 
the little fellow who worked all day long in the tumble-down old house by 
the river thames pasting oil-paper covers on boxes of blacking fell ill one 
afternoon. 
one of the workmen, a big man named bob fagin, made him lie down on a pile 
of straw in the corner and placed blacking bottles filled with hot water 
beside him to keep him warm. 
there he lay until it was time for the men to stop work, and then his 
friend fagin, looking down upon the small boy of twelve, asked if he felt able 
to go home. 
the boy got up looking so big-eyed, white-cheeked, and thin that the man 
put his arm about his shoulder. 
"never mind, bob; i think i"m all right now," said the boy. 
"don"t you wait for me; go on home." 
"you ain"t fit to go alone, charley. 
i"m comin" along with you."
""deed i am, bob. 
i"m feelin" as spry as a cricket." 
the little fellow threw back his shoulders and headed for the stairs. 
fagin, however, insisted on keeping him company; and so the two, the 
shabbily dressed undersized youth and the big strapping man, came out into the 
murky london twilight and took their way over the blackfriars bridge. 
"been spendin" your money at the pastry shops, charley, again? 
that's what was the matter with you, i take it." 
the boy shook his head. 
"no, bob. 
i"m trying to save. 
when i get my week's money, i put it away in a bureau drawer, wrapped in 
six little paper packages, with a day of the week on each one." 
