''Someone gave it to me.'' ''I don''t believe you. Give me my jacket.'' ''In a minute.'' ''Give me my coat!''
We were walking on London Bridge. ''Shut up,'' I said, ''or I''ll throw it over the side.—That''s better. Now, tell me this: can you
write?''
He would not answer until I had gone to the wall of the bridge and dangled his jacket over; then he began to cry again, but said that he could. ''Good boy,'' I said. I made him walk a little further, until we found a man hawking papers and inks. I bought a plain white sheet, and a pencil; and I took Charles back to our room and had him sit and write out a letter. I stood with my hand on the back of his neck, and watched.
''Write, Mrs Sucksby,'' I said.
He said, ''How do you spell it?''
''Don''t you know?''
He frowned, then wrote. It looked all right to me. I said,
''Now you write this. Write: / was put in the madhouse by that villain your friend—so called!—Gentleman—''
''You are going too fast,'' he said, as he wrote. He tilted his head. ''By that villain your friend—''
''—so called!—Gentleman; and that bitch Maud Lilly.—You must make those names stand out.''
The pencil moved on, then stopped. He blushed.
''I won''t write that word,'' he said.
''What word?''
''That B-word.''