late-shop in Holborn Hill.

"Thank you, my son," said the clown, taking the chair with one hand and
patting the boy's head with the other; "this, ladies and gents," he
added in a parenthetical tone, "is my son; _he's_ bin burnt hout of
'ouse an' 'ome, too! Now, then, who bids for the old harm-chair? the
wery identical harm-chair that the song was written about. In the
embrace o' this 'ere chair has sat for generations past the family o'
the Cattleys--that's _my_ name, ladies an gents, at your service. Here
sat my great-great-grandfather, who was used to say that his
great-grandfather sat in it too. Here sat his son, and his son's son--
the Lord Mayor as was--and his son, my father, ladies and gents, who
died in it besides, and whose son now hoffers it to the 'ighest bidder.
You'll observe its antiquity, ladies an' gents. That's its beauty.
It's what I may call, in the language of the haristocracy, a harticle of
_virtoo_, w'ich means that it's a harticle as is surrounded by virtuous
memories in connection with the defunct. Now then, say five bob for the
hold harm-chair!"

While the clown was endeavouring to get the chair disposed of, Willie
pushed his way to the side of Jim Cattley.

"I say, youngster, would you like a cup o' chocolate?" began Willie by
way of recalling to the boy their former meeting.

Jim, whose face wore a sad and dispirited look, turned angrily and said,
"Come, I don't want none o' your sauce!"

"It ain't sauce I'm talkin' of, it's chocolate," retorted Willie. "But
come, Jim, I don't want to bother ye. I'm sorry to see you an yer dad
in sitch a fix. Have you lost much?"

"It's not what we've lost that troubles us," said Jim, softened by
Willie's sympathetic tone more than by his words; "but sister Ziza is
took bad, an' she's a fairy at Drury Lane, an' takin' her down the
fire-escape has well-nigh killed her, an' we've got sitch a cold damp
cellar of a place to put her in, that I don't think she'll get better at
all; anyhow, she'll lose her engagement, for she can't make two speeches
an' go up in a silver cloud among blue fire with the 'flooenzer, an 'er
'air all but singed off 'er 'ead."

Jim almost whimpered at this point, and Willie, quitting his side
abruptly, went back to Frank (who was still standing an amused auditor
of the clown), and demanded a shilling.

"What for, lad?"

"Never you mind, Blazes; but give me the bob, an' I'll pay you back
before the week's out."

Frank