Scamp had spent a very patient but not unhappy week in the cellar. He knew nothing of his impending fate, consequently, as he had his meals regularly, he felt himself troubled by no present cares.

Had he known of his fate it is doubtful whether it would have caused him uneasiness.

“Fight with another dog! with pleasure; with all the good will in the world, and never show signs of flight, or turn felon.”

So would have thought the dog whose father and mother were curs, but in whose breast reigned as brave a spirit as ever one of the canine species possessed.

But Scamp, alas for you, poor fellow! you are inexperienced, and you do not know how the trained bull-dog can fight.

Jenks had secured him with a piece of rope to the broken table, but when Jenks and Dick were out Flo would unfasten him, and he would lie at her feet and never attempt to run away.

Flo felt happy too at her hard work, for Scamp was such good company, and since his arrival none of the wicked boys and girls dared to throw down broken bits of crockery, or sticks, or other rubbish at her.

Knowing she was timid they had often led her a sorry life, but now one note of Scamp’s fine deep bay (a gift from an old ancestor) would send them flying, and Flo could pursue her work in peace.

For the present, too, her mind was at rest about Dick – he was not only not thieving, but he was doing quite a profitable business in another way. Every morning he carried away his broom, and every evening, the weather being rather wet, he brought her in a nice little handful of coppers, as the result of his day’s brooming; quite enough money to buy honest red herrings and other dainties for supper and even breakfast.

Flo began to consider a broom and crossing quite a good trade, and rather contemplated taking it up herself. But in this desire both Jenks and Dick quite vehemently opposed her, and for the present she was happy over her never-ending cobbling.

Scamp’s company was so pleasant, and so soothed the tedium of her life, that now and then little snatches of mother’s old songs would rise to her lips.

She was walking down Duncan Street one day singing one of these in quite a sweet, clear voice, when a little pale girl on crutches, who lived in a cellar some six doors off, stopped her with the question —

“Does yer know the Glory Song?”

“No,” said Flo; “wot is it?”

“I doesn’t know it hall,” said the little pale girl, “on’y a bit. Yere it is:

”‘I’m glad I hever saw the Day,
Sing glory, glory, glory,
When first I larned to read and pray,
Sing glory, glory, glory.’”

“Go on,” said Flo, “that’s pretty – that is.”

“Oh! I doesn’t know any more,” said the little girl. “I larned that bit wen I wor in ’Orspital, time my leg was tuk orf. Sister Evelina taught it to me. There wor a lot more, and it wor werry pretty, but I on’y ’members that bit.”

“Well, sing it agen,” said Flo. The little girl sang.

“Wot’s ‘read and pray’?” asked Flo.

“Oh! doesn’t you know? Read! hout o’ books of course; and pray! pray to God – you knows that?”

“No, I doesn’t,” said Flo.

“Oh dear,” said the other child rather patronisingly, “doesn’t you know, ‘Our – Father – chart – ’eaven’? Why, yer be hignorant.”

“Yes, I be,” said Flo, no way offended. “I knows nothink ’cept being honest. Wot’s ‘Our Father,’ Janey?”

“Oh! ’tis quite long,” said Janey, “you couldn’t ’member it a bit. ‘Our – Father – chart ’eaven.’ Our Father lives in ’eaven. There! that’s hall – I’m in a ’urry.”

“Then that ain’t true,” said Flo, “that ain’t a bit o’ it true. My father ain’t in ’eaven, wherehever that is, ’ee’s dead and in ’is grave, and yer father is at the Dolphin most times I guess. I wouldn’t tell lies ef I was you.”

The pale girl flushed up angrily.

“There now, yer real oncivil,” she said, “and I’ll ’ave no more words wid yer.”

And she disappeared down the ladder into her cellar. Flo went back also to hers and resumed her work. She had a great deal to do, for that evening she, and Dick, and Jenks, were to start on foot for the Derby. Jenks went every year as long as he could remember, but Dick and Flo had never been.

They had heard of it of course, as what London child has not? and were much excited at the prospect of at last joining the great and vast army of tramps who year by year find their way to Epsom Downs.

Jenks assured them, too, that money honestly come by was made wholesale at the Derby. Money come to you almost for the asking; sixpences were changed into sovereigns by some magic art at that wonderful place. The children were not going empty-handed. Flo was to be a “little-doll” girl.

Some dozens of these bought for twopence a dozen were to be sold to-morrow for a penny a-piece, or perhaps for more.

Flo counted how much she could make on her six dozen of dolls, and quite expected to realise a sum that would make things comfortable in the cellar for some weeks.

Dick was to sell fusees, and Jenks was to appear on the scenes in the character of a boot-cleaning boy, balancing a black-box and brushes on his head, and Scamp was to stay at home and keep house.

Flo had proposed his coming with them, but to this the boys objected, and she, considering she would have more than enough use for her legs, hands, voice, and eyes, and might find Scamp an extra care, did not grieve much over their decision.

What walking she would have, all the way from London to Epsom Downs; what use for her hands in holding her tray of dolls for so many hours; what use for her voice in advertising her property, in properly proclaiming the value of her property, and endeavouring to attract the gents with white hats, who were fond of wearing such goods in their button-holes, or stuck in a row round their head gear; above all, and this was the pleasant part, what use for her eyes!

Right and left, before and behind, pretty things would surround her, and Flo did so love pretty things.

It would be a grander sight than Regent Street, or Swan and Edgar’s, grander, because the fine ladies, and the smart dresses, and the lovely spirited horses would be there in such much vaster numbers!

She had her own slight but essential toilet preparations too to make. Her poor ragged cotton frock had got a rinse, and was drying by a small fire, which, hot as the day was, was lit for the purpose, and she meant to look up mother’s old bonnet, and if it could be made presentable, wear it.

She hauled it out of a pasteboard band-box, and sat down on her cobbler’s stool to contemplate it.

It was a very shaky, indeed fall-to-pieces, affair. A bonnet that had once been of a delicate white, but in its journey through life, having had to put up at several pawn-shops, had now reached a hue as far removed from that colour as possible.

Flo, however, thought it quite fit to wear. She snipped it, and dusted it, and by the aid of some pins secured the battered old crown in its place.

She unfolded carefully every leaf of the gorgeous bunch of artificial flowers with which mother had ornamented it before she died. That bunch, consisting of some full-blown roses, tulips, and poppies, which at a second-hand finery establishment had cost twopence, and to purchase which mother had once done without her dinner, that bunch was placed so as to rest on Flo’s forehead, while two dirty ribbons of flaming yellow were to do duty under her chin.

But while she worked she thought of Janey’s words. She was sorry Janey had turned crusty, for undoubtedly the words were pretty, prettier than any of mother’s old songs. She would have liked to know more about them!

”‘I’m glad I hever saw the day,’” sang Flo, catching the air with her quick ear and voice.

But then she stopped to consider.

What day was she glad to see?

Well! no day that she knew of, unless it was to-morrow, the Derby Day.

She was not glad of the day she could read and pray, for that day had never come to her.

In her Duncan Street cellar, “the Board,” that object of terror, had never reached her, therefore she could not read – and pray? – she did not even know what “pray” meant.

Why did Janey go about singing such songs as nobody could understand?

Just then Jenks and Dick came rattling down the ladder crying noisily that it was full time to be off; and Flo had to bustle about, and pack her dolls, and put on her clean frock and wonderful bonnet, and finally, when she thought no one was looking, to stoop down and kiss Scamp on his forehead, in return for which he washed her face quite over again with his tongue. A basin of broken bread was set near the dog, then the children ran up the ladder, fastened down the door of the cellar, and set off.

“Will Maxey know which is hour cellar wid the door shut?” asked Dick.

This remark Flo could make nothing of, but she was too much excited then to ask an explanation.

It was eight o’clock when the children started, therefore the great heat was over. At first they walked alone, then two or three, going in the same direction, joined them, then half-a-dozen more, and so on, until they found themselves with quite a number of people all Epsom bound.

At first Flo did not like this, she would have much preferred to trudge along, away past hot and dismal London, with only Dick and Jenks for company, but after a time she saw the advantage of this arrangement, for she was unaccustomed to walking, and soon her little feet grew very, very weary, and then the good-natured cadgers and tramps turned out agreeable acquaintances. One woman kindly carried her tray of dolls, and some men with a large barrow of fried fish, taking pity on her weary little face, allowed her to have a seat on one corner of their great barrow, and in this way she got over many a mile. But the way was very long, and by the time the weary multitude had reached Epsom town it was nearly one in the morning.

No rest for them here, however; whether they wished it or not, whether they could pay for food and shelter or not, the vigilant police would allow no halt in the town, they must move on. So on they moved, until at last Flo and Dick and Jenks, with many other worn-out tramps, were very glad to huddle together against the walls of the Grand Stand, which, quiet enough now, would in a few hours blaze with such life and beauty.

The little girl was in a sound sleep, dreaming confused dreams, in which Janey’s songs, Scamp’s face, and the Epsom races were all mingled, when a hand laid on her shoulder roused her from her slumbers.

“Wot is it, Jenks? is it time fur me to begin sellin’?” she exclaimed with a confused start.

“No, no,” said Jenks, “it ain’t time fur hages yet. Wait till the folks begin to come. Why, there’s on’y us tramps yere yet.”

“Then why did you wake me, Jenks? I was so werry sound asleep.”

“Well – see, Flo – I wanted fur to tell yer – you see this is a big place, and we ’as come, you and me and Dick, to do a trade yere, and wot I ses is this, as we mustn’t keep together, we mustn’t on no ’count keep together. You go one way wid the dolls, and a pretty penny they’ll fetch this blessed day, I hears said; Dick ’ull start in another ’rection wid the fusees, and I must be yere, and there, and hevery wheres, to keep the gents’ boots bright. So good mornin’ to yer, Flo; you meet us yere in the evenin’ wid a good pocket full, and yere’s sixpence fur yer breakfast,” and before Flo had time to open her lips from sheer astonishment, Jenks was gone.

She was alone, alone on Epsom common. With that sea of strange faces round her she was utterly alone.

Very poor children, at least those children who have to fight the battle of life, never cry much. However tender their hearts may be – and many of them have most tender and loving hearts, God bless them! – there is a certain hardening upper crust which forbids the constant flow of tears.

But something very smarting did come up now to the little girl’s eyes. She sat down wearily, – so much fun had she expected roaming about with Dick and Jenks, how happy she thought she would have been with the country air blowing upon her, the country sun – he never shone like that in the town – shining on her face. And now she would be afraid – for she was a timid child – to stir.

Oh, it was wrong of Jenks, though Jenks was only her friend, but how truly unkind it was of Dick to leave her!

Just then another hand was laid on her shoulder, and a gentle voice said —

“Is anything the matter, little child?”

Flo raised her eyes, and a middle-aged woman, with a face as kind as her voice, and an appearance very much more respectable than the crowds about her, stood by her side.

“Are you waiting for your mother, my dear?” said the woman again, finding that Flo only gazed at her, and did not speak. “Or don’t you want to come and get some breakfast?”

“Please, mum,” said Flo, suddenly starting to her feet, and remembering that she was very hungry, “may I go wid you and ’ave some breakfast? I ’ave got sixpence to buy it, mum.”

“Come, then,” said the woman, “I will take care of you. Here, give me your dolls,” and holding the dolls’ tray in one hand, and the child herself by the other, she went across to where a bustling, hungry throng were surrounding the coffee-stalls.

Flo and her companion were presently served, and then they sat down on the first quiet spot they could find to enjoy their meal.

“Is you in the small-dolls, or the Aunt Sally, or the clothes’ brusher’s, or the shoe-blacker’s line, mum?” asked Flo, who observed that her companion was not carrying any goods for sale.

“No, child, I don’t do business here – I only come to look on.”

“Oh, that’s werry fine fur you!” said Flo; “but is it as yer don’t find sellin’ make? Why, I ’spects to make a penny, and maybe tuppence, on hevery one of these blessed dolls.”

“Is this the first time you have been here?” asked the woman.

“Yes, mum.”

“And have you come alone?”

“Oh no, mum; I come along o’ my brother, a little chap, and a bigger feller.”

“Then you ought to be with them. This is not a safe place for a little girl to be all alone in.”

“Oh, they doesn’t want me,” said Flo; “the little chap’s in the fusee line, and the big ’un’s in the blackin’ line, and they says as it ’ud spile the trade fur a small-dolls seller to be along o’ them. That’s ’ow I’m alone, ma’am,” and here veritable tears did fill the child’s eyes to overflowing.

“Well, I am alone too,” said her companion in a kinder tone than ever; “so if you wish to stay with me you may; I can show you the best parts to sell your dolls in.”

And this was the beginning of one of the brightest days Flo had ever yet spent. How she did enjoy the breezes on the common now that she had a companion, how she did gaze at the wonderful, ever-increasing crowd.

She had soon told her story to her new friend; all about Dick and herself, and their mother, and their promise to be honest; something too about Scamp, and also about the big feller who she was afraid was a thief, but whose name somehow she forgot to mention.

In return her companion told her something of her own story.

“I come year after year out here,” she said sadly. “Not that I sells here, or knows anything of the Derby; but I come looking for one that I love – one that has gone like the prodigal astray, but like the prodigal he’ll come back – he’ll come back.”

This speech was very strange and incomprehensible to Flo; but she liked her companion more and more, and thought she had never met so kind a woman, she looked at her once or twice nearly as nicely as mother used to look.

But now the business of the day began in earnest.

The Grand Stand was filled; the men with betting lists were rushing with heated faces here and there; the cadgers and tramps, the vendors of small dolls, of pails of water, of fried fish, of coffee and buns, of ices, of fruit and sweeties, the vendors of every conceivable article under the sun were doing a roaring trade; and even Flo, aided by her kind companion, made several shillings by her dolls.

The races went on, and at last the great event of the day, the Derby Race, was to be run.

By this time Flo had sold all her dolls, and stood in the midst of the heaving, swaying mass of people, as eager as anybody else.

An unwonted excitement had taken possession of the little girl, the joy of a fresher, brighter life than she had hitherto ever felt, drove the blood quickly through her languid veins, she stood by her companion’s side, her large bonnet thrown back from her forehead, her cheeks flushed, her eyes quite bright with interest and pleasure.

Perhaps to her alone the beautiful, wonderful sight came without alloy – she had no high stakes at issue, nothing either to gain or to lose.

But when the race was over, and the name of Galopin, the winning horse, was in everybody’s mouth, and men, some pale and some flushed with their losses, turned broken-hearted away; and men, some pale and some ruddy with their gains, joined in the general cheer; then Flo began again to think of and miss her absent companions. Already vast numbers of tramps were returning to London – the kind little woman by her side had also expressed a wish to go, but nowhere were Jenks and Dick in sight.

They had promised to meet her in the evening, but she could neither ask her companion to wait until then, nor wait herself alone in the midst of the vast, unruly multitude.

“I will see you safe as far as our roads lie together,” said the little woman, and Flo, without a word, but no longer with an exultant, joyful heart, accompanied her.

They walked slowly, keeping close to the other walkers, but still a little apart, and by themselves. Now and then a good-natured neighbour gave them a lift, but they walked most of the way.

“’As you found ’im whom you loves, mum?” questioned Flo once; but the little woman shook her head, and shook it so sorrowfully that Flo ventured to say no more.

It was quite dusk when they got to London, or rather to the outskirts of London, for they went very slowly, and often paused on the road.

By this time they were quite a vast army, fresh tramps arriving to swell their ranks each moment.

Here too they were met by numbers of Londoners who had not gone to the races, but who now thronged the footways to see them return.

At one particular angle of the road these crowds congregated so thickly that for a few moments there was quite a block, and neither multitude could proceed.

As Flo stood by her companion’s side, two boys pushed quickly and roughly against her.

They did not recognise or look at her, but she did them – they were Jenks and Dick. She was quite overjoyed at seeing them so near her, but how funny they looked! or rather, how funny Dick looked! His face was blackened, and he had on a false nose; he carried a little fiddle which he capered about with, and pushing his way fearlessly into the very heart of the throng, made altogether such a droll appearance that many people looked at him, and laughed very heartily, and shied him halfpence Jenks, on the contrary, was grave and sober, no one minding him.

But suddenly, while all eyes and tongues were eagerly greeting some fresh arrivals, Flo observed Dick give a red-faced, stout old gentleman a tremendous push, and quick as lightning Jenks had his hand in the old man’s pocket, and out had come his purse and gold watch.

And before the terrified and astonished child had time to utter an exclamation, or to draw a breath, Police Constable 21 B. laid his hand heavily on Jenks’ shoulders, and with the other drawing Dick towards him, informed them both that they were his prisoners.

Chapter Eight
A Ghost in the Cellar

In the confusion that immediately ensued, Flo found herself torn away from her kind companion, and brought very near to Police Constable 21 B. and his charge. Like most children of her class she had been taught to consider policemen very dreadful people, but she had no fear of this one now: her whole desire was to save Dick. She went boldly up and laid her little dirty hand on the great tall man’s arm.

“Please – please,” said Flo, “it ain’t Dick as tuk them things. Indeed I thinks as Dick is an honest boy.”

“Oh! yes, and I suppose you are an honest girl,” said the policeman, looking down with some contempt at the queer disreputable-looking little figure. “Tell me now, what do you know about Dick? and which of the two is Dick to begin with?”

“That ’ere little chap wot yer ’ave such a grip of,” said Flo, “that’s Dick, and I be ’is sister, I be.”

“Oh! so you are his sister. And what’s the name of the big fellow? you are his sister too?”

“No, I ain’t,” said Flo, “I ain’t that, but ’ee lives wid Dick and me.”

“He does – does he? Perhaps you saw what he did just now?”

Flo had seen – she coloured and hesitated.

“You need not speak unless you wish to,” said the policeman more kindly, “but I perceive you know all about these boys, so you must appear as witness. See! where do you live?”

“Cellar number 7, Duncan Street, Saint Giles,” said Flo promptly.

“Ah!” said the policeman, “I thought those cellars was shut up. They ain’t fit for pigs. Well, my dear, ’tis a nice-sounding, respectable address, and I’ll serve you a notice to-morrow to appear as witness. Don’t you go hiding, for wherever you are I’ll find you. On Thursday morning at 10 o’clock at Q – Police-Station.” And nodding to Flo, he walked off, bearing his sullen, ashamed, crest-fallen prisoners with him.

“Come ’ome wid me, dear,” said a poor miserable-looking neighbour, an occupant of another Duncan Street cellar. “Come ’ome wid me,” she said, touching the dazed, stunned-looking child; “I’ll take care of yer the rest of the way,” and she took her hand and led her out of the crowd.

“There now,” said the woman kindly, “don’t yer fret, dearie – it ain’t so bad, and it won’t be so bad. Dick, ’ee’ll on’y get a month or two at the ’formatary, and t’other chap a bit longer, and hout they’ll come none the worse. Don’t yer fret, dearie.”

“No, ma’am,” answered Flo with a little smile, “I ain’t frettin’.” Nor was she exactly. She had an awful vision before her of mother’s dead face, that was all. During the rest of the long walk home that patient, tired face was before her. She was not fretting, she was too stunned as yet – that would come by and by.

Her neighbour tried to make her talk, tried to smooth matters for her, but they could not be smoothed, nothing could soften the awful fact that Dick was going to prison, that he had broken his word to his dying mother. It was quite dusk, past 9 o’clock, when they reached Duncan Street, and the cellar door of number 7, which the children had fastened when they had started so light-hearted and happy for the Derby the day before, was now open. Flo hardly noticed this. She ran down, eager to throw her arms round Scamp’s neck, and weep out her heart with his faithful head on her bosom.

“But – what had happened?”

Flo expected to hear his eager bark of welcome the moment she entered the cellar, but there was no sound. She called to him, no answer. She struck a match and lit the tallow candle, – Scamp’s place was empty, Scamp was gone. She stooped down and examined the spot carefully. If he had freed himself there would have been some pieces of the rope hanging to the table, but no, all trace of it was gone.

It was quite plain, then, some one had come and stolen Scamp, some one had come meanly while they were away and carried him off – he was gone. One extra drop will overflow a full cup, and this extra trial completely upset the little tired, sad child. She sat down on the floor, that damp wretched floor, surely an unfit resting-place for any of God’s creatures, and gave way to all the agony of intense desolation.

Had the dog been there he would have soothed her: the look in his eyes, the solemn slow wag of his unwieldy tail, would have comforted her, would have spoken to her of affection, would have prevented her feeling utterly alone in the world.

And this now was Flo’s sensation.

When this awful storm of loneliness comes to the rich, and things look truly hard for them, they still have their carpeted floors, and easy-chairs, and soft beds, and though at such times they profess not to value these things in the least, yet they are, and are meant to be, great alleviations.

Only the poor, the very, very poor know what this storm is in all its terrors, and the desolate little child sitting there in this dark cellar felt it in its full power that night. Dick was gone from her, Dick was a thief, he was in prison, gone perhaps never to come back – and Jenks was gone, he had done wrong and tempted Dick, and broken his word to her, so perhaps it was right for him to go – and Scamp, dear Scamp, who had done no harm whatever, was stolen away.

Yes, she was alone, alone with the thought of her mother’s face, all alone in the damp, dark, foul cellar, and she knew nothing of God.

Just then a voice, and a sweet voice too, was heard very distinctly at the mouth of the cellar.

“Sing glory, glory, glory,” tuned the voice.

“Janey,” said Flo, starting to her feet and speaking eagerly.

“Oh dear!” said the voice at the cellar door, “ain’t you a fool to be settin’ there in the dark. Strike a light, do – I’m a comin’ down.”

Flo struck a match, and lit a small end of tallow candle, and the lame girl tumbled down the ladder and squatted on the floor by her side.

“Oh dear!” she said, “ain’t this a stiflin’ ’ole? why ’tis worse nor ’ourn.”

“Wot’s ‘Read and Pray,’ Janey?” asked Flo.

“My!” said Janey, “ef yer ain’t a real worry, Flo Darrell. Read – that’s wot the Board teaches – and pray – Our – Father – chart – ’eaven – that’s pray.”

“And ‘Sing Glory,’ wot’s that?” continued Flo.

“That!” laughed Janey, “why that’s a choros, you little goose. Niggers ’ave alwis choroses to their songs – that ain’t nothink else.”

“Well, ’tis pretty,” sighed Flo, “not that I cares for nothink pretty now no more.”

“Oh! yes yer will,” said Janey with the air of a philosopher. “Yer just a bit dumpy to-night, same as I wor wen I broke my leg, and I wor lyin’ in the ’orspital, all awful full o’ pain hup to my throat, but now I ’as on’y a stiff joint, and I doesn’t mind it a bit. That’s just ’ow you’ll feel ’bout Dick by and by. ’Ee’ll be lyin’ in prison, and you won’t care, no more nor I cares fur my stiff joint.”

Flo was silent, not finding Janey’s conversation comforting.

“Come,” said that young person after a pause, “I thought you’d want a bit o’ livenin’ hup. Wot does yer say to a ghost story?”

Flo’s eyes, slightly startled, were turned on her companion.

“As big a ghost story as hever was got up in any gaff,” continued Janey, her naughty face growing full of mischief, “and it ’appened in this ’ere cellar, Flo.”

“Oh! it worn’t mother come back, wor it?” asked Flo. “Just you wait heasy. No, it worn’t yer mother, ef you must know, but as real a ghost as hever walked fur all that.”

“Tell us,” said Flo, really roused and interested.

“Oh, you wants fur to know at last! Well, I must be paid. I’m poor and clemmed, and I can’t tell my tale fur nothink, not I.”

“’Ow can I pay you, Janey?”

“Oh, yer can, heasy enough. Why mother said as yer sold quite a ’eap o’ dolls to-day at the races, there! I’ll tell ’bout the ghost fur a penny, no fur three ha’pence – there!”

“Well, tell away,” said Flo, throwing the coins into her companion’s lap.

Janey thrust them into her mouth, then taking them out rubbed them bright with her pinafore, and held them firmly in her bony little hand.

“Pease puddin’ fur the ha’penny,” she said, “meat and taters fur the penny – ’tis real mean o’ yer not to make it tuppence. Now I’ll begin. Were’s that ere dawg? were’s that hawful, ’owlin’ dawg?”

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Flo, “I don’t know nothink ’bout my dear Scamp.”

“Oh yes, ’ees dear Scamp to be sure,” said Janey. “Well, I’ll tell yer ’bout Scamp, and hall I ’opes is that we may never lay heyes on ’im no more.”

“Why?” asked Flo.

“There! I’m a comin’ to wy. Last night wen you, and Dick, and Jenks, and mother was orf to the Derby, and I mad like at bein’ left, which mother would do ’cause I was lame, I came hover and sat close to the cellar, a-listenin’ to Scamp, who was ’owlin’ real orfle, and I thought as it ’ud be a lark to go down into the cellar, fur I knew he wor tied, and hanger ’im a bit, and I tried the door, but it wor locked as firm as firm, so arter a bit I went away, and I got a little stool and sat up on the ground houtside our cellar, and there I dropped orf asleep. And wen I ’woke it wor dark, and on’y the ‘twinkle, twinkle, little stars’ hout, and there wor a noise, and I looked, and hout o’ your cellar, as was locked as firm as no one could move it, wor a man’s ’ead a comin’ – a man wid a round ’ead, and thick body, and bandy legs, and in ’is arms, a ’owlin’ and a struggling that ’ere blessed dawg.”

“Oh! the willan!” said Flo. “’Ee stole my dawg. Did yer foller ’im, Janey?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Janey; “I foller ’im – I’d like it. Wy, Flo Darrell, ’ee worn’t a man at all. ’Ow was a man in yer locked hup cellar? No, ’ee wor a ghost —that’s wot ’ee wor. And Scamp ain’t a real dawg, but a ghost dawg, and yer well rid o’ ’im, Flo Darrell.”