question or two； and touching him； and examining his eyes。 “What
do you say； Harold？”
“You had better turn him out；” said Mr Skimpole。
“What do you mean？” inquired my Guardian； almost sternly。
“My dear Jarndyce；” said Mr Skimpole； “you know what I am： I
am a child。 Be cross to me； if I deserve it。 But I have a
constitutional objection to this sort of thing。 I always had； when I
was a medical man。 He’s not safe； you know。 There’s a very bad
sort of fever about him。”
Mr Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing…room
again； and said this in his airy way； seated on the music…stool as
we stood by。
“You’ll say it’s childish；” observed Mr Skimpole； looking gaily
at us。 “Well； I dare say it may be； but I am a child； and I never
pretend to be anything else。 If you put him out in the road； you
only put him where he was before。 He will be no worse off than he
was； you know。 Even make him better off； if you like。 Give him
sixpence； or five shillings； or five pound ten—you are
arithmeticians； and I am not—and get rid of him！”
“And what is he to do then？” asked my Guardian。
“Upon my life；” said Mr Skimpole； shrugging his shoulders with
his engaging smile； “I have not the least idea what he is to do then。
But I have no doubt he’ll do it。”
“Now； is it not a horrible reflection；” said my Guardian； to
whom I had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two
women； “is it not a horrible reflection；” walking up and down and
rumpling his hair； “that if this wretched creature were a convicted
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prisoner； his hospital would be wide open to him； and he would be
as well taken care of as any sick boy in the kingdom。”
“My dear Jarndyce；” returned Mr Skimpole； “you’ll pardon the
simplicity of the question； coming as it does from a creature who is
perfectly simple in worldly matters—but； why isn’t he a prisoner
then？”
My Guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical
mixture of amusement and indignation in his face。
“Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy； I
should imagine；” said Mr Skimpole； unabashed and candid。 “It
seems to me that it would be wiser； as well as in a certain kind of
way more respectable； if he showed some misdirected energy that
got him into prison。 There would be more of an adventurous spirit
in it； and consequently more of a certain sort of poetry。”
“I believe；” returned my Guardian； resuming his uneasy walk；
“that there is not such another child on earth as yourself。”
“Do you really？” said Mr Skimpole； “I dare say！ But； I confess I
don’t see why our young friend； in his degree； should not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him。 He is no doubt
born with an appetite—probably； when he is in a safer state of
health； he has an excellent appetite。 Very well。 At our young
friend’s natural dinner hour； most likely about noon； our young
friend says in effect to society； ‘I am hungry； will you have the
goodness to produce your spoon； and feed me？’ Society； which has
taken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of
spoons； and professes to have a spoon for our young friend； does
not produce that spoon； and our young friend； therefore； says ‘You
really must excuse me if I seize it。’ Now； this appears to me a case
of misdirected energy； which has a certain amount of reason in it；
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and a certain amount of romance； and I don’t know but what I
should be more interested in our young friend； as an illustration of
such a case； than merely as a poor vagabond—which any one can
be。”
“In the meantime；” I ventured to observe； “he is getting worse。”
“In the meantime；” said Mr Skimpole cheerfully； “as Miss
Summerson； with her practical good sense； observes； he is getting
worse。 Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he
gets still worse。”
The amiable face with which he said it； I think I shall never
forget。
“Of course； little woman；” observed my Guardian； turning to
me； “I can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely
going there to enforce it； though it’s a bad state of things when； in
his condition； that is necessary。 But it’s growing late； and is a very
bad night； and the boy is worn out already。 There is a bed in the
wholesome loft…room by the stable； we had better keep him there
till morning； when he can be wrapped up and removed。 We’ll do
that。”
“O！” said Mr Skimpole； with his hands upon the keys of the
piano； as we moved away。 “Are you going back to our young
friend？”
“Yes；” said my Guardian。
“How I envy you your constitution； Jarndyce！” returned Mr
Skimpole； with playful admiration。 “You don’t mind these things；
neither does Miss Summerson。 You are ready at all times to go
anywhere； and do anything。 Such is Will！ I have no Will at all—and
no Won’t—simply Can’t。”
“You can’t recommend anything for the boy； I suppose？” said
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my Guardian； looking back over his shoulder； half angrily； only
half angrily； for he never seemed to consider Mr Skimpole an
accountable being。
“My dear Jarndyce； I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in
his pocket； and it’s impossible for him to do better than take it。
You can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where
he sleeps； and to keep it moderately cool； and him moderately
warm。 But it’s mere impertinence in me to offer any
recommendation。 Miss Summerson has such a knowledge of detail
and such a capacity for the administration of detail； that she
knows all about it。”
We went back into the hall； and explained to Jo what we
proposed to do； which Charley explained to him again； and which
he received with the languid unconcern I had already noticed；
wearily looking on at what was done； as if it were for somebody
else。 The servants compassionating his miserable state； and being
very anxious to help； we soon got the loft…room ready； and some of
the men about the house carried him across the wet yard； well
wrapped up。 It was pleasant to observe how kind they were to
him； and how there appeared to be a general impression among
them that frequently calling him “Old Chap；” was likely to revive
his spirits。 Charley directed the operations； and went to and fro
between the loft…room and the house with such little stimulants
and comforts as we thought it safe to give him。 My Guardian
himself saw him before he was left for the night； and reported to
me； when he returned to the Growlery to write a letter on the
boy’s behalf； which a messenger was charged to deliver at daylight
in the morning； that he seemed easier； and inclined to sleep。 They
had fastened his door on the outside； he said； in case of his being
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delirious； but had so arranged that he could not make any noise
without being heard。
Ada being in our room with a cold； Mr Skimpole was left alone
all this time； and entertained himself by playing snatches of
pathetic airs； and sometimes singing to them （as we heard at a
distance） with great expression and feeling。 When we rejoined him
in the drawing…room he said he would give us a little ballad； which
had come into his head； “apropos of our young friend；” and he
sang one about a Peasant boy；
“Thrown on the wide world； doom’d to wander and roam；
Bereft of his parents； bereft of a home；”
quite exquisitely。 It was a song that always made him cry； he told
us。
He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening： “for he
absolutely chirped；” those were his delighted words； “when he
thought by what a happy talent for business he was surrounded。”
He gave us； in his glass of negus； “Better health to our young
friend！” and supposed； and gaily pursued； the case of his being
reserved like Whittington to become Lord Mayor of London。 In
that event； no doubt； he wo
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