wait for me, go on home."

"You ain't fit to go alone, Charley. I'm comin' along with you."

"'Deed I am, Bob. I'm feelin' as spry as a cricket." The little fellow
threw back his shoulders and headed for the stairs.

Fagin, however, insisted on keeping him company, and so the two, the
shabbily-dressed undersized boy, and the big strapping man came out into
the murky London twilight and took their way over the Blackfriars
Bridge.

"Been spendin' your money at the pastry shops, Charley, again? That's
what was the matter with you, I take it."

The boy shook his head. "No, Bob. I'm tryin' to save. When I get my
week's money I put it away in a bureau drawer, wrapped in six little
paper packages with a day of the week on each one. Then I know just how
much I've got to live on, and Sundays don't count. Sometimes I do get
hungry though, so hungry! Then I look in at the windows and play at
bein' rich."

They crossed the Bridge, the boy's big eyes seeming to take note of
everything, the man, duller-witted, listening to his chatter. Several
times the boy tried to say good-night, but Fagin would not be shaken
off. "I'm goin' to see you to your door, Charley lad," he said each
time.

At last they came into a little street near the Southwark Bridge. The
boy stopped by the steps of a house. "Here 'tis, Bob. Good-night. It was
good of you to take the trouble for me."

"Good-night, Charley."

The boy ran up the steps, and, as he noticed that Fagin still stopped,
he pulled the door-bell. Then the man went on down the street. When the
door opened the boy asked if Mr. Fagin lived there, and being told that
he did not, said he must have made a mistake in the house. Turning about
he saw that his friend had disappeared around a corner. With a little
smile of triumph he made off in the other direction.

The door of the Marshalsea Prison stood open like a great black mouth.
The boy, tired with his long tramp, was glad to reach it and to run in.
Climbing several long flights of stairs he entered a room on the top
story where he found his family, his father, a tall pompous-looking man
dressed all in black, his mother, an amiable but extremely fragile
woman, and a small brother and sister seated at a table eating supper.
The room was very sparsely furnished; the only bright spot in it was a
small fire in a rusty grate, flanked by two bricks to prevent burning
too much fuel.

There was a vacant place at the table for Charles, and he