I
felt curious to see this "Old John," of whom I heard so much. We
went to the cottage where he lived. There was very little furniture
in the place, and, like the house itself, it was neither good nor
clean; but then the poverty-stricken pair were very old, and, so far
as household comfort went, they had to look after themselves. When
we entered, the little wrinkled woman sat with her back to us,
smoking, and gazing at the dirty grate, where a few hot cinders
glowed dimly in the lowmost bars. "Where's John?" said my friend.
"He hasn't bin gone eawt aboon five minutes," said she, turning
round to look at us, "Wur yo wantin' him?" "Yes, I should like to
see him." She looked hard at my friend again, and then cried out,
"Eh, is it yo? Come, an' sit yo deawn! aw'll go an' see iv aw can
root him up for yo!" But we thought it as well to visit some other
houses in the neighbourhood, calling at old John's again afterwards;
so we told the old woman, and came away.
My friend was well known to the poor people of that neighbourhood as
a member of the Relief Committee, and we had not gone many yards
down "Hardy Butts" before we drew near where three Irishwomen were
sitting upon the doorsteps of a miserable cottage, chattering, and
looking vacantly up and down the slutchy street.
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