but the deceiver in the back of the bed.  He raised his head, but could only see that she had crawled under the coverlet to escape his wrath.  His mother was asleep.  Tommy sat up and peeped over the edge of the bed, then he let his eyes wander round the room; he was looking for the girl’s clothes, but they were nowhere to be seen.  It is distressing to have to tell that what was in his mind was merely the recovery of his penny.  Perhaps as they were Sunday clothes she had hung them up in the wardrobe?  He slipped on to the floor and crossed to the wardrobe, but not even the muff could he find.  Had she been tired, and gone to bed in them?  Very softly he crawled over his mother, and pulling the coverlet off the child’s face, got the great shock of his childhood.

It was another one!

CHAPTER III

SHOWING HOW TOMMY WAS SUDDENLY TRANSFORMED INTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN

It would have fared ill with Mrs. Sandys now, had her standoffishness to her neighbors been repaid in the same coin, but they were full of sympathy, especially Shovel’s old girl, from whom she had often drawn back offensively on the stair, but who nevertheless waddled up several times a day with savory messes, explaining, when Mrs. Sandys sniffed, that it was not the tapiocar but merely the cup that smelt of gin.  When Tommy returned the cups she noticed not only that they were suspiciously clean, but that minute particles of the mess were adhering to his nose and chin (perched there like shipwrecked mariners on a rock, just out of reach of the devouring element), and after this discovery she brought two cupfuls at a time.  She was an Irish, woman who could have led the House of Commons, and in walking she seldom raised her carpet shoes from the ground, perhaps because of her weight, for she had an expansive figure that bulged in all directions, and there were always bits of her here and there that she had forgotten to lace.  Round the corner was a delightful eating-house, through whose window you were allowed to gaze at the great sweating dumplings, and Tommy thought Shovel’s mother was rather like a dumpling that had not been a complete success.  If he ever knew her name he forgot it.  Shovel, who probably had another name also, called her his old girl or his old woman or his old lady, and it was a sight to see her chasing him across the street when she was in liquor, and boastful was Shovel of the way she could lay on, and he was partial to her too, and once when she was giving it to him pretty strong with the tongs, his father (who followed many professions, among them that of finding lost dogs), had struck her and told her to drop it, and then Shovel sauced his father for interfering, saying she should lick him as long as she blooming well liked, which made his father go for him with a dog-collar; and that was how Shovel lost his eye.

For reasons less unselfish than his old girl’s Shovel also was willing to make up to Tommy at this humiliating time.  It might be said of these two boys that Shovel knew everything but Tommy knew other things, and as the other things are best worth hearing of Shovel liked to listen to them, even when they were about Thrums, as they usually were.  The very first time Tommy told him of the wondrous spot, Shovel had drawn a great breath, and said, thoughtfully: