by some means
or other. The tongue was the easiest.

The gentleman laughed. "Weh! don't eat the egg-cup," he said. "We shall
want it again. Have another egg."

But Dickie's pride was hurt, and he wouldn't. The gentleman must be very
stupid, he thought, not to know the difference between licking and
eating. And as if anybody could eat an egg-cup, anyhow! He was glad when
the gentleman went away.

After breakfast Dickie was measured for a crutch--that is to say, a
broom was held up beside him and a piece cut off its handle. Then the
lady wrapped flannel around the hairy part of the broom and sewed black
velvet over that. It was a beautiful crutch, and Dickie said so. Also
he showed his gratitude by inviting the lady to look "'ow spry 'e was on
'is pins," but she only looked a very little while, and then turned and
gazed out of the window. So Dickie had a good look at the room and the
furniture--it was all different from anything he ever remembered seeing,
and yet he couldn't help thinking he had seen them before, these
high-backed chairs covered with flowers, like on carpets; the carved
bookcases with rows on rows of golden-beaded books; the bow-fronted,
shining sideboard, with handles that shone like gold, and the corner
cupboard with glass doors and china inside, red and blue and goldy. It
was a very odd feeling. I don't think that I can describe it better than
by saying that he looked at all these things with a double pleasure--the
pleasure of looking at new and beautiful things, and the pleasure of
seeing again things old and beautiful which he had not seen for a very
long time.

His limping survey of the room ended at the windows, when the lady
turned suddenly, knelt down, put her hand under his chin and looked into
his eyes.

"Dickie," she said, "how would you like to stay here and be _my_ little
boy?"

"I'd like it right enough," said he, "only I got to go back to father."

"But if father says you may?"

"'E won't," said Dickie, with certainty, "an' besides, there's Tinkler."

"Well, you're to stay here and be my little boy till we find out where
father is. We shall let the police know. They're sure to find him."

"The pleece!" Dickie cried in horror. "Why, father, 'e ain't done
nothing."

"No, no, of course not," said the lady in a hurry; "but the police know
all sorts of things--about where people are, I know, and what they're
doing--even when they haven't _done_ anything."

"The pleece knows a j