tting no
farther than the first letter of an oath of irritation at the accident.
"What boy's this?" he cried out, with an earnestness nothing visible
warranted.

"Lard's mercy, Mr. Wix!" exclaimed the mistress of the house, turning
round from the compounding of the half-and-half. "What a turn you giv'!
And along of nothing but little Micky from Mrs. Treadwell next door!
Which most, Micky? Ale or stout?"

"Most of whichever costis most," answered Michael, with simplicity.
Thereon he felt himself taken by the arm, and turning, saw the man's
face looking close at him. It was the sort of face that makes the end of
a dream a discomfort to the awakener.

"Now, you young beggar!--_where_ have you seen me afore? I ain't going
to hurt you. You tell up straight and tell the truth."

"Not onlest you leave hold of my arm!"

"You do like he says, Mr. Wix.... Now you tell Mr. Wix, Micky. _He_
won't hurt you." Thus Miss Julia, procuring liberty for the hand to
receive the half-and-half she was balancing its foam on.

Michael rubbed the arm with his free hand as he took the brown
jug, to express resentment in moderation. But he answered his
questioner:--"Round in Sappses Court beyont the Dials acrost Oxford
Street keepin' to your left off Tottenham Court Road. You come to see
for a widder, and there warn't no widder for yer. Mean to say there
was?"

"Where I sent you, Mr. Wix," said Miss Julia. "To Sapps Court, where
Mrs. Treadwell directed me--where her nephew lives. That's this boy's
father. You'll find that right."

"Your Mrs. Treadmill, _she's_ all right. Sapps Court's all right of
itself. But it ain't the Court I was tracking out. If it was, they'd
have known the name of Daverill. Why--the place ain't no bigger than a
prison yard! About the length of down your back-garden to the water's
edge. It's the wrong Court, and there you have it in a word. She's in
Capps Court or Gapps Court--some * * * of a Court or other--not Sapps."
A metaphor has to be omitted here, as it might give offence. It was not
really a well-chosen or appropriate one, and is no loss to the text.
"What's this boy's name, and no lies?" he added after muttering to
himself on the same lines volcanically.

"How often do you want to be told _that_, Mr. Wix? This boy's Micky
Rackstraw, lives with his grandmother next door.... Well--her sister
then! It's all as one. Ain't you, Micky?"

"Ah! Don't live there, though. Comes easy-like, now and again. Like the