



Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen




[Illustration: cover art]




HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE




[Illustration: "DICK HAD TO BE BUSY." _p_. 55.]




HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE

OR

"HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY."



BY MRS. C. E. BOWEN

_Authoress of "Jack the Conqueror," "How Paul's Penny became a
Pound," "How Peter's Pound became a Penny," "The Brook's Story,"
etc., etc._



_THIRD EDITION._



LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
9 PATERNOSTER ROW.




Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Ltd. Printers, London and Aylesbury.




  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER I. DICK AND THE APPLES

  CHAPTER II. DICK'S MISTAKE

  CHAPTER III. A NEW HOME

  CHAPTER IV. LIFE AT DENHAM COURT

  CHAPTER V. THE VISITOR AT THE LODGE

  CHAPTER VI. SIR JOHN'S PROPOSAL

  CHAPTER VII. RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL




  Illustrations

  "DICK HAD TO BE BUSY." _p_. 55
  "I WANT TO SPEAK A WORD TO YOU, MY MAN."
  "THERE, MY LAD, HOLD IT FIRMLY; THE HORSE IS QUIET ENOUGH."
  SUSAN AND DICK IN THE RAILWAY-CARRIAGE.
  THE MEETING OF MR WALTERS AND DICK.
  "HE RAISED HIS LANTERN AND LOOKED BEHIND A TIER OF SHELVES."




HOW A FARTHING MADE A FORTUNE;
OR, "HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY."



CHAPTER I.

DICK AND THE APPLES.


FEW children, if any, who read this tale will probably be able to
form any idea of such a wretched home as that in which lived little
Dick Nason, the ragman's son. There are houses and rooms in some of
the back streets in London where men, women, and children herd almost
like wild beasts--haunts of iniquity and misery, and where the name
of God is never heard except in the utterance of terrible oaths or
execrations. Such was Roan's Court, a place which gave the police
continual trouble, and many a hard blow in the execution of their
duty. The houses were let out in rooms, of which the upper ones were
the most healthy, as possessing a little more light and air than the
others; but the cellar floors were almost destitute of both these
common luxuries of life, being sunk considerably below the level of
the court, and the windows, consisting of four small panes of glass,
begrimed with dirt, or if broken, as was generally the case, stuffed
up with dirty rags or paper.

It was in one of these cellar rooms that Dick Nason had been born,
and in which he lived till he was twelve years old. _How_ he had
lived, _how_ he had been fed, and _how_ clothed, it would be
difficult to imagine. His mother had been a tidy sort of woman in her
younger days, gaining her living as a servant in the family of a
small tradesman. But she married a man who was not of sober habits,
and who in consequence lost all steady employment, and sank lower and
lower till he was reduced to the position of a ragman, going about to
collect clothes, bones, rabbit-skins, and such odds and ends as he
could scrape together from the servants. The trade was not an
unlucrative one on the whole, but Nason spent so much in drink, and
his wife having fallen into the same bad habit, kept so little of
what she could contrive to get from her husband for household
purposes, that they seldom sat down to a regular meal, but scrambled
on in a wretched way, becoming every year more degraded and more
confirmed in their habits of intemperance.

Such was the home in which little Dick was reared. Fortunately he was
the only child. His father took little notice of him. His mother was
not without affection for him, but it was constantly deadened by the
almost stupefied state in which she lived. The child seldom knew real
hunger, for there was generally something to be found in the
three-cornered cupboard to which he had free access, nor did he often
get the hard words and blows that are so apt to fall to the lot of
the unfortunate children of drinking parents. Neither Nason nor his
wife were ranked amongst the more brawling and disorderly inhabitants
of Roan's Court; though drink stupefied and rendered them helpless
and good-for-nothing often for days together, especially after Nason
had had a good haul into his big clothes-bag, and had turned its
contents into money. But as for the dirt, untidiness, and general
discomfort of their abode, they might have won the prize in this
respect had one been offered for the most wretched room.

Dick was a queer little figure to look at, though he had the
brightest face possible. He used to be clothed entirely out of his
father's rag-bag. Nason had three of these bags, which hung up on
three nails in their cellar room. One was blue, made of strong
material, for the reception of old garments; the second, of stout
canvas, was for rabbit-skins; and the third for bones. Out of the
blue bag used to come forth jackets, which were by no means worn out,
as well as jackets well patched and darned. The latter always fell to
Dick's share, as the better ones were more valuable to turn into
cash. As to the fit, that was considered to be utterly unimportant.
If only they were large enough for Dick to squeeze into them, or
small enough for him to be able to walk about in them, that was
deemed sufficient; so the little fellow would at one time be seen to
be almost bursting through his things from their tightness, and at
another he looked like a walking clothes-peg with his garments
hanging loosely upon him. But it was all the same to Dick, whether
they were tight or loose, and his bright eyes and curly head were
what people looked at most after all. Dick's life for the first few
years was a very free and easy one. He made dirt pies beautifully as
soon as he was able to walk, being instructed in that art by some
children a little older than himself who lived next door. Then came
the ball-playing age--for even the poorest youngsters contrive to get
balls somehow or other--and Dick had his to roll about long before he
knew how to play with it. A little later on his amusement was to
stroll about the streets, peep in at the shop windows, look longingly
at the tempting piles of oranges and lollipops on the stalls at the
corner of the street, and occasionally, but very rarely, produce a
halfpenny from his pocket with which to purchase a scrap of the said
lollipops, or one of the smallest and most sour of the oranges.

But the greatest delight of Dick's life was to go to Covent Garden
Market to look at the flowers, his love for which seemed born with
him in a remarkable degree. He was in a perfect ecstasy of delight
the first time he went there in company with some other children, who
like himself had nothing to do but to stroll about the streets. What
they looked at with indifference, Dick gazed upon with rapture, and
from that day he constantly found his way to the same spot, which was
at no great distance from Roan's Court. He was there so often that
his appearance became familiar to the stall-holders, and they
sometimes employed him in running errands or doing little jobs for
them, rewarding him with an apple or orange, or, if it were towards
the evening, perhaps a bunch of flowers that had begun to fade.
Nothing ever pleased him so much as to have them to take home; and
then he tenderly put them in a cracked mug on the window seat, where
he could see them as soon as he awoke in the morning. In after years
he used to say that his first idea of God was taken from those
flowers; that their beauty carried off his mind in wonder as to the
greatness of the Power that made them. The strange contrast between
them in all their loveliness and the dingy dirty room he lived in,
had doubtless much to do with the effect they produced on his mind.

Dick knew little about religion. Once or twice he had peeped into a
church when service was going on, but had not cared to stay long; not
at all understanding what he heard, and feeling rather alarmed at the
man in the black gown whom he saw sitting near the door to keep
order.

But though Dick was a stranger to both church and Sunday-school, an
instructor was raised up for him in a quarter no one would have
expected. Not far from Covent Garden, in a single room, lived an old
man named John Walters, who had a small pension from a gentleman
whose servant he had once been, and who increased his means by doing
a variety of jobs about the market, where he was quite an
institution. This old man loved his God and loved his Bible. He lived
quite alone. His wife had been dead some years, and the only child he
ever had, a boy, died of measles when he was about twelve years of
age.

Perhaps it was the remembrance of this boy made him notice little
Dick as he lingered day after day about the market; but he might
never have spoken to him had it not been for an incident which we
will relate.

One day as a woman from the country was beginning to put up her fruit
and vegetables, she tripped and upset her basket of apples, which
rolled away in every direction. Dick was standing near and helped to
pick them up. The woman was anxious to collect them all, for they
were a valuable sort of apple which sold for a good price for
dessert, and every one was precious. Several rolled away to a
distance and lodged under a heap of empty hampers. Dick ran amongst
the hampers and picked them up; as he did so he slipped three of them
into the capacious pockets of the very loose clothes he had on, which
had lately been produced from the blue bag and would have fitted a
boy nearly twice his size. There was an Eye above that saw him commit
this theft, that