We
cannot say he thrived; but he would not die. So at two years
of age, his mother being lost sight of, and the weekly payment
having ceased, he was sent out in the street to "play," in
order to be run over. Even this expedient failed. The
youngest and the feeblest of the band of victims, Juggernaut
spared him to Moloch. All his companions were disposed of.
Three months' "play" in the streets got rid of this tender
company,--shoeless, half-naked, and uncombed,--whose age
varied from two to five years. Some were crushed, some were
lost, some caught cold and fevers, crept back to their garret
or their cellars, were dosed with Godfrey's cordial, and died
in peace. The nameless one would not disappear. He always
got out of the way of the carts and horses, and never lost his
own. They gave him no food: he foraged for himself, and
shared with the dogs the garbage of the streets. But still he
lived; stunted and pale, he defied even the fatal fever which
was the only habitant of his cellar that never quitted it.
And slumbering at night on a bed of mouldering straw, his only
protection against the plashy surface of his den, with a
dungheap at his head and a cesspool at his feet, he still
clung to the only roof which shielded him from the tempest.
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