"I've a message for someone inside. His name's Arthur Miles Chandon."

The young coalheaver shook his head.

"I don't know 'im," he said. "I'm new to this job, an' they don't talk
to me through the coal-'ole. But you seem a well-plucked one, and what
with your crutch--How did you come by it?"

"Kick of a pony."

"Seems to me you've been a good deal mixed up with animals, for your
age. What about your pa and ma?"

"Never 'ad none, I thank Gord."

"Eh?" The young man laid down his shovel, lifted the flap of his
sou'wester, and scratched the back of his head slowly. "Let me get the
hang o' _that_, now."

"I've seen fathers and mothers," said the sage child, nodding at him;
"and them as likes 'em is welcome to 'em."

"Gor-a-mussy!" half-groaned the young man. "If you talk like that,
they'll take you in, right enough; but as to your gettin' out--"

"I'll get out, one way or 'nother--you see!" Tilda promised. "All you
'ave to do is to take charge o' this crutch an' look after the dog."

"Oh, I'll look after 'im!"