Kitabı oku: «Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 2 of 3», sayfa 3
CHAPTER XIII.
CONCERNING SAL
And where had the woman gone? Westward, we are told by the poet, the course of empire takes its way. She had gone west, and very naturally; not at first, she was too artful for that – her old man, as she called him (she did not know his proper name), might be after her, and she had had enough of him, and wanted to be free. In this case she had not two strings to her bow. She was not thinking of accepting a new keeper in the case of the one cashiered. She simply wanted to be free – at any rate for awhile. As to the child left behind, she had no thought of that. Somebody would give it a crust and a night’s lodging. Then it would roam into the streets to be picked up by the police, and supported by the British taxpayer.
We are a very humane people. The more people neglect their offspring, the more ready are we to look after them. If Sal, as she was called, had been a true and tender-hearted woman, she would have dragged the little fellow out with her into the cold, raw night away from Sloville. He might have caught his death o’ cold, and then and there ceased to be a blessing to her or anybody else. As a waif off the streets he had a better chance of being clothed, and fed, and educated, and cared for, and planted out in life. It is thus we reward our rascals. It is thus we relieve fathers and mothers of their responsibility, do our duty, ease our consciences, and offer a premium to vice.
Finding the way clear, our Sal emerged from her hiding-place, and made her way, as much hidden as possible by the dark shades of lofty walls, towards Waterloo Bridge. She was a remarkable woman, was our Sal. Her father was an agricultural labourer, earning his ten or twelve shillings a week, and bringing up a numerous family on that exceedingly limited sum. At the National school she had learned, in a very imperfect way, to read and write, to do a little needlework, and to curtsey to her betters.
As she grew up, she displayed alike her good looks and good manners. As to morals, they were not to be expected of a girl who lived in a cottage with but one sleeping room for the entire family, and whose good looks exposed her to the bucolic amativeness of the Bœotians of the district. All her ambition was to go to London in service in a superior family. She had known girls leave that district and come back real ladies, though they were as low down in the world as herself. One of the girls, a little older than herself, had gone to London, and turned gay; and what was the result? That she was living with the son of a lord, and she and all the other girls, who soon learned the story, were quite eager to be off to win, if possible, a similar prize.
Surely that was better than hard work, or remaining satisfied with the station in which God had placed them, as they were told every Sunday they ought to be – if that only meant marriage with Hodge, and the workhouse when she and Hodge would be past work. It was all very well to be called a good girl by the Rector’s wife, to be confirmed, whatever that might mean, as a matter of course, by the Bishop, to sing in the parochial choir, and once a year to be admitted to the privileges of the Sunday-school treat; but that did not buy her a new bonnet, or prevent her wearing her old clothes, or save her from doing a lot of drudgery at times when she preferred romping in the hayfields with Farmer Giles’s sons, strapping young fellows, just as rustic and as ignorant as herself.
A time came when she went out to service at a country house just by. A London lady of fashion saw her, was attracted by her appearance, and got her to come to town. The illustrious aristocrat she married was taken with the kitchen wench, as her ladyship indignantly termed her, and then there was a row, and the poor girl was ignominiously discharged to hide her head where she could, and to give birth to an illegitimate child. That aristocratic admirer was Sir Watkin Strahan.
Everyone heard the story of Sal’s disgrace in her native village, and she dared not return thither. She had to hide herself in London where she could, and to live as best she could, all the while cherishing a fearful revenge against the gay Baronet.
Her aristocratic seducer sent her fifty pounds, with an intimation that in that quarter she was to look for no more, and that she must do the best she could for herself. With that money, later on, she married a Sloville inhabitant, who soon died and left her destitute.
Naturally, in her fallen state, she took to drink, and she drank till her good looks were gone – till she was a bundle of filthy rags, till she had lost alike all decency and sense of shame. It was nothing new to her to prowl about London by night when honesty and respectability had gone to bed. She rather liked the excitement of that kind of life.
On she went beneath the lamps and the stars, past gin palaces, where fair young girls were learning to fall as completely and rapidly as herself; past cadgers and tramps, like herself on the look-out for what chance might send in their way; past old criminals, training young ones in the same dreary and joyless round. She saw what we all of us see if we walk out of a night, the drunken harlot run in by the police, who stand in admiration as her more fortunate and equally sinning sister drives by in her brougham. She saw ragged, distress, imperiously bidden to be off, whilst wealthy rascality, in pomp and majesty, was drawn in a carriage and pair with fine flunkies behind. She peered into club windows, where rich sinners quaff rich wine in warmth and comfort, while their victims walk the streets in sorrow and despair.
She stood on Waterloo Bridge – that bridge of sighs – where many a poor girl has leaped
‘Mad with life’s history,
Glad to death’s mystery,
Swift to be hurled
Anywhere – anywhere
Out of the world.’
And she felt half inclined to climb over and do the same herself, only the water looked so black and cold, and she put off her half-formed purpose for another day. Perhaps, also, she was too old for that sort of thing. She should have taken the false leap when she was gay and good-looking. Then the papers would have made London ring with her story, and the low pictorial pennies would have made her the subject of a sensational sketch.
As she was, alas! prematurely old, and wrinkled, and gray, no one would take any notice of her; it was hardly worth while attempting to drown herself, she thought. She might as well live on, she could not well be worse off; and then she sat herself down in the arch and fell asleep, dreaming of – But who can tell the grotesque misery of a tramp’s dream?
Suddenly she was awoke by the policeman’s grasp.
‘Well, old ’oman,’ said he, ‘you’ve been having a nice time of it here.’
‘And why not?’ said she, waking up to a sense of her condition. ‘Why not? What’s the harm of sleeping out here? I arn’t kicking up a row – I arn’t creating a disturbance – I arn’t screaming “Perlice!” am I? I arn’t in no ways disrespectful or aggravatin’ – why can’t you let me be?’
‘’Cause it is agin the perlice regulations,’ was the reply.
‘The perlice regulations, what are they?’
‘Why, that you must not stop here, and it is as much as my place is worth to let you.’
‘Oh, p’liceman, don’t be hard on a poor old woman that’s enjoying the hevening hair!’
‘No, I can’t,’ said he. ‘I am going over the bridge. When I come back, don’t let me find you here. You’ve had a nice little nap. You must be as fresh as a daisy now.’
‘Perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not,’ said the poor woman, as she renewed her aimless walk.
In a few minutes she was in the Strand, just as the theatres were emptied of admiring crowds. Of course the poor woman knew all about such matters. Many a time in the pride of youth had she spent an evening in the pit. Many a time, at a later period, she had sold lucifer matches at the pit doors, and many were the coppers she had earned thereby.
She liked to see the bright lamps, and the swells, and the women, as well as anyone else. The sight, she said, did her old eyes good. That night the crowd had been unusually large. The last theatrical star, as she learned from the bills, Miss Kate Howard, had been performing, and all the world and his wife had come there to see.
‘Lor’ bless me!’ said Sal to herself, ‘I’ll go to the stage-door at the back. I’ve seen a good many of these women in my time. I’d like to see what this one is like. I suppose she is like all the rest of ’em, as fine as paint and fine feathers can make ’em, but not of much account, neither. Many of ’em ain’t much better than me, after all.’
She turned up a side-street, hurried down another, and soon was at the stage-door.
A brougham was drawn up before it; on the box a page was seated. As she looked, her first impulse was to scream out his name. It was her Sloville boy, looking clean and respectable.
‘Wait a bit, Sally,’ she said to herself. ‘This is a serious business. It ought to be made to pay. Oh, my fine young gentleman belongs to the popular actress. Ah, if I can come the broken-hearted mother dodge it ought to bring me a fiver.’
Presently there was a rustle under the stage-door, and a pressure of the crowd without. The actress appeared wrapped up and well attended. As she leaped into the brougham she told the driver to make the best of his way home.
‘Gad! I know that voice,’ said a gentleman in the crowd. ‘It is that girl Rose; good heavens! where’s her home? Oh, there you are, Harry,’ said he, speaking to the manager as he stood at the door watching the brougham as it drove away. ‘You’ve done it to-night, you have! Where on earth does that woman live?’
‘Well, Sir Watkin, I can tell you, but it is no good. She lives with her mother.’
‘And is married?’ he eagerly exclaimed.
‘Yes, to be sure. No, not married, but just about to be so.’
‘Then, I am after her!’ he exclaimed. ‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’
‘It is a wild goose-chase, Sir Watkin;’ but Sir Watkin was off in a hansom, nevertheless, not before, however, our Sal had made an effort to secure him, which effort he impatiently evaded, bidding her ‘go to the d-’ and not bother him.
‘You nearly had him then, old girl,’ said a ragged bystander, in a voice perfectly familiar to her ear. It was the tramp’s chum from Mint Street.
‘You here?’ said she, in a tone which did not express delight. ‘I thought yer was as tight as my old man.’
‘Not exactly; as soon as I missed you I thought I’d see that you did not come to harm.’
‘Thank you for nothin’,’ said the woman angrily.
‘Now, don’t be angry,’ he said, with a good-natured smile, ‘now I’ve come. I wants to do yer a good turn. That old tramp will be cotched to-morrow as sure as eggs is eggs, and I thought I’d better tell ye to keep out of the way.’
‘Out of the way; wot do you mean? Do you think I’ve been up to anything?’
‘No, of course not,’ said the chum in a mocking tone; ‘but appearances ain’t promising, and that is all I’ve got to say. You’d better work yer way along with me to-night.’
‘Where to?’
‘Down Drury Lane way; it ain’t safe to be in the Boro’.’
‘But lor, bless me, how you’ve altered!’ said Sal. ‘You had a couple of arms; wot have you done with one?’
‘Oh, it is buttoned down by my side.’
‘And your boots, where are they?’
‘Hid away in my clothes. Ain’t it a capital dodge? I gets lots of coppers when I thus go out cadging. I was goin’ to perform on the bridge, when I saw you walk past, and then I followed. I ain’t made much money to-night. Perhaps we’d better go home.’
‘You’re very kind, but I think I shall stop here.’
‘No you won’t,’ said the man.
He had watched the woman, and he had come to the conclusion that something was up. He had seen how she gazed at the lad on the box; how her face betrayed emotion at the sight of the actress; how she had endeavoured to speak to a swell as he was talking to the manager at the stage-door, and he had rapidly formed a conclusion in his own mind that Sal somehow or other had connections which might, in due time, be made subservient to his own interest. He was a sneak and a cur, but he had a plausible way of talking and a certain amount of cunning which he had always turned to excellent account. It was with gratification, then, that he found the woman was half persuaded to listen to his proposals. Alas! there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip. As they stood arguing the matter, a cab dashed up against them, and when he came to his senses he found his Sal, as he called her, had been taken to the accident ward of the nearest hospital.
‘That’s just like my ill-luck,’ said he, with an angry oath, as he turned away in search of cheap lodgings for what was left of the night.
Happily it did not much matter to him if he went to bed late. He was under no necessity to rise early the next morning. The tramp in old times led a merry life. In London, at the present time, he certainly leads an idle one.
Let us follow our Sal to the hospital, one of those noble institutions which are the glory and pride of London, the money to support which had been left long ago by pious founders, and which have been the means of saving many a life, of setting many a broken limb, and of curing many a foul disease. Under its august wall and in its studious cloisters many generations of medical students had been trained up for a profession which has done much to make life worth living, to stay the advance of disease, to battle with grim death. Gibbon tells us the world is more ready to honour its destroyers than its saviours. The taunt is too true. When it ceases to be that, the medical profession will receive its due homage and reward. The courage of the medical man is quite equal to that of the hero on the battle-field. His ardour in the pursuit of his vocation is greater, and the good he does, what tongue can adequately tell? in generosity, in readiness to relieve human suffering, where is the equal of the medical man? The more illustrious he is, the more ready he is to give of his time and money to the poor. There is no truer Samaritan than a medical man.
The hospital was over London Bridge, as the tourist who rushes to Brighton is well aware. It stands a lasting monument to the charitable London publisher known as Guy. It covers a considerable extent of ground, and consists of several buildings more or less detached. Little of the original building remains, as, like the British Constitution, it has grown considerably beyond the general design.
Thomas Guy, Alderman of the City of London, and M.P. for Taunton, who made his fortune by a printing contract, by buying sailors’ tickets, and by South Sea speculations, was little aware of what London would become in the Victorian era, or of the enormous amount of suffering and disease that would be reached and alleviated by the hospital of which he was the original founder.
As you enter you have little idea of its extent. On each side are the residences of officers and medical men. Then you go under a porch, where students have their letters addressed them, and look into a spacious quadrangle, lined with wards, which were part of the original building. Further on are newer buildings and museums, fitted up for the use of students, and in every way skilfully planned for the accommodation of patients. On one side is a theatre for surgical operations, a dead-house for post-mortem examinations, and a little green, on which in fine weather patients are permitted to take a little exercise, and to congratulate each other on the fact that this time they have given the old gentleman, who is always drawn with a scythe and an hour-glass, the slip. Further beyond are the gates which admit the enormous mass of out-patients, who, alas! most of them require what not even Guy’s can give them – fresh air, good food, and a little more cash than they can manage to secure by their daily labour. It is rather a melancholy place to visit. Looking up at the long windows all round you, you can’t help thinking what human suffering lies concealed behind them, and misery defying alike the aid of doctor or nurse or chaplain. Science may do, and does do, all it can to make the place healthful. Thoughtful consideration may line the walls with pictures, and make the old wards gay with summer flowers, and the nurse may be the kindest and tenderest of her sex to whom we instinctively turn when in pain, and suffering for relief; but, nevertheless, you feel in a hospital as if you were in a city of the dying and the dead.
Our Sal was at once carried to the accident ward, and taken care of by tender nurses and watchful surgeons. No bones were broken, but she was very much bruised, and the recovery, if she did recover, it was clear would be long and tedious. The chances were very much against her. Drink and evil living had wrecked her stamina in spite of the fine constitution which she had received from her parents and her early country life. Fever set in, and it seemed as if the poor woman would have sunk. She was often delirious, and her mind wandered.
‘There’s something that keeps her back,’ said her attendant guardian. ‘She has either committed some crime she wants to confess, or she has some secret of which she would fain get rid,’ and the physician was right.
CHAPTER XIV.
AN ENCOUNTER
One morning, shortly after the events described in the previous chapter, all England was startled by the intelligence that the Ministry had been beaten, that the leader of the Liberal Party had resigned, and that the free and independent were to be called on to exercise their privileges by returning members to Parliament likely to serve them well, and to promote the honour of the country, and the best interests of the community at large. I write this last sentence with peculiar pleasure. It sounds nice and pleasant. The fact is, I fear, the free and independent electors, as a rule, take little interest in politics. The working man is, as he has every right to be, suspicious of both parties alike, and especially of his oratorical brother of his own class, who comes to him with a pocket well lined as the result of his professional talk.
Liberal and Conservative clubs and newspapers were much excited. According to them never had there been such tremendous interests at stake. They, the enlightened, were to rally round the altar and the throne, both in danger, said the latter, while the former called on the intelligent manhood of the country to take one more step in the paths of progress and reform, and by that step to secure for ever the triumphs our forefathers had won for us with their blood.
Never were there such tremendous gatherings at Sloville. The Liberal leaders had held an open air meeting, which was the grandest thing of the kind ever known, but it was surpassed by an artfully got up demonstration by the Tories, accompanied by popular sports and cakes and ale. The one drawback to the success of the Liberal Party was that they had been in office for half a dozen years, and had disgusted all their friends, and had given the enemy occasion to blaspheme by their utter inability to pass any good measures, by their irresolute policy on foreign matters, by their extravagant expenditure at home, by their complete abandonment of their old battle-cry of ‘peace, retrenchment, and reform.’ Trade also was bad, and that did not mend matters. People are always discontented when times are bad. That is always the fault of the Government for the time being. It is generally assumed also that they are, to a certain extent, responsible for the weather. There had been a great deal of wet, and that the farmers attributed to the Radical element.
Farmers are naturally averse to Radicals. The Radical naturally thinks the farmers fools, because they are averse to change, and prefer to vote for their landlords to strangers sent down to agitate the country, who did not own an acre of land in it, who resided chiefly in our great cities, and who had little sympathy with agriculturists or agriculture in any shape.
The farmers are not quite such fools as the town radicals are apt to fancy. Most of them had good landlords, and few of them were averse to the Church, and it was pretty clear to the agricultural mind that whilst the big loaf, like the celebrated Pickwick pen, was a boon and a blessing to men, it was a grievous loss to themselves; much more so than was anticipated by the learned, who assured the farmers that it was impossible to flood the market with American wheat under fifty shillings the quarter. At Sloville also the brewers were afraid of the Liberal Party, who seemed much inclined to shut up the public-houses or, at any rate, to worry the trade. They struck up an alliance with the Church, and that alliance between the friends of the Bible and beer threatened serious danger to Liberals at Sloville as well as elsewhere.
It was clear that the battle to be fought was a very severe one; that a good deal of money would have to be spent on both sides; a great many windy orations made, and a good deal of the trickery usual at election time would have to be resorted to. The theory of representative institutions is beautiful. Nothing sounds finer than an appeal to the country. It is a grand thing for the rulers of the people to have to come to them at times, and ask for a renewal of their confidence, and a new lease of political power. It presumes that the public take an interest in public questions, that they are educated and intelligent; that they know their duty, and are prepared to discharge it; that they are above all paltry and personal considerations; that they only care for the public good. It assumes also that the candidates are men of intelligence and patriotism – not merely wealthy nobodies anxious for the social distinction of a seat in Parliament; or barristers in search of office; or aristocratic hangers-on, hoping, by means of Parliamentary influence, to secure an honourable position in one or other of the services: diplomatic, or naval, or military.
For a long time Sloville had rejoiced in an independent Radical as a representative, and yet Sloville was hard up. It is true that he had feathered his own nest by securing for his son a good Government appointment, but that had been no benefit to Sloville. He had also offended his constituents by the paltry way in which he subscribed to the local charities and local amusements. He was believed to be niggardly. It was known that he dealt at the Civil Service Stores. It was clear that no Sloville tradesman would vote for him. He had declined to pay the expenses of local Liberals, and in disgust they had hawked about the borough to anyone who would come down handsomely on their behalf. The managers of the party were in despair. Happily Sir Watkin Strahan offered them his services. He had property in the borough. His family were always good to the poor, and as a racing and betting man he was popular with the sporting fraternity. Sir Watkin was accepted as a matter of course.
A day or two after the dissolution of Parliament had been announced, as Wentworth was breakfasting in his solitary chambers in Clifford’s Inn, slowly reading the morning papers, and meditating out of what material he could make best a leader, he heard a rap at the door. Opening it, a stranger met his view – tall, aristocratic, well dressed, in the prime of life, with the air and appearance of a gentleman.
‘You’re Mr. Wentworth, I believe,’ he said.
‘That’s my name, sir.’
‘I am Sir Watkin Strahan,’ was the reply, as he handed his card to Wentworth.
‘Pray walk in, Sir Watkin.’
Sir Watkin complied with the request.
Taking a chair, and lighting a cigar offered him by Wentworth, who did the same, the stranger continued:
‘I am commissioned to call on you by Mr. Blank,’ naming the proprietor of a morning journal with which Mr. Wentworth was connected. ‘The fact is, we are on the eve of a General Election.’
‘I am perfectly aware of that,’ said Wentworth, smiling.
‘Undoubtedly; and I come to solicit your aid.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘Why, the fact is, I am anxious for a seat in Parliament.’
‘For what purpose: public or private?’
‘Why, Mr. Wentworth, how can you ask? I am a Liberal.’
‘And, then, are all Liberals public spirited, and not averse to feathering their own nest when they have a chance?’
‘Well, you know,’ replied the Baronet, ‘our party always aim at the public good.’
‘Yes; but professions and practice don’t always harmonize. Sometimes private interest draws one way, and public duty points another.’
Sir Watkin coloured. He had consented to fight Sloville in the Liberal interest, but he had made a bargain on the subject with his party, and Wentworth’s casual remark had gone home.
Wentworth continued:
‘In what way can I help you, Sir Watkin?’
‘Mr. Blank tells me that you know something of Sloville.’
‘Very little, indeed. I was there a short while some years ago. That is all. I doubt whether I can do you any good there.’
‘Oh yes, you can. I recollect hearing you speak on the night of the Chartist meeting, and upon my word you spoke out well. There are many who still remember that speech.’
‘Yes; but it did not gain me many friends.’
‘Well, it was talked about for a good while after.’
‘Do you want me to repeat it?’
‘Not exactly, but I am not much of a speaker myself, and I want a clever man like yourself to be by my side, and speak now and then on my behalf. Of course I should be prepared to pay handsomely for such assistance.’
‘I am much obliged for the offer. Of course I feel complimented by it,’ said Wentworth; ‘but I fear that sort of thing is not much in my line. Indeed, I hear so much oratory that I am sick of it, and have come to regard an orator as a personal enemy, who really desires to do me wrong. In the heat of the moment an orator is apt to forget himself, to fling charges against his opponents which he cannot justify, and make promises to the people which he cannot perform. I fear a good deal of humbug goes on when there is much oratory, and that a man who gets into a habit of public speaking later on becomes a humbug himself. At any rate, I know this is true of some of our London popular orators. You may be better in the country. It is to be hoped you are.’
‘As to oratory, we are very badly off. And that is the real reason,’ said Sir Watkin, ‘why I came to you. I am not, as I have said, much of a speaker myself. Whereas my Conservative opponent is a clever barrister, with a tremendous gift of gab.’
‘Yes, that is it. You ought to go to a barrister and take him down with you. So long as a barrister is well paid he is ready to speak on any side.’
‘But there are difficulties which I fear will prevent my doing that. I want a novelty – a newspaper man, in fact. Lawyers have such a professional style of talking. They deceive no one; no one believes them. If a lawyer ever does by accident make a good speech it carries no weight with it. It is expected as a matter of course. If a lawyer can’t talk we don’t think much of him or his law, and then there is another reason.’
‘What is that?’ said Wentworth, lazily puffing his cigar.
‘Lawyers ain’t popular at Sloville with the Radicals. They say that our present law is a disgrace to the country, and that as long as we fill the House with lawyers, we shall never get a proper measure of law reform. In our town the people are very much opposed to lawyers and parsons.’
‘Very wrong of them,’ said Wentworth ironically.
‘Very wrong, indeed,’ replied the Baronet; ‘but we must take people as we find them, and act accordingly. It is no use sending down a lawyer to fight for me. The people would not go to hear him. Their last representative won by the aid of a lawyer, and they won’t stand another.’
‘But, then, in London there are no end of men who pass themselves off as working-men politicians, though it is precious little work they do. I believe they are to be had at a very moderate figure, and they can do the roaring part of the business first-rate. They are always trotted out when the Liberals want to get up a grand demonstration, more especially when the Conservatives are in place and power. Had not you better take one or two of them down with you? They’ll be sure to fetch the rest.’
‘Alas, I’ve tried them,’ said the Baronet, ‘and I found they were of no use. As soon as they had fingered a fiver or two they began to give themselves such airs. I could not get on with them at all, and after all,’ said the speaker, looking down complacently at his well-dressed figure, ‘people prefer a gentleman.’
‘Perhaps so; but real gentlemen are scarce nowadays,’ said Wentworth. ‘Where is the real gentleman now, brave, truthful, unsullied, with hands and heart clean, without fear or reproach? In political life, at any rate, he seems to me almost as extinct as the dodo.’
Wentworth was getting on dangerous ground. He had a faint suspicion that his visitor was not one of this class. The visitor felt it himself, and was getting rather uncomfortable in consequence. He had come on business to hire a speaker, and to pay him for his services, and to be helped in other ways. Fellows who wrote in newspapers had, he knew, many ways of obliging a friend. It was important to him to get into Parliament. If he carried Sloville he conferred a favour on Ministers, who would reward him in due time with a comfortable office, where the pay was heavy and the burden light, and just at that time money was an object to our Baronet, who as a gambler and man of the world managed to get rid of a good deal of it in the course of a year. At any rate he rather liked the look of M.P. after his name, and M.P. he was determined to be. All his life he had lived in excitement, and now he had reached an age when the excitement of politics in lieu of wine or women or horse-racing or gambling had special charms.
‘You see,’ he remarked, ‘we are an old family in the neighbourhood, and we have a certain amount of legitimate influence which will certainly be in my favour.’
He might have added that in the day of rotten boroughs it was as proprietor of Sloville, and as in that capacity a useful servant of the Government, that the first baronet of the family had been adorned with his hereditary rank. A Royal Duke had been guilty of gross misconduct – a slight indiscretion it was termed by his friends. The matter was brought before Parliament, and a vote by no means complimentary to H.R.H. – either as regards morals, or manners, or understanding – would have been carried, had not the Strahan of that day saved the Government by his casting vote. Government was grateful, and so was Strahan – in the sense of further favours to come.
