Kitabı oku: «Charlie to the Rescue», sayfa 18

“La! sir—a little boy?”

“No, Mrs Butt, a—”

“Surely not a little gurl, sir,” said the landlady, with a sympathetic expression.

“It is of no consequence what or who the runaway relation is, Mrs Butt; I merely mention the fact in order that you may understand the reason of any little eccentricity you may notice in my conduct, and not perplex your mind about it. For instance, I shall have no regular hours—may be out late or early—it may be even all night. You will give me a pass-key, and I will let myself in. The only thing I will probably ask for will be a cup of tea or coffee. Pray let me have one about an hour hence. I’m going out at present. Here is a week’s rent in advance.”

“Shall I put on a fire, sir?” asked Mrs Butt.

“Well, yes—you may.”

“Toast, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” said Charlie, opening the outer door.

“’Ot or cold, sir?”

“’Ot, and buttered,” cried Charlie, with a laugh, as he shut the door after him and rendered further communication impossible.

Wending his way through the poor streets in the midst of which his lodging was situated, our hero at last found an old-clothes store, which he entered.

“I want a suit of old clothes,” he said to the owner, a Jew, who came forward.

The Jew smiled, spread out his hands after the manner of a Frenchman, and said, “My shop, sir, is at your disposal.”

After careful inspection Charlie selected a fustian coat of extremely ragged appearance, with trousers to match, also a sealskin vest of a mangy complexion, likewise a soiled and battered billycock hat so shockingly bad that it was difficult to imagine it to have ever had better days at all.

“Are they clean?” he asked.

“Bin baked and fumigated, sir,” answered the Jew solemnly.

As the look and smell of the garments gave some countenance to the truth of this statement, Charlie paid the price demanded, had them wrapped up in a green cotton handkerchief, and carried them off.

Arrived at his lodging he let himself in, entered his room, and threw the bundle in a corner. Then he rang for tea.

It was growing dark by that time, but a yellow-cotton blind shut out the prospect, and a cheery fire in the grate lighted up the little room brightly, casting a rich glow on the yellow-white table-cloth, which had been already spread, and creating a feeling of coziness in powerful contrast to the sensation of dreariness which had assailed him on his first entrance. When Mrs Butt had placed a paraffin lamp on the table, with a dark-brown teapot, a thick glass sugar-bowl, a cream-jug to match, and a plate of thick-buttered toast that scented the atmosphere deliciously, our hero thought—not for the first time in his life—that wealth was a delusion, besides being a snare.

“‘One wants but little here below,’” he mused, as he glanced round the apartment; “but he wants it longer than that,” thought he, as his eyes wandered to the ancient sofa, which was obviously eighteen inches too short for him.

“I ’ope you’ve found ’im, sir,” said Mrs Butt anxiously, as she was about to retire.

“Found who?”

“Your relation, sir; the little boy—I mean gurl.”

“No, I have found neither the boy nor the girl,” returned the lodger sharply. “Haven’t even begun to look for them yet.”

“Oh! beg parding, sir, I didn’t know there was two of ’em.”

“Neither are there. There’s only one. Fetch me some hot water, Mrs Butt, your tea is too good. I never take it strong.”

The landlady retired, and, on returning with the water, found her lodger so deep in a newspaper that she did not venture to interrupt him.

Tea over, Charlie locked his door and clothed himself in his late purchase, which fitted him fairly well, considering that he had measured it only by eye. Putting on the billycock, and tying the green cotton kerchief loosely round his neck to hide his shirt, he stepped in front of the looking-glass above the mantelpiece.

At sight of himself he was prepared to be amused, but he had not expected to be shocked! Yet shocked he certainly was, for the transformation was so complete that it suddenly revealed to him something of the depth of degradation to which he might fall—to which many a man as good as himself, if not better, had fallen. Then amusement rose within him, for he was the very beau-ideal of a typical burglar, or a prize-fighter: big, square-shouldered, deep-chested, large-chinned. The only parts that did not quite correspond to the type were his straight, well-formed nose and his clear blue eyes, but these defects were put right by slightly drooping his eyelids, pushing his billycock a little back on his head, and drawing a lock of hair in a drunken fashion over his forehead.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him. Slipping his latchkey into his pocket he went out of the house and closed the door softly. Then he rang the bell.

“Is the gen’leman at ’ome?” he asked of Mrs Butt, in a gruff, hoarse voice, as if still engaged in a struggle with a bad cold.

“What gentleman?” asked Mrs Butt eyeing him suspiciously.

“W’y, the gen’leman as sent for me to give ’im boxin’ lessons—Buck or Book, or some sitch name.”

“Brooke, you mean,” said Mrs Butt still suspicious, and interposing her solid person in the doorway.

“Ay, that’s the cove—the gen’leman I mean came here this arternoon to lodge wi’ a Missis Butt or Brute, or suthin’ o’ that sort—air you Mrs Brute?”

“Certainly not,” answered the landlady, with indignation; “but I’m Mrs Butt.”

“Well, it’s all the same. I ax yer parding for the mistake, but there’s sitch a mixin’ up o’ Brutes an’ Brookes, an’ Butts an’ Bucks, that it comes hard o’ a man o’ no edication to speak of to take it all in. This gen’leman, Mr Brute, ’e said if ’e was hout w’en I called I was to wait, an’ say you was to make tea for two, an’ ’ave it laid in the bedroom as ’e’d require the parlour for the mill.”

The man’s evident knowledge of her lodger’s affairs, and his gross stupidity, disarmed Mrs Butt. She would have laughed at his last speech if it had not been for the astounding conclusion. Tea in the bedroom and a mill in the parlour the first night was a degree of eccentricity she had not even conceived of.

“Come in, then, young man,” she said, making way. “You’ll find Mr Brooke in the parlour at his tea.”

The prize-fighter stepped quickly along the dark passage into the parlour, and while the somewhat sluggish Mrs Butt was closing the door she overheard her lodger exclaim—

“Ha! Jem Mace, this is good of you—very good of you—to come so promptly. Mrs Butt,” shouting at the parlour door, “another cup and plate for Mr Mace, and—and bring the ham!”

“The ’am!” repeated Mrs Butt softly to herself, as she gazed in perplexity round her little kitchen, “did ’e order a ’am?”

Unable to solve the riddle she gave it up and carried in the cup and saucer and plate.

“I beg your parding, sir, you mentioned a ’am,” she began, but stopped abruptly on seeing no one there but the prize-fighter standing before the fire in a free-and-easy manner with his hands in his breeches pockets.

The light of the street-lamps had very imperfectly revealed the person of Jem Mace. Now that Mrs Butt saw him slouching in all his native hideousness against her mantelpiece in the full blaze of a paraffin lamp, she inwardly congratulated herself that Mr Brooke was such a big strong man—almost a match, she thought, for Mace!

“I thought you said the gen’leman was in the parlour, Mrs Brute?” said Mace inquiringly.

“So ’e—was,” answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room; “didn’t I ’ear ’im a-shakin’ ’ands wi’ you, an’ a-shoutin’ for ’am?”

“Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you ’eard; all I know is that I’ve not seed ’im yet.”

“’E must be in the bedroom,” said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look.

“No ’e ain’t there,” returned the prize-fighter; “I’ve bin all over it—looked under the bed, into the cupboard, through the key’ole;—p’r’aps,” he added, turning quickly, “’e may be up the chimbly!”

The expression on poor Mrs Butt’s face now alarmed Charlie, who instantly doffed his billycock and resumed his natural voice and manner.

“Forgive me, Mrs Butt, if I have been somewhat reckless,” he said, “in testing my disguise on you. I really had no intention till a few minutes ago of playing such a practical—”

“Well, well, Mr Brooke,” broke in the amazed yet amiable creature at this point, “I do assure you as I’d never ’ave know’d you from the worst character in W’itechapel. I wouldn’t have trusted you—not with a sixpence. You was born to be a play-actor, sir! I declare that Jem Mace have given me a turn that— But why disguise yourself in this way, Mr Brooke?”

“Because I am going to haunt the low lodging-houses, Mrs Butt and I could not well do that, you know, in the character of a gentleman; and as you have taken it so amiably I’m glad I tried my hand here first, for it will make me feel much more at ease.”

“And well it may, sir. I only ’ope it won’t get you into trouble, for if the p’leece go lookin’ for a burglar, or murderer, or desprit ruffian, where you ’appen to be, they’re sure to run you in. The only think I would point out, sir, if I may be so free, is that your ’ands an’ face is too clean.”

“That is easily remedied,” said Charlie, with a laugh, as he stooped and rubbed his hands among the ashes; then, taking a piece of cinder, he made sundry marks on his countenance therewith, which, when judiciously touched in with a little water and some ashes, converted our hero into as thorough a scoundrel as ever walked the streets of London at unseasonable hours of night.

Chapter Thirty One.
Failure and a New Scent

Although our hero’s plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic, there was nothing further from his thoughts than merely playing at the game of amateur detective. Being enthusiastic and sanguine, besides being spurred on by an intense desire to rescue the father of May Leather, Charlie Brooke was thoroughly in earnest in his plan. He knew that it would be useless to attempt such a search and rescue in any other capacity than that of a genuine pauper, at least in appearance and action. He therefore resolved to conduct the search in character, and to plunge at once into the deepest pools of the slums.

It is not our intention to carry the reader through the Arabian-night-like adventures which he experienced in his quest. Suffice it to say that he did not find the lost man in the pools in which he fished for him, but he ultimately, after many weeks, found one who led him to the goal he aimed at.

Meanwhile there were revealed to him numerous phases of life—or, rather, of living death—in the slums of the great city which caused him many a heartache at the time, and led him ever afterwards to consider with anxious pity the condition of the poor, the so-called lost and lapsed, the depraved, degraded, and unfortunate. Of course he found—as so many had found before him—that the demon Drink was at the bottom of most of the misery he witnessed, but he also learned that whereas many weak and vicious natures dated the commencement of their final descent and fall from the time when they began to drink, many of the strong and ferocious spirits had begun a life of wickedness in early youth, and only added drink in after years as a little additional fuel to the already roaring flame of sin.

It is well known that men of all stamps and creeds and classes are to be found in the low lodging-houses of all great cities. At first Charlie did not take note of this, being too earnestly engaged in the search for his friend, and anxious to avoid drawing attention on himself; but as he grew familiar with these scenes of misery and destitution he gradually began to be interested in the affairs of other people, and, as he was eminently sympathetic, he became the confidant of several paupers, young and old. A few tried to draw him out, but he quietly checked their curiosity without giving offence.

It may be remarked here that he at once dropped the style of talk which he had adopted when representing Jem Mace, because he found so many in the lodging-houses who had fallen from a good position in society that grammatical language was by no means singular. His size and strength also saved him from much annoyance, for the roughs, who might otherwise have bullied him, felt that it would be wise to leave him alone.

On one occasion, however, his pacific principles were severely tested as well as his manhood, and as this led to important results we must recount the incident.

There was a little lame, elderly man, who was a habitual visitor at one of the houses which our hero frequented. He was a humorous character, who made light of his troubles, and was a general favourite. Charlie had felt interested in the man, and in ordinary circumstances would have inquired into his history, but, as we have said, he laid some restraint on his natural tendency to inquire and sympathise. As it was, however, he showed his goodwill by many little acts of kindness—such as making way for Zook—so he was called—when he wanted to get to the general fire to boil his tea or coffee; giving him a portion of his own food on the half pretence that he had eaten as much as he wanted, etcetera.

There was another habitué of the same lodging, named Stoker, whose temperament was the very opposite to that of little Zook. He was a huge, burly dock labourer; an ex-prize-fighter and a disturber of the peace wherever he went. Between Stoker and Zook there was nothing in common save their poverty, and the former had taken a strong dislike to the latter, presumably on the ground of Zook’s superiority in everything except bulk of frame. Charlie had come into slight collision with Stoker on Zook’s account more than once, and had tried to make peace between them, but Stoker was essentially a bully; he would listen to no advice, and had more than once told the would-be peacemaker to mind his own business.

One evening, towards the close of our hero’s search among the lodging-houses, little Zook entered the kitchen of the establishment, tea-pot and penny loaf in hand. He hastened towards the roaring fire that might have roasted a whole sheep, and which served to warm the entire basement storey, or kitchen, of the tenement.

“Here, Zook,” said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he was seated taking his supper, “I’ve bought more than I can eat, as usual! I’ve got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help me?”

“It’s all fish that comes to my net, Charlie,” said the little man, skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful but exaggerated bow.

We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality, the best possible alias.

A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud, angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of peace-disturber. Presently a cry of “shame” was heard, and poor Zook was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding.

“Who cried shame?” demanded the bully, looking fiercely round.

“I did not,” said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, “for I did not know it was you who knocked him down, but I do cry shame on you now, for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without provocation, I warrant.”

“An’ pray who are you?” returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to be witheringly sarcastic.

“I am one who likes fair play,” said Charlie, restraining his anger, for he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, “and if you call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won’t worry him any more, and I’m sure he’ll forgive you!”

“Hear! hear!” cried several of the on-lookers.

“Perhaps I may forgive ’im,” said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he wiped his bleeding nose— “I’d do a’most anything to please Charlie!”

This was received with a general laugh, but Stoker did not laugh; he turned on our hero with a look of mingled pity and contempt.

“No, Mister Charlie,” he said, “I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’d tell a big lie if I did, and I’ll worry him just as much as I please. But I’ll tell ’e what I’ll do. If you show yourself as ready wi’ your bunches o’ fives as you are wi’ yer tongue, and agree to fight me, I’ll say to Zook that I’m sorry and won’t worry ’im any more.”

There was dead silence for a minute after the delivery of this challenge, and much curiosity was exhibited as to how it would be taken. Charlie cast down his eyes in perplexity. Like many big and strong men he was averse to use his superior physical powers in fighting. Besides this, he had been trained by his mother to regard it as more noble to suffer than to avenge insults, and there is no doubt that if the bully’s insult had affected only himself he would have avoided him, if possible, rather than come into conflict. Having been trained, also, to let Scripture furnish him with rules for action, his mind irresistibly recalled the turning of the “other cheek” to the smiter, but the fact that he was at that moment acting in defence of another, not of himself, prevented that from relieving him. Suddenly—like the lightning flash—there arose to him the words, “Smite a scorner and the simple will beware!” Indeed, all that we have mentioned, and much more, passed through his troubled brain with the speed of light. Lifting his eyes calmly to the face of his opponent he said— “I accept your challenge.”

“No, no, Charlie!” cried the alarmed Zook, in a remonstrative tone, “you’ll do nothing of the sort. The man’s a old prize-fighter! You haven’t a chance. Why, I’ll fight him myself rather than let you do it.”

And with that the little man began to square up and twirl his fists and skip about in front of the bully in spite of his lameness—but took good care to keep well out of his reach.

“It’s a bargain, then,” said Charlie, holding out his hand.

“Done!” answered the bully, grasping it.

“Well, then, the sooner we settle this business the better,” continued Charlie. “Where shall it come off?”

“Prize-fightin’s agin the law,” suggested an old pauper, who seemed to fear they were about to set to in the kitchen.

“So it is, old man,” said Charlie, “and I would be the last to engage in such a thing, but this is not a prize-fight, for there’s no prize. It’s simply a fight in defence of weakness against brute strength and tyranny.”

There were only a few of the usual inhabitants of the kitchen present at the time, for it was yet early in the evening. This was lucky, as it permitted of the fight being gone about quietly.

In the upper part of the building there was an empty room of considerable size which had been used as a furniture store, and happened at that time to have been cleared out, with the view of adding it to the lodging. There, it was arranged, the event should come off, and to this apartment proceeded all the inhabitants of the kitchen who were interested in the matter. A good many, however, remained behind—some because they did not like fights, some because they did not believe that the parties were in earnest, others because they were too much taken up with and oppressed by their own sorrows, and a few because, being what is called fuddled, they did not understand or care anything about the matter at all. Thus it came to pass that all the proceedings were quiet and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police.

Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring. Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt—an old striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments.

“I’m not a professional,” he said, as he stepped forward; “you’ve no objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?”

“None whatever,” replied Stoker, with a patronising air; “p’r’aps it may be as well for fear you should kitch cold.”

Charlie smiled, and held out his hand— “You see,” he said, “that at least I understand the civilities of the ring.”

There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and stood on guard.

“I am quite willing even yet,” said Charlie, while in this attitude, “to settle this matter without fighting if you’ll only agree to leave Zook alone in future.”

This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker, who replied with a thundering, “No!” and at the same moment made a savage blow at Charlie’s face.

Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his opponent’s nose.

“Hah! a hammytoor!” exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.

Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the degradation of his position—a feeling which neither his disreputable appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce.

But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce. Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive, and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing before him quite cool, and with the grim look intensified.

“If you will have it—take it!” he exclaimed, and shot forth a blow which one of the juvenile bystanders described as a “stinger on the beak!”

The owner of the beak felt it so keenly, that he lost temper and made another savage assault, which was met in much the same way, with this difference, that his opponent delivered several more stingers on the unfortunate beak, which after that would have been more correctly described as a bulb.

Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the “hammytoor” stood up before him, smiling more grimly than ever—panting a little, it is true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with great care although he had received some rather severe body blows.

Seeing this, Stoker descended to mean practices, and in his next assault attempted, and with partial success, to hit below the belt. This roused a spirit of indignation in Charlie, which gave strength to his arm and vigour to his action. The next time Stoker paused for breath, Charlie—as the juvenile bystander remarked—“went for him,” planted a blow under each eye, a third on his forehead, and a fourth on his chest with such astounding rapidity and force that the man was driven up against the wall with a crash that shook the whole edifice.

Stoker dropped and remained still. There were no seconds, no sponges or calling of time at that encounter. It was altogether an informal episode, and when Charlie saw his antagonist drop, he kneeled down beside him with a feeling of anxiety lest he had killed him.

“My poor man,” he said, “are you much hurt?”

“Oh! you’ve no need to fear for me,” said Stoker recovering himself a little, and sitting up—“but I throw up the sponge. Stoker’s day is over w’en ’e’s knocked out o’ time by a hammytoor, and Zook is free to bile ’is pot unmorlested in futur’.”

“Come, it was worth a fight to bring you to that state of mind, my man,” said Charlie, laughing. “Here, two of you, help to take him down and wash the blood off him; and I say, youngster,” he added, pulling out his purse and handing a sovereign to the juvenile bystander already mentioned, “go out and buy sausages for the whole company.”

The boy stared at the coin in his hand in mute surprise, while the rest of the ring looked at each other with various expressions, for Charlie, in the rebound of feeling caused by his opponent’s sudden recovery and submission, had totally forgotten his rôle and was ordering the people about like one accustomed to command.

As part of the orders were of such a satisfactory nature, the people did not object, and, to the everlasting honour of the juvenile bystander who resisted the temptation to bolt with the gold, a splendid supper of pork sausages was smoking on the various tables of the kitchen of that establishment in less than an hour thereafter.

When the late hours of night had arrived, and most of the paupers were asleep in their poor beds, dreaming, perchance, of “better days” when pork-sausages were not so tremendous a treat, little Zook went to the table at which Charlie sat. He was staring at a newspaper, but in reality was thinking about his vain search, and beginning, if truth must be told, to feel discouraged.

“Charlie,” said Zook, sitting down beside his champion, “or p’r’aps I should say Mister Charlie, the game’s up wi’ you, whatever it was.”

“What d’you mean, Zook?”

“Well, I just mean that it’s o’ no manner o’ use your tryin’ to sail any longer under false colours in this here establishment.”

“I must still ask you to explain yourself,” said Charlie, with a puzzled look.

“Well, you know,” continued the little man, with a deprecatory glance, “w’en a man in ragged clo’se orders people here about as if ’e was the commander-in-chief o’ the British Army, an’ flings yellow boys about as if ’e was chancellor o’ the checkers, an orders sassengers offhand for all ’ands, ’e may be a gentleman—wery likely ’e is,—but ’e ain’t a redooced one, such as slopes into lodgin’-’ouse kitchens. W’atever little game may ’ave brought you ’ere, sir, it ain’t poverty—an’ nobody will be fool enough in this ’ouse to believe it is.”

“You are right, Zook. I’m sorry I forgot myself,” returned Charlie, with a sigh. “After all, it does not matter much, for I fear my little game—as you call it—was nearly played out, and it does not seem as if I were going to win.”

Charlie clasped his hands on the table before him, and looked at the newspaper somewhat disconsolately.

“It’s bin all along o’ takin’ up my cause,” said the little man, with something like a whimper in his voice. “You’ve bin wery kind to me, sir, an’ I’d give a lot, if I ’ad it, an’ would go a long way if I wasn’t lame, to ’elp you.”

Charlie looked steadily in the honest, pale, careworn face of his companion for a few seconds without speaking. Poverty, it is said, brings together strange bed-fellows. Not less, perhaps, does it lead to unlikely confidants. Under a sudden impulse our hero revealed to poor Zook the cause of his being there—concealing nothing except names.

“You’ll ’scuse me, sir,” said the little man, after the narrative was finished, “but I think you’ve gone on summat of a wild-goose chase, for your man may never have come so low as to seek shelter in sitch places.”

“Possibly, Zook; but he was penniless, and this, or the work-house, seemed to me the natural place to look for him in.”

“’Ave you bin to the work-’ouses, sir?”

“Yes—at least to all in this neighbourhood.”

“What! in that toggery?” asked the little man, with a grin.

“Not exactly, Zook, I can change my shell like the hermit crabs.”

“Well, sir, it’s my opinion that you may go on till doomsday on this scent an’ find nuthin’; but there’s a old ’ooman as I knows on that might be able to ’elp you. Mind I don’t say she could, but she might. Moreover, if she can she will.”

“How?” asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little friend.

“Why, this way. She’s a good old soul who lost ’er ’usband an’ ’er son—if I ain’t mistaken—through drink, an’ ever since, she ’as devoted ’erself body an’ soul to save men an’ women from drink. She attends temperance meetin’s an’ takes people there—a’most drags ’em in by the scruff o’ the neck. She keeps ’er eyes open, like a weasel, an’ w’enever she sees a chance o’ what she calls pluckin’ a brand out o’ the fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin’ ’er fingers. Sometimes she gits one an’ another to submit to her treatment, an’ then she locks ’em up in ’er ’ouse—though it ain’t a big un—an’ treats ’em, as she calls it. She’s got one there now, it’s my belief, though w’ether it’s a he or a she I can’t tell. Now, she may ’ave seen your friend goin’ about—if ’e stayed long in Whitechapel.”

“It may be so,” returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first blush of it seem very brilliant. “When could I see this old woman?”

“First thing to-morror arter breakfast, sir.”

“Very well; then you’ll come and breakfast with me at eight?”

“I will, sir, with all the pleasure in life. In this ’ere ’ouse, sir, or in a resterang?”

“Neither. In my lodgings, Zook.”

Having given his address to the little man, Charlie bade him good-night and retired to his pauper-bed for the last time.