ccordingly drove round to the
chief hotels, but no Mr. Roscoe was to be found at any of them.

Smith flew into a terrible passion. "Cheated for once in my life! sold,
if ever a fellow was! it's a regular trick that was played! They wanted
to get rid of their beggar's brat, and palmed her off upon me, with that
humbug story of the nabob of an uncle. I'll nabob her! And there's her
ticket, which I was fool enough to pay for, and the carriage hire, and
my trouble with this saucy thing, who holds her head up so high; if ever
I am swindled again, my name's not Sam Smith!"

"I'm sure I'm very sorry; what are you going to do with me, sir?" "Take
you home with me, until I can get rid of you, and pay myself out of your
trunks, unless they're filled with stones. It wouldn't be such a bad
idea to lose you in the streets, accidentally; but no, on second
thoughts, it's better not; there are always some troublesome
philanthropists about." "Oh, sir, if you can't find my uncle, won't you
send me on to Boston again? The Captain told my mother he'd find him for
me--or that good gentleman would." "The Captain's a rogue, and so is
your _good gentleman_. Are you such an eternal fool as to think I'll pay
your passage again? you're mightily mistaken, I can tell you. I don't
believe you ever had an uncle, you little cheat--and if you don't hush
up about him, I'll find a way to make you."

Little Margaret was too much frightened to answer, and they kept on
their way, through narrow muddy streets lined with lofty warehouses, and
alleys filled with low German and Irish lodging-houses and beer-shops,
until they came to a wider highway, at the corners of which Margaret
read the name of Chatham street. On each side of the way were shops of
the strangest appearance--furniture, old and new, was piled up together,
coats and cloaks hung out at the doors, watches and jewelry of a tawdry
description made a show in the windows, and men with keen black eyes
and hooked noses, and stooping backs which looked as if they had never
been erect in their lives, stood at the entrances, trying to attract the
attention of the passer-by. As Margaret looked at them, she thought of
the stories her mother had read to her of the ant-lion, stealthily
watching at the bottom of its funnel-shaped den for its prey, which the
deceitful sand brings within its reach, if once the victim comes to the
edge of the pit; and of the spider, so politely inviting the fly within
its parlo