introduces a young hero.

the day had become very sultry by the time i went out to visit my patients. the sky was overcast with dark thunderous clouds, and, as there seemed every chance of a heavy shower, i returned to my lodgings for an umbrella.

“oh, mr mellon!” exclaimed my landlady, as i entered the lobby, “was there ever a greater blessin’—oh!—”

“why, what’s the matter, mrs miff?”

“oh, sir! that ’orrid little dog as you brought ’as gone mad!”

“is that the blessing you refer to, mrs miff?”

“no, sir; but your comin’ back is, for the creetur ’as bin rampagin’ round the room, an yellin’ like a thing possessed by demons. i’m so glad you’ve come!”

feeling sure that the little dog, unaccustomed, perhaps, to be left alone in a strange place, was merely anxious to be free, i at once went to my room-door and opened it. dumps bounced out, and danced joyfully round me. mrs miff fled in deadly silence to her own bedroom, where she locked and bolted herself in.

“dumps,” said i, with a laugh, “i shall have to take you with me at the risk of losing you. perhaps the memory of the feed i’ve given you, and the hope of another, may keep you by me. come, we shall see.”

my doggie behaved much better than i had anticipated. he did indeed stop at several butchers’ shops during our walk, and looked inquiringly in. he also evinced a desire to enter into conversation with one or two other sociable dogs, but the briefest chirp or whistle brought him at once obediently to my heel, just as if he had known and obeyed me all his life.

when we reached the poorer parts of the city, i observed that the free-and-easy swagger, and the jaunty hopping of each hind-leg alternately, gave place to a sedate walk and a wary turn of the head, which suggested keen suspicious glances of the unseen eyes.

“ah!” thought i, “evidently he has suffered hardships and bad treatment in places like this.”

i stooped and patted his head. he drew closer to me, as if seeking protection.

just then a low grumbling of thunder was heard, and soon after the rain came down so heavily that, the umbrella forming an insufficient protection, dumps and i sought shelter in the mouth of an alley. the plump was short-lived, and the little knots of people who had sought shelter along with us melted quickly away.

my doggie’s aspect was not improved by this shower. it had caused his hairy coat to cling to his form, producing a drowned-rat aspect which was not becoming; but a short run and some vigorous shakes soon restored his rotundity.

in a few minutes thereafter we reached a narrow square or court at the end of a very dirty locality, in one corner of which was a low public-house. through the half-open swing-door could be seen the usual melancholy crowd of unhappy creatures who had either already come under the full influence and curse of strong drink, or were far on the road to ruin. it was a sight with which i had become so familiar that, sad though it was, i scarce gave it a thought in passing. my mind was occupied with the poor old woman i was about to visit, and i would have taken no further notice of the grog-shop in question if the door had not opened violently, and a dirty ragged street-boy, or “waif,” apparently about eight or nine years of age, rushed out with a wild cry that may be described as a compound cheer-and-yell. he came out in such blind haste that he ran his ragged head with great violence against my side, and almost overturned me.

“hallo, youngster!” i exclaimed sternly.

“hallo, oldster!” he replied, in a tone of the most insolent indignation, “wot ever do you mean by runnin’ agin my ’ead like that? hain’t you got no genteel boys in the west-end to butt agin, that you come all the way to vitechapel to butt agin me? i’ve a good mind to ’and you over to the p’leece. come, you owes me a copper for that.”

the ineffable insolence of this waif took me quite by surprise. he spoke with extreme volubility, and assumed the commanding air of a man of six-feet-four, though only a boy of four-feet-six. i observed, however, that he kept at a sufficient distance to make sure of escaping in the event of my trying to seize him.

“come,” said i, with a smile, “i think you rather owe me a copper for giving me such a punch in the ribs.”

“vell, i don’t mind lookin’ at it in that light,” he replied, returning my smile. “i vill give you a copper, on’y i hain’t got change. you wouldn’t mind comin’ into this ’ere grog-shop while i git change, would you? or if you’ll lend me a sixpence i’ll go in and git it for you.”

“no,” said i, putting my fingers into my waistcoat pocket; “but here is a sixpence for you, which you may keep, and never mind the change, if you’ll walk along the streets with me a bit.”

the urchin held out his dirty hand, and i put the coin into it. he smiled, tossed the sixpence, caught it deftly, and transferred it to his right trousers pocket.

“vell, you are a rum ’un. but i say, all square? no dodges? honour bright?”

“no dodges. honour bright,” i replied.

“come along.”

at this point my attention was attracted by a sudden change in the behaviour of dumps. he went cautiously towards the boy, and snuffed as him for a moment.

“i say, is he wicious?” he asked, backing a little.

“i think not, but—”

i was checked in my speech by the little dog uttering a whine of delight and suddenly dancing round the boy, wagging its tail violently, and indeed wriggling its whole shapeless body with joy; as some dogs are wont to do when they meet with an old friend unexpectedly.

“why, he seems to know you,” said i, in surprise.

“vell, he do seem to ’ave ’ad the honour of my acquaintance some’ow,” returned the boy, whose tone of banter quickly passed away. “what d’ee call ’im?”

“dumps,” said i.

“that won’t do. has he a vite spot on the bridge of ’is nose?” asked the boy earnestly.

“i really cannot tell. it is not long—”

“here, punch, come here!” called the boy, interrupting.

at the name of punch my doggie became so demonstrative in his affections that he all but leaped into the boy’s arms, whined lovingly, and licked his dirty face all over.

“the wery dog,” said the boy, after looking at his nose; “only growed so big that his own mother wouldn’t know ’im.—vy, where ’ave you bin all this long while, punch?”

“d’you mean to say that you know the dog, and that his name is punch?”

“vell, you are green. wouldn’t any cove with half an eye see that the dog knows me, an’ so, in course, i must know him? an’ ven i called ’im punch didn’t he answer?—hey?”

i was obliged to admit the truth of these remarks. after the first ebullition of joy at the meeting was over, we went along the street together.

“then the dog is yours?” said i as we went along.

“no, he ain’t mine. he was mine once—ven he was a pup, but i sold ’im to a young lady for—a wery small sum.”

“for how much?” i asked.

“for five bob. yes—on’y five bob! i axed vun pound, but the young lady was so pleasant an’ pritty that i come down to ten bob. then she said she was poor—and to tell ’ee the plain truth she looked like it—an’ she wanted the pup so bad that i come down to five.”

“and who was this young lady?”

“blow’d if i knows. she went off wi’ my punch, an’ i never saw’d ’em more.”

“then you don’t know what induced her to sell punch to a low fellow—but of course you know nothing about that,” said i, in a musing tone, as i thought of the strange manner in which this portion of my doggie’s history had come to light, but i was recalled from my reverie by the contemptuous tones of my little companion’s voice, as he said—

“but i do know something about that.”

“oh, indeed! i thought you said you never saw the young lady again.”

“no more i did. neither did i ever see punch again till to-day, but i know for certain that my young lady never sold no dog wotsomedever to no low feller as ever walked in shoe leather or out of it!”

“ah, i see,” said i slowly, “you mean—”

“yes, out with it, that’s just wot i do mean—that the low feller prigged the pup from her, an’ i on’y vish as i ’ad a grip of his ugly nose, and i’d draw it out from his uglier face, i would, like the small end of a telescope, and then shut it up flat again—so flat that you’d never know he’d had no nose at all!”

my little sharp-witted companion then willingly gave me an account of all he knew about the early history of my doggie.

the story was not long, but it began, so to speak, at the beginning.

punch, or dumps, as i continued to call him, had been born in a dry water-butt which stood in a back yard near the thames. this yard was, or had been, used for putting away lumber.

“it was a queer place,” said my little companion, looking up in my face with a droll expression—“a sort o’ place that, when once you had gone into it, you was sure to wish you hadn’t. talk o’ the blues, sir; i do assure you that w’en i used to go into that yard of a night it gave me the black-an’-blues, it did. there was a mouldiness an’ a soppiness about it that beat the katticombs all to sticks. it looked like a place that some rubbish had bin flung into in the days before adam an’ eve was born, an’ ’ad been forgotten tee-totally from that time to this. oh, it was awful! used to make my marrow screw up into lumps w’en i was used to go there.”

“but why did you go there at all if you disliked it so much?” i asked.

“vy? because i ’adn’t got no better place to go to. i was used to sleep there. i slep’ in the self-same water-butt where punch was born. that’s ’ow i come to scrape acquaintance with ’im. i’d bin away from ’ome in the country for a week’s slidin’.”

“a week’s what?”

“slidin’. don’t you know what sliding on the ice is?”

“oh!—yes. are you very fund of that?”

“i should think i was—w’en my boots are good enough to stick on, but they ain’t always that, and then i’ve got to slide under difficulties. sometimes i’m out o’ boots an’ shoes altogether, in vich case slidin’s impossible; but i can look on and slide in spirit, vich is better than nuffin’. but, as i was sayin’ w’en you ’ad the bad manners to interrupt me, i ’ad bin away from ’ome for a week—”

“excuse my interrupting you again, but where is your home, may i ask?”

“you may ask, but it ’ud puzzle me to answer for i ain’t got no ’ome, unless i may say that london is my ’ome. i come an’ go where i pleases, so long’s i don’t worrit nobody. i sleep where i like, if the bobbies don’t get their eyes on me w’en i’m agoin’ to bed, an’ i heat wotever comes in my way if it ain’t too tough. in winter i sleeps in a lodgin’ ’ouse w’en i can but as it costs thrippence a night, i finds it too expensive, an’ usually prefers a railway arch, or a corner in covent garden market, under a cart or a barrow, or inside of a empty sugar-barrel—anywhere so long’s i’m let alone; but what with the rain, the wind, the cold, and the bobbies, i may be said to sleep under difficulties. vell, as i was agoin’ to say w’en—”

“excuse me once more—what is your name?” said i.

“hain’t got no name.”

“no name! come, you are joking. what is your father’s name?”

“hain’t got no father—never ’ad, as i knows on, nor mother neither, nor brother, nor sister, nor aunt, nor wife—not even a mother-in-law. i’m a unit in creation, i is—as i once heerd a school-board buffer say w’en he was luggin’ me along to school; but he was too green, that buffer was, for a school-boarder. i gave ’im the slip at the corner of watling street, an’ they’ve never bin able to cotch me since.”

“but you must be known by some name,” said i. “what do your companions call you?”

“they call me bad names, as a rule. some o’ the least offensive among ’em are monkey-face, screwnose, cheeks, squeaker, roundeyes, and slidder. i prefers the last myself, an’ ginerally answers to it. but, as i was agoin’ to say, i’d bin away for a veek, an’ w’en i comed ’ome—”

“to which part of home? for london is a wide word, you know,” i said.

“now, sir, if you go for to interrupt me like that i’ll ’ave to charge a bob for this here valk; i couldn’t stand it for sixpence.”

“come, slidder, don’t be greedy.”

“vell, sir, if you got as many kicks as i do, and as few ha’pence, p’r’aps you’d be greedy too.”

“perhaps i should, my boy,” said i, in a gentle tone. “but come, i will give you an extra sixpence if we get along well. let’s have the rest of your story; i won’t interrupt again.”

“it ain’t my story, it’s punch’s story,” returned the waif, as he stooped to pat the gratified doggie. “vell, w’en i com’d ’ome it was lateish and i was tired, besides bein’ ’ungry; so i goes right off to my water-butt, intendin’ to go to bed as usual, but no sooner did i put my head in, than out came a most awful growl. the butt lay on its side, and i backed out double quick just in time, for a most ’orrible-lookin’ terrier dog rushed at me. bein’ used to dogs, i wasn’t took by surprise, but fetched it a clip with one o’ my feet in its ribs that sent it staggerin’ to the palin’ o’ the yard. it found a hole, bolted through, scurried up the lane yellin’, and i never saw’d it more! this was punch’s mother. on goin’ into the butt afterwards i found three dead pups and one alive, so i pitched the dead ones away an’ shoved the live one into the breast of my coat, where he slep’ till mornin’. at first i ’ad a mind to drown the pup, but it looked so comfortable an’ playful, an’ was such a queer critter, that i called him punch, an’ became a father to ’im. i got him bones an’ other bits o’ grub, an’ kep’ ’im in the water-butt for three veeks. then he began to make a noise v’en i left him; so, bein’ sure the bobbies would rout ’im out at last, i took ’im an’ sold ’im to the first pleasant lady that seemed to fancy ’im.”

“well, slidder,” said i, as we turned down into the mean-looking alley where mrs willis, my little old woman, dwelt, “i am greatly interested in what you have told me about my little dog, and i am interested still more in what you have told me about yourself. now, i want you to do me a favour. i wish you to go with me to visit an old woman, and, after that, to walk home with me—part of the way, at least.”

the boy, whose pinched, hunger-smitten face had an expression of almost supernatural intelligence on it, bestowed on me a quick, earnest glance.

“no dodges? honour bright? you ain’t a school-board buffer?” he asked.

“no dodges. honour bright,” i replied, with a smile.

“vell, then, heave ahead, an’ i’ll foller.”

we passed quickly down to the lower end of the alley, which seemed to lose itself in a wretched court that appeared as if it intended to slip into the river—an intention which, if carried out, would have vastly improved its sanitary condition. here, in a somewhat dark corner of the court, i entered an open door, ascended a flight of stairs, and gained a second landing. at the farthest extremity of the passage i stopped at a door and knocked. several of the other doors of the passage opened, and various heads were thrust out, while inquisitive eyes surveyed me and my companion. a short survey seemed to suffice, for the doors were soon shut, one after another, with a bang, but the door at which i knocked did not open.

lifting the latch, i entered, and observed that mrs willis was seated by the window, looking wistfully out. being rather deaf, she had not heard my knock.

“come in,” i whispered to little slidder, “sit down on this stool near the door, and keep quiet until i speak to you.”

so saying, i advanced to the window. the view was not interesting. it consisted of the side of a house; about three feet distant, down which ran a water-spout, or drain-pipe, which slightly relieved the dead look of the bricks. from one pane of the window it was possible, by squeezing your cheek against it, to obtain a perspective view of chimney-pots. by a stretch of the neck upwards you could see more chimney pots. by a stretch of imagination you could see cats quarrelling around them,—or anything else you pleased!

sitting down on a rickety chair beside the little old woman, i touched her gently on the shoulder. she had come to know my touch by that time, i think, for she looked round with a bright little smile.