eps
of Grinder Bros' factory at four o'clock one rainy morning. He awakened
him, and demanded an explanation.

The little fellow explained that he worked there, and was frightened
of being late; he started work at six, and was apparently greatly
astonished to hear that it was only four. The constable examined a small
parcel which the frightened child had in his hand. It contained a clean
apron and three slices of bread and treacle.

The child further explained that he woke up and thought it was late,
and didn't like to wake mother and ask her the time "because she'd been
washin'." He didn't look at the clock, because they "didn't have one."
He volunteered no explanations as to how he expected mother to know the
time, but, perhaps, like many other mites of his kind, he had unbounded
faith in the infinitude of a mother's wisdom. His name was Arvie
Aspinall, please sir, and he lived in Jones's Alley. Father was dead.

A few days later the same paper took great pleasure in stating, in
reference to that "Touching Incident" noticed in a recent issue, that
a benevolent society lady had started a subscription among her friends
with the object of purchasing an alarm-clock for the little boy found
asleep at Grinder Bros' workshop door.

Later on, it was mentioned, in connection with the touching incident,
that the alarm-clock had been bought and delivered to the boy's mother,
who appeared to be quite overcome with gratitude. It was learned, also,
from another source, that the last assertion was greatly exaggerated.

The touching incident was worn out in another paragraph, which left no
doubt that the benevolent society lady was none other than a charming
and accomplished daughter of the House of Grinder.

It was late in the last day of the Easter Holidays, during which Arvie
Aspinall had lain in bed with a bad cold. He was still what he called
"croopy." It was about nine o'clock, and the business of Jones's Alley
was in full swing.

"That's better, mother, I'm far better," said Arvie, "the sugar and
vinegar cuts the phlegm, and the both'rin' cough gits out. It got out to
such an extent for the next few minutes that he could not speak. When he
recovered his breath, he said:

"Better or worse, I'll have to go to work to-morrow. Gimme the clock,
mother."

"I tell you you shall not go! It will be your death."

"It's no use talking, mother; we can't starve--and--s'posin' somebody
got my place! Gimme the clock, mother."