‘And now conduct me, my good friend, by some front passage into
Cheapside, forthwith. I must home.’
‘Not by the side-walk, though. Look at your dress. I must get a hack for
you.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said I, ruefully eyeing my tatters, and then
glancing in envy at the close-bodied coat and flat cap of my guide,
which defied all tumblings and tearings.
‘There, now, sir,’ said the honest fellow, as he put me into the hack,
and tucked in me and my rags, ‘when you get back to your own country,
you can say you have witnessed the greatest of all England’s noble
charities. Of course, you will make reasonable allowances for the
unavoidable jam. Good-bye. Mind, Jehu’--addressing the driver on the
box--‘this is a _gentleman_ you carry. He is just from the Guildhall
Charity, which accounts for his appearance. Go on now. London Tavern,
Fleet Street, remember, is the place.’
• • • • • •
‘Now, Heaven in its kind mercy save me from the noble charities of
London,’ sighed I, as that night I lay bruised and battered on my bed;
‘and Heaven save me equally from the “Poor Man’s Pudding” and the “Rich
Man’s Crumbs.”’
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