CHAPTER EIGHT.
SHOCK'S BREAKFAST.
I lay as if fascinated for a minute or two, staring, and he stared at me.

Then without further hesitation I leaped out of bed and indignantly rushed to the window, but only on opening it to find him gone.
There was no mistake about it though, for the trellis was still quivering, and as I looked out it seemed to me that he must have dropped part of the way and darted round the house.
It was very early, but the sun was shining brightly over the dew-wet trees and plants, and a fresh, delicious scent came in at the open window.

My headache and giddiness had gone, taking with them my low-spirited feeling, and dressing quickly I thought I would have a run round the garden and a look at Shock before Old Brownsmith came down.
"I wonder where Shock sleeps and lives," I said to myself as I walked round peering about the place, finding the cart gone, for I had not heard the opening gate, and crushing and bumping of the wheels as it went out at midnight.
The great sheds and pits seemed to be empty, and as I went down one of the long paths the garden was quite deserted, the men and women not having come.
"They must be late," I thought, when I heard the old clock at Isleworth Church begin to strike, and listening I counted five.
It was an hour earlier than I thought for, and turning down a path to the left I walked towards a sort of toolshed right in the centre of the garden, and, to my surprise, saw that the little roughly-built chimney in one corner of the building was sending out a column of pale-blue smoke.
"I wonder who has lit a fire so early!" I said to myself, and walking slowly on I expected to see one of the garden women boiling her kettle and getting ready for her breakfast--some of the work-people I knew having their meals in the sheds.
I stopped short as I reached the door, for before a fire of wood and rubbish burnt down into embers, and sending out a pretty good heat, there knelt Shock; and as I had approached quietly he had not heard me.
I stared with wonder at him, and soon my wonder turned into disgust, for what he was doing seemed to be so cruel.
The fire was burning on a big slab of stone, and the embers being swept away from one part the boy had there about a score of large garden snails, which he was pushing on to the hot stone, where they hissed and sent out a lot of foam and steam.

Then he changed them about with a bit of stick into hotter or cooler parts, and all with his back half-turned to me.
"The nasty, cruel brute!" I said to myself, for it seemed as if he were doing this out of wantonness, and I was blaming myself for not interfering to save the poor things from their painful death, when a thought flashed across my mind, and I stood there silently watching him.
I had not long to watch for proof.
Taking a scrap of paper from his pocket, Shock opened it, and I saw what it contained.

Then taking a monstrous pin from out of the edge of his jacket, he picked up one of the snails with his left hand, used the pin cleverly, and dragged out one of the creatures from its shell, reduced to about half its original size, blew it, dipped it in the paper of salt, and, to my horror and disgust, ate it.
Before I had recovered from my surprise he had eaten another and another, and he was busy over the sixth when an ejaculation I uttered made him turn and see me.
He stared at me, pin in one hand, snail-shell in the other, for a moment in mute astonishment; then, turning more away from me, he went on with his repast, and began insultingly to throw the shells at me over his head.
I bore it all for a few minutes in silence; then, feeling qualmish at the half-savage boy's meal, I caught one of the shells as it came, and tossed it back with such good aim that it hit him a smart rap on the head.
He turned sharply round with a vicious look, and seemed as if about to fly at me.
"What are you doing ?" I cried.
He had never spoken to me before, and he seemed to hesitate now, staring at me as if reluctant to use his tongue, but he did speak in a quick angry way.
"Eatin'; can't you see ?" I had questioned him, but I was quite as much surprised at hearing an answer, as at the repast of which he was partaking.
I stared hard at him, and he gave me a sidelong look, after which he gave three or four of the snails a thrust with a bit of stick to where they would cook better, took up another, and wriggled it out with the pin.
I was disgusted and half nauseated, but I could not help noticing that the cooked snail did not smell badly, and that instead of being the wet, foaming, slimy thing I was accustomed to see, it looked dried up and firm.
At last, with a horrified look at the young savage, I exclaimed: "Do you know those are snails ?" "Yes.