The time was the height of the London season for 1875; the height of
that gay time when the parks, and streets, and shops are full, when
pleasure-promoters are busy keeping up a fresh supply of every form of
entertainment, when pleasure-seekers are flocking to the garden parties,
and strawberry parties, the operas, and theatres, and all other
amusements provided for them; when the world--the world at least of
Regent Street, and Piccadilly, of Eaton Square, and all Belgravia--looks
so rich and prosperous, so full of life and all that makes life
enjoyable.
It was that gay time when no one thinks of gloom, when ambitious men
dream of fame, and vain women of vanity, when the thoughtless think less
than any other time, and when money seems to be the one god that rules
in every breast.
This was the time in the merry month of May, when one afternoon, at the
hour when Regent Street is brightest and fullest, a little ragged urchin
of about ten pushed his way boldly through the crowd of carriages and
people surrounding Swan and Edgar's, and began staring eagerly and
fearlessly in at the windows.
He was the only ragged child, the only representative of poverty, within
sight, and he looked singularly out of place, quite a little shadow in
the midst of the splendid carriages, and brilliant and prosperous men
and women.
The few who noticed him wondered languidly what brought him there, why
he intruded his disreputable little person in the midst of scenes and
people with which he never had, and never could have, anything in
common.
The little fellow seemed to guess the thoughts which a few in the crowd
favoured him with, and in his own way to resent them. In and out among
the rich and fashionable people his small head kept bobbing, his agile
body kept pushing.
He avoided the police, he escaped unhurt from under the impatient
horses' legs, he was never stationary, and yet he was always there. He
pressed his dirty little form against more than one fine lady's dress,
and received more than one sharp reprimand, and sharper tap on the head,
from the powdered and liveried footmen.
Still he held his ground and remained faithful to Swan and Edgar's. He
was a dirty, troublesome little imp, but on his worn and prematurely old
face might have been seen a curious, bright expression. Those who
looked at him might have pronounced him hungry, certainly poor, but, for
the time being, not at all unhappy.
Round and round the splendid establishment he dodged rather than walked,
examining with a critical eye the mantles and costumes on view in the
windows; then he carefully looked over and reckoned the carriages, gazed
up with a full, bright, impudent stare into the face of more than one
proud and titled dame, and at last, apparently satisfied, turned his
back on the gay shop and gay crowd, and set off down Regent Street at a
swinging pace. Presently, by means of a series of short cuts, he found
himself in Old Compton Street, from thence he proceeded through Seven
Dials into a street which we will call Duncan Street.
He had come this distance very quickly, and had withstood several
temptations to linger on his road. A band of musical niggers, who
danced, and sang, and played the bones, had waylaid him in vain; his own
particular chum, Jenks, had met him, and called to him to stop, but he
had not obeyed; the shrimp man, who always gave him a handful, had come
directly in his path. He had paused for nothing, and now dashing
headlong, not into a house, but through a hole in the pavement, down a
slippery ladder, into a cellar, he called out "Flo."
From the bright sunshine outside, the gloom of this Place, lit by the
flickering flame of one tallow candle, was profound. Its roof was on a
level with the road, its floor several feet below the gas-pipes and
sewage; it had no window, and its only means of light and ventilation
was through the narrow opening in the pavement, against which a ladder
was placed.
The ragged boy, rushing down these steps, made his way to a cobbler's
stool, in the middle of the room, on which was seated a little girl
busily repairing an old boot, while a heap of boots and shoes,
apparently in the last stage of decay, were scattered round her. This
child, a year or so younger than the boy, had the utterly colourless
appearance of a flower shut away from the sunshine.
"Flo," said her companion eagerly.