to be pounded into insensibility; her
father (a journeyman baker, often working nineteen hours out of the
twenty-four, which probably did not improve his temper), maddened by
his wife's persistent drunkenness, was stopped just on the safe side of
murder. To the amazement and indignation of the Gardens, Mrs. Candy
prosecuted her sovereign lord; the case had been heard to-day, and
Candy had been east in a fine. The money was paid, and the baker went
his way, remarking that his family were to 'expect him back when they
saw him.' Mrs. Candy, on her return, was hooted through all the length
of the Gardens, a demonstration of public feeling probably rather of
base than of worthy significance.

As Pennyloaf drew near to the house, a wild, discordant voice suddenly
broke forth somewhere in the darkness, singing in a high key, 'All ye
works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for
ever!' It was Mad Jack, who had his dwelling in the Court, and at all
hours was wont to practise the psalmody which made him notorious
throughout Clerkenwell. A burst of laughter followed from a group of
men and boys gathered near the archway. Unheeding, the girl passed in
at an open door and felt her way up a staircase; the air was noisome,
notwithstanding a fierce draught which swept down the stairs. She
entered a room lighted by a small metal lamp hanging on the wall--a
precaution of Pennyloaf's own contrivance. There was no bed, but one
mattress lay with a few rags of bed-clothing spread upon it, and two
others were rolled up in a corner. This chamber accommodated, under
ordinary circumstances, four persons: Mr. and Mrs. Candy, Pennyloaf,
and a son named Stephen, whose years were eighteen. (Stephen pursued
the occupation of a potman; his hours were from eight in the morning
till midnight on week-days, and on Sunday the time during which a
public-house is permitted to be open; once a month he was allowed
freedom after six o'clock.) Against the window was hung an old shawl
pierced with many rents. By the fire sat Mrs. Candy; she leaned
forward, her head, which was bound in linen swathes, resting upon her
hands.

'What have you got?' she asked, in the thick voice of a drunkard,
without moving.

'Eighteenpence; it's all they'd give me.'

The woman cursed in her throat, but exhibited no anger with Pennyloaf.

'Go an' get some tea an' milk,' she said, after a pause. 'There is
sugar. An' bring seven o' coals; there's only a du