hen they prepared to let the
boofer lady pass.

Chapter 10

SCOUTS OUT

'And so, Miss Wren,' said Mr Eugene Wrayburn, 'I cannot persuade you to
dress me a doll?'

'No,' replied Miss Wren snappishly; 'if you want one, go and buy one at
the shop.'

'And my charming young goddaughter,' said Mr Wrayburn plaintively, 'down
in Hertfordshire--'

('Humbugshire you mean, I think,' interposed Miss Wren.)

'--is to be put upon the cold footing of the general public, and is
to derive no advantage from my private acquaintance with the Court
Dressmaker?'

'If it's any advantage to your charming godchild--and oh, a precious
godfather she has got!'--replied Miss Wren, pricking at him in the air
with her needle, 'to be informed that the Court Dressmaker knows
your tricks and your manners, you may tell her so by post, with my
compliments.'

Miss Wren was busy at her work by candle-light, and Mr Wrayburn, half
amused and half vexed, and all idle and shiftless, stood by her bench
looking on. Miss Wren's troublesome child was in the corner in deep
disgrace, and exhibiting great wretchedness in the shivering stage of
prostration from drink.

'Ugh, you disgraceful boy!' exclaimed Miss Wren, attracted by the sound
of his chattering teeth, 'I wish they'd all drop down your throat and
play at dice in your stomach! Boh, wicked child! Bee-baa, black sheep!'

On her accompanying each of these reproaches with a threatening stamp of
the foot, the wretched creature protested with a whine.

'Pay five shillings for you indeed!' Miss Wren proceeded; 'how many
hours do you suppose it costs me to earn five shillings, you infamous
boy?--Don't cry like that, or I'll throw a doll at you. Pay five
shillings fine for you indeed. Fine in more ways than one, I think! I'd
give the dustman five shillings, to carry you off in the dust cart.'

'No, no,' pleaded the absurd creature. 'Please!'

'He's enough to break his mother's heart, is this boy,' said Miss Wren,
half appealing to Eugene. 'I wish I had never brought him up. He'd be
sharper than a serpent's tooth, if he wasn't as dull as ditch water.
Look at him. There's a pretty object for a parent's eyes!'

Assuredly, in his worse than swinish state (for swine at least fatten on
their guzzling, and make themselves good to eat), he was a pretty object
for any eyes.

'A muddling and a swipey old child,' said Miss Wren, rating him with
great severity, 'fit for nothing but to be preserved in