rough blue cloth, and with
a shiny sou'-wester on his head. He looks like a pilot, but he is really
a fisherman and a sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth
on purpose to see Benny's mother, who is his own sister.

"Well, uncle, who _could_ ha' thought of seeing you here; haven't you
been to mother's?"

"No, my boy, I got to London by the late train, and so I thought I'd try
and find you out, and we'll go home together. What a place this London
is, to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here is to be
workin' in all night; it don't seem quite right for a lad of your age,
Benny."

"Come, don't you go running down our court," says the boy. "I'm all
right, uncle, specially since you was so kind as to pay for me to go to
the classes. Why, bless you, I'm learning French and Latin now, and I'm
put on to reading regular. I shouldn't wonder if I was to come to be a
printer's reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so much a week
by-and-by."

"What do you get now, Benny?"

"Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you know I can help mother in
the shop a bit; but I say, you don't mind waitin' a minute, while I go
to the house over the way. There's only one or two places that keep open
after twelve, because of our wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and
coffee, and all sorts o' things, to keep us going. It makes you precious
faint to keep up night work without anything to eat, I can tell you,
uncle."

"Well, I'll come with you, Benny, and wait for you at the shop, where I
can fill my pipe. But where's your jacket, and where's your cap?"

"Oh, we don't have time to think about that. Something's wanted, and the
bell rings, and somebody shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you go.
It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the men at our place keep the
room so hot. They can't bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a
draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that they can't feel the
type, they paste paper over every crack, and have all the windows
fastened down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the door open. Why,
uncle, you don't a bit know what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea,
and being out night after night off what I've heard you call the Dogger
Bank to catch codfish, they're nothing to being a boy in a printin'
office where the machine's always going, and you've I don't know how
many masters to order you about; but never you mind, I'm going to stick
to it, and if they do