A CHILD OF THE JAGO
"Where 'a' you bin, Dicky?" she asked, rather complaining than asking. "It's sich low hours for a boy."
Dicky glanced about the room. "Got anythink to eat?" he asked.
"I dunno," she answered listlessly. "P'r'aps there's a bit o' bread in the cupboard. I don't want nothin', it's so 'ot. An' father ain't been 'ome since tea-time."
The boy rummaged and found a crust. Gnawing at this he crossed to where the baby lay. "'Ullo, Looey," he said, bending and patting the muddy cheek. "'Ullo!"
The baby turned feebly on its back, and set up a thin wail. Its eyes were large and bright, its tiny face was piteously flea-bitten and strangely old. "Wy, she's 'ungry, mother," said Dicky Perrott, and took the little thing up. He sat on a small box and rocked the baby on his knees, feeding it with morsels of chewed bread. The mother, dolefully inert, looked on and said: "She's that
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