tattered hymn-book which was lying under
the pew. She picked them up and put them together.
As she. did so, she read the words, ‘‘ Angels of Jesus.”
And there, sure enough, was the long-wished-for end
of the verse,

“ And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing,

The music of the Gospel leads us home.”

Susie read on—

“Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing,

The voice of Jesus sounds o’er land and sea,
The Gardener's Coat. 49

And laden souls, by thousands meekly stealing,
Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee,
Angels of Jesus,
Angels of light,
Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.”

“Tve got it!” cried Susie, eagerly, “I’ve got it at
last.” She was thinking of putting the torn leaves
into her pocket, when the clergyman, a kind, grey-
haired old man, passed by and looked at her.

“Tf you please, sir,” stammered Susie, “may I have
this old hymn-book? It’s all to pieces, you see.”

“Of course you may. I’ll seeif I have a new one
to give you in the Rectory. Are you all by yourself?”

“No, sir,” said Susie, ‘“‘ Uncle Ben is outside.”

“ Have you been walking far this morning ?”

‘‘ Indeed we have, ever since five o’clock.”

“ Have you had any breakfast ?”

“T?ve had some blackberries, that’s all.”

The clergyman smiled. ‘“ You look as if you wanted
something more than blackberries,” he said. “I'll
send you some breakfast, and your uncle, too. You
can sit in the summer-house over there.”

“Oh, thank you! sir, thank you,” said Susie. She
ran over to blind Ben, who was half-asleep, and cried,
“Only think, we’re going to have some breakfast—get
up!”

“Where are you going?” he growled, looking up
with a frightened stare.

“To the summer-house at the Rectory,” cried Susie,
tugging at his hand, “and I’ve got all the words of
‘Angels of Jesus.’ See here!” And she showed the
torn leaves of the old hymn-book.

“ That’s not much of a find, any way,” grunted Ben.

Susie had no difficulty in finding the summer-house.
It had a thatched roof and a floor and seats made of
logs of wood; in the middle was a round table, also

D

)
50 From Hand to Hand.

made of logs of wood. A neat parlour-maid soon
brought out a teapot, cups and saucers, slices of bread
and butter, and two eggs. “My!” said Susie, her
eyes sparkling, “Isn’t this prime?” Plate after plate
of bread and butter and jam disappeared before her.
Blind Ben did not eat much, he seemed restless and
disturbed.

“What’s that lying on the grass?” he said to Susie,
his eyes peering dimly out. ‘Is ita man?”

“No—it’s a coat—the gardener’s coat; he left it
there when he went into breakfast.”

“Ah! that’s good, that’ll do nicely.” He went
over to it and picked it up; then he threw off his own
coat with the burnt sleeve, and put on the other. It
was not new by any means, but it was better than
Ben’s old greasy garment.

“What.are you doing?” cried Susie. “Are you
going to steal the gardener’s coat?”

“Not to steal it, only to exchange it. A fair
exchange is no robbery, my little dear. Come along !”

“No,” said Susie, sturdily ; ‘I’m going to stay here,
and thank the kind people for my good breakfast.”

“You’re not going to do anything of the kind.
You’re to come along with me as fast as your legs ’Il
carry you. It’s the luckiest chance in the world that
I came on this coat, for that burn on the sleeve might
tell tales on me, and I’d be clapped into prison.”

“Oh! you wicked old man,” muttered Susie, “now
I shan’t get my new hymn-book.”

“You've got the old one, and that’ll do you quite
as well,” said Ben. “Come, I say! Ifyou don’t, I’ll
lay my stick about your back, that I will !”

Susie, whimpering and reluctant, had to obey. Out
of the Rectory gate the two wanderers hurried—out
into the high road, and past the village, into the
common.


CHAPTER VIII.

THE DESERTED MILL.

the edge of the common, we fell in
with a gang of gipsies, who were
camping out. They had a caravan
and two horses, a pony and three
donkeys, that were all browsing about
on the furze-covered common. The
gipsies were very glad when they saw
Ben’s violin, for they were fond of music,
and wanted him to play for them. So
he sat down under a hedge, and played some dance
tunes, and the little gipsy children danced.

In the evening the caravan was harnessed, and the
gipsies travelled on to another place; we went with
them. They stopped at an open piece of ground near
a wood; here they all got out, a fire was made, and a
huge iron pot hung over it. After they had eaten
their breakfast, they all went different ways, the
women went to tell fortunes, the men to mend kettles,
and sometimes to steal a fat chicken or duck which
came in their way. If Ben made any money by play-
ing his violin, they made him give it all up to them,
and he soon got tired of staying with them, and
wanted to.escape. But they kept a watch on him and
Susie. Fatima, a little gipsy girl, with curly black hair,

51


52 From Hand to Hand.

and a red handkerchief tied round her head, was always
on the alert, and ready to give the alarm. One day
when she was playing with Susie, I fell on the ground.

“Why, what’s that?” she cried. “Oh! I see, only
a sixpence.”

“It’s a Jubilee sixpence,” exclaimed Susie; “it’s
worth four shillings.”

“You bet it isn’t !”

“Tt zs. A grand gentleman at Easterly Park would
give it to-morrow.”

“You’d better try him. Easterly is over there, not
a mile from here. Why don’t you run away from the
old’un? He’s downright ugly, I saw him smack you
yesterday.”

“T’m afraid to,” said Susie ; “besides, the sixpence
ain’t mine, it’s his!”

“Tt’s all the same, he wouldn’t be able to catch
you. He’s quite blind, isn’t he?”

“ Well, he can see a little, when he wants to.”

All the same, Fatima’s words worked on Susie, and
she sometimes thought she would run away, get the
four shillings, and make her way to her friend, Mrs.
Mathews.

“But I should be ashamed to tell her what I’d
done,” she said, “and I should never be able to sing
‘Angels of Jesus’ to her.”

One night there was a great disturbance in the
gipsies’ encampment: the leader of the gang had
stolen a horse, and the police were looking for him,
so the gipsies agreed to separate, some going one way,
and some another. In the confusion, Ben and Susie
slipped away; it was a cold, wet night, and they
groped their way along with great difficulty. Once
or twice, they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs atter
them, and Ben crept into a damp ditch, and made
Susie do the same.






































THE GIPSY CAMP.
54 From Hand to Fland.

“Tf I was caught,” he said, “it might be a bad
business for me along of that fire.”

“ And the gardener’s coat,” said Susie. “Oh! how
I’d like to live in that place where the summer-house
is, and the church, and the lovely flowers. I’d feel
real good there ; I hate to be like this.”

Ben made no answer. All that day we wandered
about in lanes and woods, keeping out of the beaten
tracks. Poor Susie was wet to the skin, and so tired,
she could hardly drag her legs along. Ben began to
cough, and his voice grew hoarser and hoarser.

“Tt was well I found a pipe in the gardener’s coat
pocket,” he said; “I lost mine in that old fire, worse
luck !”

He took it out and smoked gloomily, and drank out
of his green bottle. In the evening, we came to a
deserted mill; the glass in the windows was all
broken, and the great, black wheel was still. Yet
there was some shelter from the rain, the floors
were not quite broken, and in places the roof was
whole. Ben crept under the shadow of the wall and
lay down; his eyes were wild and hollow, and his
breath came in quick, short gasps.

“You do look bad,” said Susie.

“T feel bad,” he answered, shortly. “I’m cold all
over, I can’t get my breath.”

“There is a grate,” said Susie, “it’s all over rust,
but perhaps I can make a fire, if the sticks will only
burn.”

“You can try. ‘I’ve got matches—plenty of them.”

Susie looked about under the trees, and soon came
back with her pinafore full of sticks and leaves, but
they were so wet, that it was a long time before any-
thing came from them except a cloud of thick, blue
smoke ; at last, a tiny gleam of flame shot out, and
then Susie got a saucepan out of the bundle, and
The Deserted Mitt. 55

heated some water, and made a mug of tea. But Ben
only held it to his lips, and warmed his hands by
holding it ; he could not drink it.

“Here, you may have it,” he said to Susie. She
drank it eagerly, and sopped a few dry crusts in it.
Then she put her feet to the fire, and fell sound
asleep. The rats sometimes looked up through the
broken boards, and then flopped with a splash into
the dark water; but even they only roused Susie for
a minute, she was so thoroughly tired out. In the
middle of the night she was roused by Ben calling to
her in quick, hoarse gasps, ‘‘Susie! Susie!”

“Yes,” she answered, starting up, “ What is it?”

“JT can’t breathe—I’m choking. You must run for
the doctor.”

“JT don’t know where to find him.”

“There must be a house near—a village I expect;
I heard a dog barking, and I heard cocks crowing.
Over there—to the right.”

Susie darted out in the grey, early dawn of morning.
She followed the crowing of the cocks, and soon found
herself before a long, low thatched farm-house. A
dog began to bark furiously, and Susie trembled and
screamed for help. Then a head was put out of an
up-stairs window, and a woman’s voice called ‘“‘ Who’s
there? What do you want?”

“There’s a blind man took bad over at the old mill
yonder. I want to get a doctor for him.”

“There’s no doctor here. You’ll have to go to the
village for Dr. Parker. He lives in the red house
opposite the Blue Lion. Go straight on, you can’t
miss it; a red house with green blinds.”

The window was shut, and Susie flew on till she
came to the red house, which had a brass plate with
the name “Dr. Parker.” She tugged at the beli, and
presently a key grated in the lock, two bolts were
56 From Hand to Hana.

drawn, and an old woman stood before Susie. She
glared through her spectacles, and cried, angrily:
“What do you want, child? coming at this hour to
disturb the house.”

“Please, don’t be angry. I want the doctor for
Uncle Ben, he’s so ill, you can’t think x

“Dr. Parker is up at the Park; he’s sleeping there to-
night. You’ll have to go there if you want to find him.”

“What Park?”

“Why, Easterly Park, to be sure; Mr. Upping-
ham’s. That large white house over there in the
trees, with the pillars to it. Don’t you see?”

Susie dd see, and off she flew as fast as her legs
would go. She went through the iron gate, passed
the trim, ivy-covered lodge, and stood before the
great hall-door. She was afraid to ring or knock, and
stood there trembling. Presently a maid came out
with a mop and a bucket of water.

“Why, here’s a little girl,” she cried. “What do
you want, my dear?”

At the word “my dear,” Susie broke down, and
sobbed aloud.

“ Now, what’s the matter—don’t cry—cheer up, ana
tell us all about it.”

“J want the doctor,” sobbed Susie. ‘Uncle Ben is
dying over at the old mill, and he sent me to bring
the doctor to him.”

“Tl tell him,” said the good-natured girl, and she
hurried away.

Ina few minutes a stout, grey-haired man appeared ;
it was Dr. Parker.

“You’re quite sure the man is very ill,” he said to
Susie.

“Oh! he is indeed, he can hardly speak. He’s
been a very wicked man; but he is blind, and has
no one to take care of him.”


The Deserted Milt. 57

“ Aha! so this is the blind man we’ve been looking
for so long,” said Dr. Parker. “Ill call Mr. Upping-
ham ; he’ll go with me; he’s a magistrate, he ought
to come.”

“He’s the one that wants the Jubilee sixpences,”
said Susie. “I’ve got a Jubilee sixpence for him,”
and she took me out of her pocket, and wiped me in
her damp pinafore.

When Mr. Uppingham, who was a little, pale, thin
man, came into the hall, she held me up, and cried,
triumphantly, “I’ve got something for you !”

“ A Jubilee sixpence, first issue,” he said, turning
me round. “ How did you know I wanted it?”

“A man in the train read it out of a paper. He
said that you would give four shillings for a Jubilee
sixpence, and we were coming with it, but you can
have this one for nothing if you won’t put Uncle Ben
in prison.”

“We'll see about that,” said Mr. Uppingham,
thrusting me into his pocket. ‘‘ However, I’m very
glad to get it, and you shall have your four shillings.”

The good-natured housemaid brought Susie out a
glass of milk and a piece of bread and butter, and
then we all set off to the deserted mill, Susie leading
the way, while I was transferred from her damp
pocket to Mr. Uppingham’s morocco leather purse.




CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST OF UNCLE BEN.






| f\ fi) E found blind Ben lying crouched
/ against the wall. He moaned when
' we came up, but he did not speak.

i “Uncle Ben!” cried Susie, “I’ve
brought the doctor—here he is!”

Ben muttered something about ‘‘Too
late!” and then his head fell on his
shoulder, and his breath came in quick
short gasps.

“I’m afraid it zs too late,” said Dr. Parker,
“we'll have to send him to the Cottage Hospital.”

“Tll order a cart to come at once,” said Mr.
Uppingham, hurrying away.

When we came back, we found that the doctor had
poured something down Ben’s throat, which had
revived him; he was now sitting up, and a faint
colour had come into his hollow cheeks.

“T?ll never do any good,” he was:saying. “I’Il
never get over this—I’ve been a bad man—all my
life—twice in prison—once for forging my master’s
name—and once for passing bad money.”

“And the little girl?”

“She’s no kin to me; she’s a lost child. I found
her one day crying in the street.”

58°
The Last of Uncle Ben. 59

“Ah! I’m glad I’m no kin to him,” said Susie. “I
never thought I was. But I didn’t run away from
him, no, not when he’s badly treated me.”

Ben was lifted into the cart, and brought to the
Cottage Hospital, a little way out of the village.
Susie stayed with him, and so did Mr. Uppingham.
Towards evening, he got delirious, and talked of
things he had seen long ago.

“Do you know of anything that might soothe him?”
said Mr. Uppingham to Susie.

“No—except ‘Angels of Jesus.’ If I sung it to
him, perhaps it might quiet him a bit.”

So she sung it, all the verses straight through to
the end. Ben slowly lifted up his head.

“You’ve got it all now, Susie, child.”

“Yes, every word. I was a long time learning it,
but I’ll never forget it now, never !”

“No, don’t! You’ll keep her here now,” said Ben
to Mr. Uppingham, “in one of these villages where
the church-bells ring?”

“Yes, I intend to do so.”

“ And send her to school, and keep her at her book,
and teach her to be a good girl. I think she will;
she comes of a good stock, p’raps, not like me.”

He sighed heavily, and then said: “ Susie, in the
room we had over at the Fulham Road—you know
where it is?—there’s a cupboard in the wall—
here’s the key of it.” He took a black ribbon off his
neck with a key tied to it.

“Yes,” said Susie, leaning forward to catch the
words that now came hoarse and indistinct. “Well?”

“You’ll find an old Bible at the back, and pinned
in between the leaves are two ten pound notes.”

“Two ten pound notes!” repeated Susie, in an
awed whisper.

“Yes, you can take them out, and they’ll pay for
60 From Hand to Hand.

my burying, and what’s over, you can have for your-
self. No, you needn't draw back, the money’s honestly
come by—every penny of it.”

“But, Uncle Ben, you’re not goin’ quite away, are

our”

“Seems like it. I haven’t been too kind to you,
child, you ought to be glad to get rid of me.”

“No, no, I’m not! You’re all I have,” cried Susie.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Uppingham, “you mustn’t
be talking so much. The poor man isn’t able for it.”

“ Pray for me, sir,” said Ben, lifting up his troubled
face. “Pray to God to have mercy on my soul! I’ve
been a great sinner.”

“But Christ is the Saviour of even the greatest
sinner,” said Mr. Lee, the clergyman, who just
came in at the door. “Let us pray, that God, for
Christ’s sake, will not cast out this poor sinful wan-
derer.” He knelt down and prayed so earnestly that
the tears streamed down Susie’s face. When they
rose from their knees, Mr. Uppingham bent over Ben.

“Tt is all over,” he said, “he is dead. The doctor
said he could not last more than an hour or two.
Come, my little girl, 1’ll have to bring you home with
me, till I find someone to take care of you.”

So Susie went to Easterly Park, and so did I, safe
in Mr. Uppingham’s morocco leather purse. Next
day, I was brought into a large book-covered room,
and put into a beautiful case on a pink-satin bed,
along with a complete set of Jubilee coins, from a
gold five pound piece to a threepenny bit.

It is very grand here, but rather quiet. I am look-
ing forward to seeing Susie again. I know I shall
see her, but not often. Our paths are different.
Sometimes, I almost wish I was going about in the
world again from hand to hand. But, no! on the
whole, I don’t! It is better to be here.


CHAPTER X.

HOW SUSIE TURNS OUT.

) To S the Jubilee sixpence can no longer
Es follow Susie’s fortunes, we must only
take up the story and tell our readers
how she got on. After Ben’s funeral,
Mr. Uppingham did his best to find
out Susie’s relations, but all in vain.
She only remembered that her mother
used to live in a back lane, that she
made shirts, and had a dreadful cough ;
one day she was taken to the hospital, and died there.
Then a cross, fat woman took Susie to mind a baby.
She had a hard time of it, and was often beaten and
starved. At last she ran away, and Ben found her
crying in the streets, and coaxed her to go home with
him, by telling her he was her uncle.

The money he had left was now enough to keep
her for the next few years. Mr. Uppingham found
her a comfortable home in the village of Easterly.
He put her under the care of Mrs. Jackson, a nice
old lady, who had been house-keeper at the Park for
many years, and now lived in a snug little thatched
cottage, all by herself, with her big black cat, Tippoo.
Susie went to school every day, and soon learned to
read, write, and sing. She even tried to play Ben’s

61


62 From Hand to Hand.

violin, that always hung on a nail on the kitchen
wall.



SUSIE’S GUARDIAN.

Mrs. Jackson taught Susie
—~ a great many things, and
“+ often when Mr. Uppingham

proposed taking her away,
Sex she said, with a shake of
her head, “No, sir, I can’t
spare her, she’s my right
hand.”

One of the pleasantest
times Susie ever had, was
when Freddy Mathews was sent down to spend a
fortnight’s holiday at Easterly. She loved to show
flow Susie Turns Out. 63

him all the sights of the country—the windmill, the
river, the great chestnut trees, and they had many
delightful hours swinging in the woods, and making
hay in the fields. Freddy had never seen a bird’s
nest before, nor apples growing in the orchards. He
had never picked gooseberries off the bushes, or heard
the grasshopper. When he went back to London to
his work at the boot and shoe shop, Susie picked him
a great bunch of roses and hollyhocks and lupins and
rosemary to bring with him to his mother, and Mrs.
Jackson sent a pot of honey from her own bees.
“He’s a real good boy, is Freddy,” remarked the
old lady, “always wipes his boots when he comes in,
and never worries poor old Tippoo or pulls his tail.”
The whole village went to see Freddy off at the
station and bid him good-bye. When Susie was
sixteen, it so happened that a new housemaid was
wanted at the Park, and Mr. Uppingham said, “ Why
not try Susie?” So Susie was tried, and Mrs. Jack-
son had taught her so well, that she turned out a
thoroughly good servant, trusted by everyone. In
the summer, there was an excursion from London to
Easterly Park, and this time, not only Freddy, but
Mrs. Mathews and little Bobby came. It was only to
’ spend a long July holiday ; but what a day it was!
Susie went to meet her friends at the station, and
they were all surprised to see how tall she had grown.
And how neat she was in her trim black dress, and
pretty hat with snowdrops in it! Freddy had a great
deal to tell her—how his wages had been increased,
and how he was trying to save his money to buy
a nice little house. Mrs. Mathews was now quite
comfortable, for troublesome Bobby had left school,
and was employed as a telegraph messenger boy.
After dinner, which was given in a tent under
the trees, Susie brought her friends into the house,
64. From Hand to Hand.

and showed them all the beauties of it. She took
them into the library, and showed them the Jubilee
sixpence lying in the case.

“There it is!” she said. “I put ascratch on it just
there. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose it. How glad I am
now that I didn’t run away and leave poor Uncle Ben.”

“Ah! yes,” said Mrs. Mathews, “there’s ups and
downs in everything. I’ve had my share of them.
But there’s one thing, we must just trust the Lord, and
He’ll bring us safe through them. He has brought
me through mine, I know.”

THE END.



“ LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
23), 9450

fre Bicknell —
PAVILION NY