“Does Arvie live here, old woman?”  
“Why?”
 
“Strike me dead! carn't yer answer a civil queschin?”
 
“How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin! Be off! or I'll send for a policeman.”
 
“Blarst the cops! D'yer think I cares for 'em? Fur two pins I'd fetch a push an' smash yer ole shanty² about yer ears—y'ole cow! I only arsked if Arvie lived here! Holy Mosis! carn't a feller ask a civil queschin?”
 
“What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?”
 
“My oath! Don't he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my way to do him a good turn; an' now I'm sorry I come—damned if I ain't—to be barracked like this, an' shoved down my own throat. (Pause) I want to tell Arvie that if he don't come ter work termorrer, another bloke'll collar his job. I wouldn't like to see a cove³ collar a cove's job an' not tell a bloke about it. What's up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?”
 
“Arvie is dead!”
 
“Christ! (Pause) Garn! What-yer-giv'n-us? Tell Arvie Bill Anderson wants-ter see him.”
 
“My God! haven't I got enough trouble without a young wretch⁴ like you coming to torment⁵ me? For God's sake go away and leave me alone! I'm telling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza⁶ last night.”
 
“My oath!”
 
The ragged⁷ young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down Jones's Alley⁸, spat⁹ out some tobacco-juice, and said “Swelp me Gord! I'm sorry, mum. I didn't know. How was I to know you wasn't havin' me?”
 
He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head, tilting¹⁰ his hat as far forward as it had previously¹¹ been to the rear, and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his attention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted¹² at the sole; then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in a very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as though calculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately¹³ at the pavement, and said:
 
“Kin¹ I see him?”
 
He followed her up the crooked¹⁴ little staircase with a who's-afraid kind of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.
 
He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty—so familiar to his class—and then directed his gaze to where the body lay on the sofa with its pauper¹⁵ coffin¹⁶ already by its side. He looked at the coffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie, and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would fit.
 
The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill came and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his pocket, and laid the palm on Arvie's ice-cold forehead.
 
“Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as though ashamed of his weakness, he said:
 
“There wasn't no post mortem, was there?”
 
“No,” she answered; “a doctor saw him the day before—there was no post mortem.”
 
“I thought there wasn't none,” said Bill, “because a man that's been post mortemed always looks as if he'd been hurt. My father looked right enough at first—just as if he was restin'—but after they'd had him opened he looked as if he'd been hurt. No one else could see it, but I could. How old was Arvie?”
 
“Eleven.”'
 
“I'm twelve—goin' on for thirteen. Arvie's father's dead, ain't he?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“So's mine. Died at his work, didn't he?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“So'd mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!”
 
“Yes.”
 
“So'd mine; ain't it rum? You scrub offices an' wash, don't y............