CHAPTER VIII.

No pipe for old Oliver.

As some weeks went by, and no crossing and broom had been given to Tony, he began to suspect that Oliver was imposing upon him.  Now that he slept under the counter, he could often hear the old man talking aloud to his invisible Friend as he smoked his pipe; and once or twice Tony crept noiselessly to the door and watched him, after he had finished smoking, kneel down and hide his face in his hands for some minutes together.  But the boy could see nothing, and his wish had not been granted; even though, as he grew more instructed, he followed Oliver’s example, and, kneeling down behind the counter, whispered out a prayer for it.  To be sure his life was easier, especially the nights of it; for he never now went hungry and starved to bed upon some cold, hard door-step.  But it was old Oliver who did that for him, not old Oliver’s Master.  So far as he knew, the Lord Jesus had taken no notice whatever of him; and the feeling, at first angry, softened down into a kind of patient grief, which was quickly dying away into indifference.

Oliver had done himself no bad turn by offering a shelter to the solitary lad.  Tony always woke early in the morning, and if it rained he would run for the papers, before turning out to “find for himself” in the streets.  He generally took care to be out of the way at meal-times; for it was as much as the old man could do to provide for himself and Dolly.  Sometimes Tony saw him at the till, counting over his pence with rather a troubled face.  Once, after receiving a silver fourpenny piece, an extraordinary and undreamed of event, Tony dropped it, almost with a feeling of guilt, through the slit in the counter which communicated with the till.  But Oliver was so bewildered by its presence among the coppers, that he was compelled to confess what he had done, saying it would have cost him more than that for lodgings these cold nights.

“No, no, Tony,” said Oliver; “you’re very useful, fetching my papers, and taking my little love out a-walking when the weather’s fine.  I ought to pay you something, instead of taking it of you.”

“Keep it for Dolly,” said Tony, bashfully, and pushing the coin into her little hand.

“Sank ’oo,” answered Dolly, accepting it promptly; “me’ll give ’oo twenty kisses for it.”

It seemed ample payment to Tony, who went down on his knees to have the kisses pressed upon his face, which had never felt a kiss since his mother died.  But Oliver was not satisfied with the bargain, though he drew Dolly to him fondly, and left the money in her hand.

“It ’ud buy you a broom, Tony,” he said.

“Oh, I’ve give up asking for a crossing,” he answered, dejectedly; “for he never heard, or if he heard, he never cared; so it were no use going on teazing either him or me.”

“But this money ’ud buy the broom,” said Oliver; “and if you looked about you, you’d find the crossing.  You never got such a bit of money before, did you?”