Two for Three Farthings Read Free

Johnny.
    Orrice managed some doleful sleep then.
    In the morning, Aunt Glad let the orphaned pair stay in bed for a bit while she got four of her offspring off to school. She said she thought Orrice and Effel needn’t go to school themselves, not when the funeral had only been yesterday.
    When they were up and eating breakfast porridge, Orrice asked if he and Effel could go home and collect some of their belongings. They hadn’t brought much with them yesterday. Aunt Glad was pleased to let them go. It was best for them to be out and doing something. Orrice said he and Effel would spend the day at home and come back in the evening. Aunt Glad said all right, be back by six and she’d have a meal ready for them. She made them sandwiches that they could eat at midday.
    On their way home, Orrice said to his forlorn sister, ‘We got to do some finkin’, sis. Well, yer see, I betcher it’s goin’ to be Orstralia or an orphanage. Aunt Glad and Uncle Perce ain’t goin’ to be able to ’ave us for long. Mind, it ain’t their fault, it’s just that they’re ’ard-up, an’ poor as well, yer see.’
    â€˜Ain’t goin’ to sleep in that bed no more,’ said Effel. ‘Want me own bed.’
    â€˜We’ll ’ave to run away,’ said Orrice, ‘it’s the best fing, Effel. We’ll find somewhere. I’ll do errands for people, an’ I bet I could ’elp stall’olders down the market. I bet Mum an’ Dad ‘ud like it better if we run away an’ did fings for ourselves, I bet they’d like it better than if we went to Orstralia or in an orphanage. If we was in an orphanage an’ Dad was alive, ’e’d come round an’ break the door down.’
    â€˜â€™E ain’t alive no more,’ said Effel, and tears welled.
    â€˜Don’t cry, sis,’ said Orrice, putting an arm around her, ‘we’ll run away, that’s best, don’t yer fink?’
    â€˜A’ right,’ said Effel.
    When they reached their house, they entered by pulling on the latchcord. The emptiness of the house was a melancholy thing to them. Without their brawny, outgoing mum, it was never going to be a home again.
    â€˜We best take some of Mum an’ Dad’s nice fings,’ said Orrice. ‘I mean, I betcher they’re ours, I betcher that’s what the law says.’
    â€˜What’s the law?’ asked Effel, as they stood in the kitchen.
    â€˜I dunno exactly, not exactly,’ said Orrice, ‘except it’s what the King says. An’ I betcher the King says Mum an’ Dad’s fings are ours. We’ll run away this afternoon, sis, and we’ll take the nicest fings wiv us. I’ll get a sack. We’ll take the alarm clock, Dad’s razor for when I grow up, Mum’s brooch for you, if it ain’t in pawn, the knives an’ forks wiv bone ’andles—’
    â€˜Knives an’ forks?’ said Effel, her interest mournful.
    â€˜Course knives an’ forks,’ said Orrice. ‘When we find somewhere, we got to eat, we got to cut some fings up, like bread. Yer got to fink about it, Effel, and about what yer want to put in the sack, and I best get another one for our clothes.’
    â€˜Ain’t got no clothes,’ said Effel.
    â€˜Course you ’ave, soppy.’
    â€˜Ain’t got nuffink much good,’ said Effel.
    â€˜Effel, anyfink you got is some good, you can’t walk about gettin’ all worn an’ ragged.’
    â€˜A’ right,’ said Effel. A little dry sob coughed itself into a sigh. ‘Orrice, is Mum an’ Dad up in ’eaven?’
    â€˜You bet,’ said Orrice loyally.
    â€˜Is Jesus lookin’ after them?’
    â€˜Course ’E is, that’s what ’E’s up there for.’
    â€˜I wish I was wiv ’em,’ said Effel.
    â€˜Don’t cry, sis,’ said Orrice, and put