I have before mentioned old Nanny, who kept a marine store, and to whom I used to sell whatever I picked up on the beach.  She was a strange old woman, and appeared to know everything that was going on.  How she gained her information I cannot tell.  She was very miserly in general; but it was said she had done kind things in one or two instances.  Nobody knew her history:  all that anybody knew was that she was Old Nanny.  She had no kith or kin that she ever mentioned; some people said she was rich, if the truth were known; but how are we to get at the truth in this world?

I was soon at old Nanny’s store, with the piece of rope coiled over my arm.

“Well, Jack, what have you got here? a piece of good junk? no, it is not, for it is quite rotten.  Why do you bring me such things?  What can I do with them?”

“Why, mother,” says I, “it’s new rope; not been used hardly; it’s the very best of junk.”

“Boy, boy! do you pretend to teach me?  Well, what do you want for it?”

“I want a shilling,” replied I.

“A shilling!” cried she, “where am I to find a shilling?  And if I could find one, why should I throw it away upon a thing not worth twopence, and which will only lumber my store till I die?  The boy’s demented!”

“Mother,” says I, “it’s worth a shilling, and you know it; so give it to me, or I go elsewhere.”

“And where will you go to, good-for-nothing that you are? where will you go to?”

“Oh! the fishermen will give me more.”

“The fishermen will give you a couple of stale flat-fish, to take home to your mother.”

“Well, I’ll try that,” said I, going.

“Not so fast, Jack, not so fast; if I make a penny by you one day, I suppose, to keep your custom, I must lose something by you the next.  Now, I’ll give you sixpence; and how I’m to get my money back I don’t know.”

“No, Nanny,” said I, “I must have a shilling.”

“A shilling, you little cheat!  I can’t give it; but what do you want? don’t you want a key to your chest, or something of that sort?”

“I’ve no chest, mother, and therefore don’t want a key.”

“But you want something out of all the pretty things in my shop; boys always fancy something.”

I laughed at the idea of “pretty things” in her shop, for it contained nothing but old iron, empty bottles, dirty rags and phials; so I told her there was nothing that I wanted.

“Well,” says she, “sit down a little, and look about you; there’s no hurry.  So Mrs. East has got another boy, worse luck for the parish, with six children already!—­Look about you, and take your time.—­Did you hear of Peter James giving his wife a black eye last night because she wanted to get him out of the alehouse?—­I wonder who that letter was from that Susan Davis had from the post-office.  I think I could guess; poor girl! she has looked rather peaking for some weeks.—­Don’t