"
"Thank God in heaven, the child's alive!" cried the mother. "--You ain't
much hurt, are you, Moxy?"
"Rather, mother!"
By this time the steps of the policeman, to which the father had been
listening with more anxiety than to the words of wife or child, were
almost beyond hearing. Franks turned, and going down a few steps found
his child, where he half lay, half sat upon them. But when he lifted
him, he gave a low cry of pain. It was impossible to see where or how
much he was hurt. The father sat down and took him on his knees.
"You'd better come an' sit here, wife," he said in a low dull voice.
"There ain't no one a sittin' up for us. The b'y's a bit hurt, an' here
you'll be out o' the wind at least."
They all got as far down the stair as its room would permit--the elder
boys with their heads hardly below the level of the wind. But by and by
one of them crept down past his mother, feebly soothing the whimpering
baby, and began to feel what sort of a place they were in.
"Here's a door, father!" he said.
"Well, what o' that?" returned his father. "'Taint no door open to us or
the likes on us. There ain't no open door for the likes of us but the
door o' the grave.
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