"Do you know in what house a little boy called Billy who black boots
lives?"
The woman who was engaged in sewing a black sleeve on to an old grey
coat, looked up sharply, and demanded--
"What do you want to know for?"
"I want to see him," said Jack.
"What do you want to see him for?"
"He didn't come to the ragged school to-night."
The woman flared up.
"We don't want none of your ragged schools! You go and teach yourselves
manners--that's what you'd better do, and don't come nosing about here--
as if we couldn't get on without a parcel of snuffing young prigs like
you to tell us what to do. That's what I think of you."
And the honest British matron tossed her head in a huff, and went on
with her patchwork.
"If everybody was as honest as you," said Jack--where the sly dog
learned the art of flattery I can't imagine--"no one would interfere.
But we are afraid Billy's mother is not very good to him."
The woman looked up again, as if not quite sure what to make of this
speech. But Jack looked so much in earnest that she said, shortly--
"You're about right there. I'm a poor woman, but I hope I know better
than to make a beast of myself to my own childer."
Then she knew Billy, and could tell us where he lived after all.