"Charterhouse School," he says. But Mr.
Wells nudges us with his pipe hand. "That's a mistake," he says. "There
wasn't never no _school_ in Charterhouse Square, in those days. But
never mind; let him go on. Only you must make allowance, you know."
His father was a carman who could drink porter by the two-gallon, and
had an arm like a leg of mutton. But this great, lusty carman found
himself ruled with a rod of iron by the little spitfire he took for his
second wife. She managed the carman, and she managed his brats of
children. She particularly managed Joe because he particularly disliked
being managed.
* * * * *
So it came about that Joe found the streets pleasanter than his home,
and took to slouching about with his hands in his pockets, feeling
hungry and sometimes a little concerned, perhaps, as to what was to
become of him. One day, as he was wasting time at a street-corner in
Aldersgate, there came up to him a broad-shouldered, sandy-haired man in
a blue reefer suit, who showed all his teeth when he smiled and whose
voice had a sharp rattle in it like a bag full of gold coins. This
noticeable man hailed Joe as a fine fellow, and asked the fine fellow
whether he wouldn't step with him into a convenient tavern and wet his
whistle with a glass of the best brandy.
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