"Yes, I see it is. Never ... did ... I ... see ... anythink ... like him. I'll make the tea; the kettle's boiling."  The voice of Mother was the nearest thing to music the boy had ever heard. It was better even than that of the ladies who sang in the bar of the Wheat Sheaf, the Red Lion, and the Crown and Anchor, outside which places he had always stayed to listen when he could conveniently do so. This room was not in the least like the police station. And he was quite sure that the lady called Mother had nothing whatever to do with.... 

 "Set him a bit nearer to the fire, Job,"—yes, the voice was music—"and put this round him." 

 "This" was an old coat. 

 

 

 VI 

 "I'll give it him in a saucer," said Mother.  "It'll be cooler that way." 

 A saucer of tea was offered to the boy. 

 "Can you hold it, me lad?" 

 "Yes, lady," he said, faintly. 

 "Lap it up, then. Better let me try it first."  She sipped a little out of the saucer.  "Yes, that's right enough." 

 The tea was so perfectly delicious that he swallowed it at a gulp. Mother and the Foreman Shunter watched him with surprise. 

 "Now for a bite o' bread and butter," said Mother, sawing away at a quartern loaf. 

 The boy seized the bread and butter like a hungry dog. Mother and the Foreman Shunter stood looking at him with queer, rather startled faces. 

 "I never see the likes o' that, Job." 

 "No, never," said the Foreman Shunter, solemnly.  "Damn me." 

 "What's your name, boy?" 

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