# Her Benny/Chapter 1

HER BENNY.
CHAPTER I.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
Perhaps while in our glowing grate
The cheerful blaze is rising higher,
There's some one sitting desolate
Without a spark of fire.
Oh, what are we, that God hath blessed
Our winter homes and made them glad,
While other hearts ore sore distressed,
While other homes are sad?
t was getting dark, though the Town Hall clock had only just struck four. But a fog had hung all over Liverpool since morning, and everything was as damp and dismal as it well could be; and now, as evening came on, the fog had settled into a downright drizzle, converting the streets into what seemed to Nelly Bates (who was crouched in the shadow of St. George's Church) to be endless puddles.
​"I wish Benny would come," said she to herself. "I wonder what has kept him? He said he'd be here when the clock struck four."
And she wrapped her tattered clothes more closely around her, and looked eagerly down Lord Street and up and down Castle Street. But no Benny appeared in sight.
"I'm glad as how they's lightin' the lamps, anyhow. It'll make it feel a bit warmer, I reckon," she went on, "for it's terrible cold. But Benny won't be long now, nohow. I hope he's sold all his fusees."
And she looked wistfully at the unsold matches lying in her lap. Then, after a pause she went on again,
"I's had desp'rate bad luck to-day, I reckon the gen'lmen thinks it too much trouble to take off their gloves to get at the coppers. 1 wonder if they know what it is to be cold and hungry like me?"
And the child moved a little farther into the shadow of the church, to escape the keen cold blast that swept up from the river.
Little Nelly Bates was a delicate-looking child, with a pale, thoughtful face, and big, round, dreamy-looking eyes. She had none of that wolfish expression which so often characterizes the street Arabs of our large towns and cities; on the contrary, there was an air of refinement about her that was difficult to account for. Poor little waif! Her own mother she could not remember. She had only known a stepmother—a cruel, drunken woman; and, alas! her father was no better. Almost as soon as she could walk she had been sent into the streets with her brother Benny, who was a ​year older, to get her living as best she could. Never knowing a parent's love, the affections of these two children had gone out to each other. Each to each was more than all the world beside. At the time our story opens Nelly was nine years of age, and Benny, as we said, a year older.
Still the minutes dragged along, and Benny came not.
The 'busses were crowded with people outside and in, wrapped in huge warm overcoats, and all down Lord Street she watched the hurrying crowds bending their steps homewards. And she tried to picture their cheerful homes, with great blazing fires, and happy children running to greet them, and wondered how none of them ever paused to notice her, shivering there in the shadow of the church.
At length the great clocks all around began to strike five, and Benny had not come; and into the child's heart crept a feeling of unutterable loneliness, and she began to cry.
Besides, she was hungry and cold, and there was a great fear in her heart that something had befallen her brother. The last stroke of the Town Hall clock, however, had scarcely died away when she heard the patter of bare feet around the comer, and the next moment her brother, panting and breathless, stood before her.
"Oh, Nell!" he burst out, "I's just soft, I is. I's missed a hour in the time. I never did think I was such a fool. But can't be helped now, nohow."
"I was afraid you'd got hurt, Benny ; but I don't care now you're all right," said Nelly, looking proudly at the flushed face of her sturdy young brother. ​"Me hurt? Oh, never fear! I knows how to take care myself. But what luck, Nell?"
"Bad, Benny, very bad. Nobody wanted matches to-day."
For a moment Benny was silent, then he burst out,
"By golly, Nell! what's us to do? You know what the guv'nor said when we came away this morning?"
"Carry yer bag, Sir?" he said.
"Ay," said Nelly. "But 'ave you 'ad bad luck too?"
"Horful, Nell—simply horful!"
And for a moment the children looked at each other in blank dismay. Just then a gentleman was seen crossing the street carrying a portmanteau.
​"Here's a gent with a portmantle," whispered Benny to his sister. "I'll try my luck! Foller me, Nell, as quick as you can." And off he darted across the street.
"Carry yer bag, sir?" he said, stepping in front of the gentleman; and there was something very appealing in his tone as he spoke.
The gentleman looked kindly down into the two honest-looking eyes that flashed in the gaslight.
"What will you take the bag to the ferry for?" he inquired.
"For what you please to give," said Benny sturdily. "Times is bad at present, and little chaps like us is glad to *ave what we catches."
"Oh, that's it, is it? But I'm afraid this bag is too heavy for you."
"Oh, never fear," said Benny, as he got hold of the portmanteau. "I's 'mazing strong, and I ken carry this like winkin'." And he trotted down the street before the gentleman in a way that showed he was in earnest about the matter.
The gentleman looked after the little fellow with an amused smile, but volunteered no further remark.
Meanwhile little Nelly, who had become stiff and cramped with cold, followed at a little distance, taking care, however, that Benny did not get out of her sight. On reaching the bridge that led down to the landing-stage, Benny turned round, and, seeing his sister behind, shouted back,
"Stay here, Nell, till I come back—I'll be no time ​sca'ce." And down the bridge he trotted, evidently glad he was so near laying down his burden.
"Woodside boat, sir?" said he, turning round to the gentleman.
"Yes, my lad."
Evidently glad he was so near laying down his burden.
"Here we is, then, jist in time." And down the gangway he went at a sharp trot, and into the saloon, letting the bag down on one of the seats with a thump. "There you be, sir. Couldn't a-been sarved quicker by a bigger chap."
"All right, my little fellow," and he held out his hand.
​Benny's eyes gleamed as he caught sight of something white between the gentleman's finger and thumb.
"Be jabbers ! it's a thrip'ny," was his mental soliloquy, as he eagerly clutched the coin; and bowing his thanks as politely as he knew how, he dashed up the gangway with the fleetness of the wind, muttering to himself, "Shouldn't wonder if't was a fo'penny, arter all." Standing under a lamp, he took the coin out of his mouth and looked at it.
"Oh, glory!" he ejaculated; "if't ain't haaf a bob. Murder and turf! this are a catch ! *' And he turned two somersaults on the stage by way of expressing his delight, unfortunately, however, planting his foot in his second revolution in the stomach of a young gentleman who was hurrying down to catch the boat.
The gentleman soon recovered his sudden loss of wind, though the dirty footprint on his immaculate coat was not so easily removed.
"Beg pardon," said Benny, in a fright, and hurried away just in time to escape a vigorous kick aimed at him by the infuriated young gentleman. "My stars and stockings!" he soliloquized, as he hurried up the bridge to join his sister.
"If he 'ad a-catched me, I'd a-got a walloping, an' no mistake. Hullo, Nell! what's a matter?" he said, as he saw great tears on the cheeks of his little crouching sister.
"I's so cold, Benny — oh, so very cold!" sobbed the little girl.
"Never mind, Nelly, I'll soon get yer warmed up. Look here, I's got haaf a bob, and a good warming into ​the bargain. Now for a roast tater, my gal, and you'll feel as right as ninepence."
And, taking his sister by the hand, they harried away at a quick trot, lessening their pace only when they were quite out of breathy and Nelly declared she was quite warm.
"Here's the tater man," said Benny; "now for't, my gal. Pennorth o' taters—hot, plaise, an' a good sprinkle o' salt," said Benny, with quite an air of importance.
"All right, my young gent, 'ere you are;" and the man put three moderate-sized potatoes into Benny's outstretched palms.
"Now for old Joe's fire, Nell, where the roads is a-mend-in';" and once more they hurried away at the same quick trot.
In the next street they caught sight of the glowing grate of Joe Wragg, the night watchman, and of Joe himself, sitting in the doorway of his little wooden hut.
"You ax him, Nell," whispered Benny;" he winna say no to you."
"May we eat our taters by your fire, Joe?" said the plaintive voice of little Nelly, as she placed her tiny hand on the fence, on which a red light was burning.
"What dost 'a say, little woman?" said Joe, in a rough though not unkindly voice.
"May we eat our taters by your fire, please — Benny an' me?"
"Ay, ay, my little 'arties. Come along, I'll make room for 'e here;" and honest old Joe moved aside to make room for the little waifs who sought shelter from the biting cold.
​"By golly, Nell!" said Benny, as he felt the grateful warmth of the fire, and dug his teeth into the potato, "ain't this sumpshus?"
"Ay, Benny," was all the child's answer, as she greedily devoured the two potatoes that Benny had insisted was her share.
Joe moved aside to make room for the little waifs.
Then there was silence between them for awhile, and Joe went out and heaped more fuel on the grate, while Nelly kept her eyes steadily fixed on the fire. What did the child see as she gazed into its glowing depths? For ever and anon a sweet smile played around the corners of her month, and spread over her pale thoughtful face, lighting it up with ​a wonderful beauty, and smoothing out the lines of care that at other times were only too visible.
Meanwhile Benny was busily engaged counting his money. Fourpence he laid aside for the purpose of purchasing stock for the morrow's sale, a penny he had spent in potatoes, and still he had threepence to the good, besides the sixpence the gentleman gave him, which was clear profit. The six-pence was evidently a great prize to him, for he looked at it long and earnestly.
"Wish I could keep it for mysel'," he muttered; "but it's no go— the guv'nor will 'ave to 'ave it. But the coppers I'll keep 'ginst bad times. Here, Nell," he said, nudging his sister, "you keep these 'ere coppers; and then if the guv'nor axes me if I has any more, I can tell him no."
"All right, Benny." And again the great round eyes sought the glowing grate, and the sweet smile played over her face once more.
"What are 'e looking at, Nell?" said Benny, after a pause. "You look as 'appy as a dead duck in a saucepan."
" Oh, Benny, I see such beautiful pictures in the fire. Don't you 'members on fine days how we looks across the river, and sees the great hills 'way behind Birkenhead, such miles an' miles away?"
"Ay, I 'members. I'll take 'e across the river some day, Nell, when I's richer."
"Will 'e, Benny? I shall be so glad. But I sees great hills in the fire, an' trees, an' pools, an' little rivers, an' oh! such lots of purty things."
​"Queer!" said Benny. "I don't see nowt o' sort."
Then there was silence again, and Joe—who had been to see that the lamps at each end of the tom-up streets were all right—came up.
"How are 'e now, my 'arties ? Are 'e warmer'n you was ? "
"Ay, Joe, we's nice now,*' said Nelly; "an' we's much 'bliged to you for lettin' us come."
"Oh, ye're welcome. But ain't it time you was to home?"
"What's o'clock?" said Benny.
"Seven, all to a minit or so."
"Ay, then we must be off," said the children in chorus; and wishing Joe good night, they darted off into the wet, cold street, and disappeared in the gloom.
"Purty little hangel!" said Joe, as he stood looking up the street long after they had disappeared. "I wonder what will become o' her when she grows up?"