It was an afternoon in early October, the day after Alfred and Lizzie
had been removed from the workhouse. They were now in the probation ward
of one of the great district schools. Lizzie was sitting in the girls'
room, whimpering quietly to herself, and every now and then saying, "I
want my mother." To which the female officer replied, "Oh, you'll soon
get over that."
Alfred was standing on the outside of a little group of boys gathered
in idleness round a stove in a large whitewashed room on the opposite
side of the building. Nearest the warmth stood Clem Bowler, conscious of
the dignity which experience gives. For Clem had a reputation to
maintain. He was a redoubtable "in and out." Four times already within a
year his parents had entrusted themselves and him to the care of the
State, and four times, overcome by individualistic considerations, they
had recalled him to their own protection. His was not an unusual case.
The superintendent boasted that his "turn-over" ran to more than five
hundred children a year. But there was distinction about Clem, and
people remembered him.
"You 'ear, now," he said, looking round with a veteran's contempt upon
the squad of recruits in pauperism, "if none on yer don't break out with
somethink before the week's over, I'll flay the lot. I'm not pertikler
for what it is. Last time it was measles first, and then ringworm. Nigh
on seven weeks I stopt 'ere with nothink to do only eat, and never got
so much as a smell of the school. What's them teachers got to learn
_me_, I'd like to know?"
He paused with rhetorical defiance, but as no one answered he proceeded
to express the teachers and officers in terms of unmentionable
quantities. Suddenly he turned upon a big, vacant-looking boy at his
side.
"What's yer name, fat-'ead?" he asked.
The boy backed away a pace or two, and stood gently moving his head
about, and staring with his large pale eyes, as a calf stares at a dog.
"Speak, you dyin' oyster!" said Clem, kicking his shins.
"Ernest," said the boy, with a sudden gasp, turning fiery red and
twisting his fingers into knots.
"Ernest what?" said Clem. "But it don't matter, for your sort always
belongs to the fine old family of Looney. You're a deal too good for the
likes of us. Why, you ought to 'ave a private asylum all to yerself. Hi,
Missus!" he shouted to the porter's wife who was passing through the
room. "This young nobleman's name's Looney, isn't it?"
"Looks as if it 'ad ought to be," she answered, with a smile, for she
avoided unnecessary difficulties. It was her duty to act as mother to
the children in the probation ward, and she had already mothered about
five thousand.
"Well, Looney," Clem went on as soon as she had gone, "I'll give you a
fair run for your money. By next Sunday week you must 'ave a sore 'ead
or sore eyes, or I'll see as you get both. But p'raps I may as well take
two of the lot of yer in 'and at once."
He seized the daft creature and Alfred by the short hair at the back of
their heads, and began running them up and down as a pair of ponies. The
others laughed, partly for flattery, partly for change.
"That don't sound as if they was un'appy, do it, sir?" said the porter's
wife, coming in again at that moment with one of the managers, who was
paying a "surprise visit" to the school.
"No, indeed!" he answered heartily. "Well, boys, having a real good
time, are you? That's right. Better being here than starving outside,
isn't it?"
"Oh yuss, sir, a deal better!" said Clem. "Plenty to eat 'ere, sir, and
nobody to be crule to yer, and nice little lessons for an hour in the
afternoon!"
It was getting dark, and as the gas was lit and cast its yellow glare
over the large room, Alfred thought how his mother must just then be
lighting the candle to give Ben and the baby their tea.