nd
clasping his hands.

"Come now. You've joked enough. Go on and do your part," said the
puzzled manager.

"But I tell you I'm _not_ joking. I couldn't sing just now if you was
to give me ten thousand pounds!"

It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it
was stated--we know not--but the truth of what Sam said was borne so
forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion;
sprang at Sam's throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him
out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case,
covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.

The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner,
which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor
Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster--not a very serious one--
which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then,
but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close
of the evening.

This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted
the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse
than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the
performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of
knocking down a few of the most unruly.

Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the
back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.

"What's the matter with ye, youngster?" he said, going up to him.
"You've made a pretty mess of it to-night."

"I couldn't help it--indeed I couldn't. Perhaps I'll do better next
time."

"Better! ha! ha! You couldn't ha' done better--if you'd on'y gone on.
But why do ye sit there?"

"Because I've nowhere to go to."

"There's plenty o' common lodgin'-'ouses, ain't there?"

"Yes, but I haven't got a single rap."

"Well, then, ain't there the casual ward? Why don't you go there?
You'll git bed and board for nothin' there."

Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away
without further remark.

Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen
boy's face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort
of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor
Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager's voice, and fled.

A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest
stratum of abject poverty