"And where's your father, my little man?" inquired the doctor.
"Ah, that's it!" the child replied with animation.
"Why does not he look after you?"
"He went away, long time ago, last year. He couldn't get no work, and used to come home to find mother and grannie drunk—when mother had had a bit of washing to do. One day I comed home, and father was sitting over the fire-place with no fire in it, and his head in his hands. 'Dad,' says I, 'what's up now?' and he turns his head away, but draws me to him and nigh squeezed me up, and I seed he was crying. I don't often blubber; I didn't to-day, sir, did I? But I howled when I seed father cry. I'll never forget him shakin' and rockin' hisself. Then he knocks away the tears as if he hated them and bit his lip hard. Did you ever see a man cry, sir? Children does; and women, but it's terrible, I thinks, to see a man blub."
"Was your father ill?" interjected the medical man.
"Tough as a tram-cable, sir, and brave as a bulldog. I seed him punch Fitzroy Tom's head when he'd made game of mother for being drunk. All the people in the lane said he was a brick and ought to set up a boxin' saloon."
"What did he cry for then?"
"'Cause of mother"—here the little one broke down and sobbed. "She used to be so good onst—and 'cause of no work. He used to say he wouldn't care what he done, if he could get a job. Then he kisses me and squeezes me up, like a crowd at the theatre door, and goes away.
"'Never you mind, sonny,' he calls out, 'I'll come back some day and make a man of you.'
