End o' last week they brought in a woman--dyin' she
was, an' in a dreadful state, an' talkin'. I ought to know, 'cos they
put her next bed to mine; s'pose they thought she'd be company. All o'
one night she never stopped talkin', callin' out for somebody she called
Arthur. 'Seemed as she couldn' die easy until she'd seen 'im. Next
day--that's yesterday--her mind was clearer, an' I arsked her who
Arthur was an' where he lived, if one had a mind to fetch 'im. I got
out of her that he was called Arthur Miles Surname Chandon, an' that he
lived at 'Oly Innercents. So this mornin', bein' allowed out, I went
down to the place an' arsked to see Arthur Miles Surname Chandon. First
thing I noticed was they didn' know he was called Chandon, for Glasson
took a piece o' paper an' wrote it down. I was afraid of Glasson, an'
pitched that yarn about an aunt o' mine, which was all kid. I never 'ad
no aunt."
"What's your name, by the way?"
"Tilda."
"Tilda what?"
"That's what they _all_ arsks," said Tilda wearily. "I dunno. If a
body _can't_ do without father an' mother, I'll make up a couple to
please you, same as I made up a aunt for Glasson. Maggs's Circus is
where I belong to, an' there 'twas Tilda, or 'The Child Acrobat' when
they billed me.
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