And after a time he would put some clumsy questions to his mother.
"Mother," he would say, "if it's good to work, why doesn't every one work ?" His mother would look up at him and answer, "It's good for the likes of us." He would meditate, "_Why_ ?" And going unanswered, "What's work _for_, mother?
Why do I cut chalk and you wash clothes, day after day, while Lady Wondershoot goes about in her carriage, mother, and travels off to those beautiful foreign countries you and I mustn't see, mother ?" "She's a lady," said Mrs.Caddles.
"Oh," said young Caddles, and meditated profoundly.
"If there wasn't gentlefolks to make work for us to do," said Mrs.
Caddles, "how should we poor people get a living ?" This had to be digested.
"Mother," he tried again; "if there wasn't any gentlefolks, wouldn't things belong to people like me and you, and if they did--" "Lord sakes and _drat_ the Boy!" Mrs.Caddles would say--she had with the help of a good memory become quite a florid and vigorous individuality since Mrs.Skinner died.

"Since your poor dear grandma was took, there's no abiding you.

Don't you arst no questions and you won't be told no lies.

If once I was to start out answerin' you _serious_, y'r father 'd 'ave to go' and arst some one else for 'is supper--let alone finishing the washin'." "All right, mother," he would say, after a wondering stare at her.

"I didn't mean to worry." And he would go on thinking.
V.
He was thinking too four years after, when the Vicar, now no longer ripe but over-ripe, saw him for the last time of all.