There was a fire on the premises, and Joe did astonishing things. After
being rescued he walked calmly back, through sheets of fire, to fetch
the cash-box from the parlour. "Never afraid of anythin'--fire, water,
gunpowder, sword, arrows--nothin'! No fear. Always brave. Ho! Ho!
Brave's lion."
"Tell the genneman," shouted Mr. Wells, "what became of the shop."
"Ho, business failed," roars Joe. "Pastry-cook I was. Came
down--_smash_! Lost everythin'. Every penny! Ho! Ho! But what's odds?
Happy and jolly! Nothin' wrong. I'm a'right. What's odds?"
"Your old missus is dead, ain't she, Joe?" shouts Mr. Wells.
"Ess," answers Joe cheerfully. "Gone. Dead." He points towards the floor
with a twitching finger, and stabs downward. "Dead. Years ago. Gone."
"And what about your boy?" asks Mr. Wells.
"No good," roars Joe, in half a rage. "He's no good. No good 't all.
Brought him up like genneman. No good." He laughs again, shakes himself
in his chair, and strikes another match.
"He was selling things in the street when the clergyman found him," says
Mr. Wells behind his pipe. "Had a little tray strapped on to his
shoulders, and two sticks to keep him standing. Collar-studs, tie-clips,
bootlaces, matches--you know. You've often seen trays like that, I dare
say. Well, that was what Joe was doing when the clergyman found him.
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