I found the poor little fellow, looking very forlorn and dull, lying in a dark corner of a large chilly garret, which was evidently shared by two or three brothers.
Mrs.Bell, who had left her washing-tub to accompany me upstairs, stood drying her arms on her apron, and talking in a high-pitched querulous voice.

'No one can say I have not been unfortunate this year,' she grumbled.

'There's Bell, he gets worse and worse.

I fetched him myself out of the Man and Plough last Saturday night, where he was drinking the money that was to buy the children bread.

"Do you call yourself a man or a brute ?" I says, but in my opinions it's wronging the poor bruteses to compare them with such as him.