No one showed any great mercy; it was simply the usual way things were done in British parishes—save wherever possible.
Lewis was housed in a small loft at the back of the printing press. Each day, he was responsible for moving paper and washing the printing molds, his fingers cut so many times he couldn't remember, but he dared not complain then because there were three other children younger than him in the loft who didn't even have beds, only burlap sacks to sleep on.
No one cared about their names, nor did anyone remember where they came from, as if they were just some stray cats thrown into the city, whether they lived or died didn't matter.
Then, when he was twelve, the printing press closed down.
The owner fled with money before creditors came calling, and the children were driven out onto the street.
At that time, Lewis had only half a penny in his pocket.
What could you do with half a penny?
You couldn't buy a hot meal, nor could you afford a bed.
