The load of chips

"PLEASE, mum, daddy's dead, mammy's blind; will you give me a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread? 'Cause we're most starved, we is." Mrs. Irvington was just entering her own door, when she was accosted in this manner. The speaker was a boy apparently less than ten years of age, dressed in torn pants which had evidently belonged to a person much older than himself. These were rolled up at the bottom and fastened over the shoulder by one twine suspender. A loose jacket without means of fastening in front, and a worn, felt hat completed his attire. The lady gazed searchingly in his face, before she replied. He was neither thin nor pale; and she thought his tone had the heartless ring of a professed beggar. At last, she inquired: "Why do you beg when you seem well able to work and earn bread?" "I can't get work, mum," he answered with a whine. "I will give you work. At the end of an hour, you shall have some breakfast; and if you work well till night, I will give you a shilling." The boy did not look very much pleased with this flattering proposal, but did not know how to get off. So, he asked rather sullenly: "What kind of work is it?" "I will show you. Go to the lower door, and wait till I meet you." Back of the house there was a large yard paved with brick that had an opening upon a back street, and through this opening, a load of chips from the ship-yard had been tipped up. There they lay close to the back gate, and she wished to have them removed to the cellar while the dry weather continued. To this pile Mrs. Irvington introduced the young beggar, saying in a cheerful tone, "If you work smart, you can carry them in before night. I can assure you that bread which is earned by one's own labor is much sweeter than the bread of charity." Joseph Hickie, for that was the boy's name, stared at the pile of oak chips in dismay. Indeed, his distress was so apparent, that the lady was obliged to turn her face away to conceal a smile. "I don't think I can do it, mum," Jo complained, whining, "they are too big." "How old are you?" "I'm turned nine." "Well, I have a little son…