Kitabı oku: «My Doggie and I», sayfa 6
Chapter Ten
A Disappointment, an Accident, and a Perplexing Return
But the trip to York produced no fruit! Some of the tradespeople did, indeed, remember old Mrs Willis and her granddaughter, but had neither seen nor heard of them since they left. They knew very little about them personally, and nothing whatever of their previous history, as they had stayed only a short time in the town, and had been remarkably shy and uncommunicative—the result, it was thought, of their having “come down” in life.
Much disappointed, Slidder and I returned to London.
“It is fortunate that we did not tell granny the object of our trip, so that she will be spared the disappointment that we have met with,” said I, as the train neared the metropolis.
My companion made no reply; he had evidently taken the matter much to heart.
We were passing rapidly through the gradually thickening groups of streets and houses which besprinkle the circumference of the great city, and sat gazing contemplatively on back yards, chimney cans, unfinished suburban residences, pieces of waste ground, back windows, internal domestic arrangements, etcetera, as they flew past in rapid succession.
“Robin,” said I, breaking silence again, and using the name which had by that time grown familiar, “have you made up your mind yet about taking service with Dr McTougall? Now that we have got Mrs Jones engaged and paid to look after granny, she will be able to get on pretty well without you, and you shall have time to run over and see her frequently.”
“H’m! I don’t quite see my way,” returned the boy, with a solemn look. “You see, sir, if it was a page-in-buttons I was to be, to attend on my young lady the guv’ness, I might take it into consideration; but to go into buttons an’ blue merely to open a door an’ do the purlite to wisitors, an’ mix up things with bad smells by way of a change—why, d’ee see, the prospec’ ain’t temptin’. Besides, I hate blue. The buttons is all well enough, but blue reminds me so of the bobbies that I don’t think I could surwive it long—indeed I don’t!”
“Robin,” said I reproachfully, “I’m grieved at your indifference to friendship.”
“’Ow so, sir?”
“Have you not mentioned merely your objections and the disadvantages, without once weighing against them the advantages?”
“Vich is—?”
“Which are,” said I, “being under the same roof with me and with Punch, to say nothing of your young lady!”
“Ah, to be sure! Vell, but I did think of all that, only, don’t you see, I’ll come to be under the same roof with you all in course o’ time w’en you’ve got spliced an’ set up for—”
“Slidder,” said I sternly, and losing patience under the boy’s presumption, “you must never again dare to speak of such a thing. You know very well that it is quite out of the question, and—and—you’ll get into a careless way of referring to such a possibility among servants or—”
“No; honour bright!” exclaimed Slidder, with, for the first time, a somewhat abashed look in his face; “I wouldn’t for the wealth of the Injies say a word to nobody wotsomever. It’s only atween ourselves that I wentur’s to—”
“Well, well; enough,” said I; “don’t in future venture to do it even between ourselves, if you care to retain my friendship. Now. Robin,” I added, as the train slowed, “of course you’ll not let a hint of our reason for going north pass your lips to poor granny or any one; and give her the old message, that I’ll be along to see her soon.”
It was pleasant to return to such a hearty reception as I met with from the doctor’s family. Although my absence had been but for a few days, the children came crowding and clinging round me, declaring that it seemed like weeks since I left them. The doctor himself was, as usual, exuberant, and his wife extremely kind. Miss Blythe, I found, had not yet returned, and was not expected for some time.
But the reception accorded me by the doctor and his family was as nothing to the wild welcome lavished upon me by Dumps. That loving creature came more nearly to the bursting-point than I had ever seen him before. His spirit was obviously much too large for his body. He was romping with the McTougall baby when I entered. The instant he heard my voice in the hall he uttered a squeal—almost a yell—of delight, and came down the two flights of stairs in a wriggling heap, his legs taking comparatively little part in the movement. His paws, when first applied to the wax-cloth of the nursery floor, slipped as if on ice, without communicating motion. On the stairs, his ears, tail, head, hair, heart, and tongue conspired to convulse him. Only when he had fairly reached me did the hind-legs do their duty, as he bounced and wriggled high into air. Powers of description are futile; vision alone is of any avail in such a case. Are dogs mortal? Is such overflowing wealth of affection extinguished at death? Pshaw! thought I, the man who thinks so shows that he is utterly void of the merest rudiments of common sense!
I did not mention the object of my visit to York to the doctor or his wife. Indeed, that natural shyness and reticence which I have found it impossible to shake off—except when writing to you, good reader—would in any case have prevented my communicating much of my private affairs to them, but particularly in a case like this, which seemed to be assuming the aspect of a wildly romantic hunt after a lost young girl, more like the plot of a sensational novel than an occurrence in every-day life.
It may be remarked here that the doctor had indeed understood from Mrs Willis that she had somehow lost a granddaughter; but being rather fussy in his desires and efforts to comfort people in distress, he had failed to rouse the sympathy which would have drawn out details from the old woman. I therefore merely gave him to understand that the business which had called me to the north of England had been unsuccessful, and then changed the subject.
Meanwhile Dumps returned to the nursery to resume the game of romps which I had interrupted.
After a general “scrimmage,” in which the five chips of the elder McTougall had joined, without regard to any concerted plan, Dolly suddenly shouted “’Top!”
“What are we to stop for?” demanded Harry, whose powers of self-restraint were not strong.
“Want a ’est!” said Dolly, sitting down on a stool with a resolute plump.
“Rest quick, then, and let’s go on again,” said Harry, throwing himself into a small chair, while Job and Jenny sprawled on an ottoman in the window.
Seeing that her troops appeared to be exhausted, and that a period of repose had set in, the tall nurse thought this a fitting opportunity to retire for a short recreative talk with the servants in the kitchen.
“Now be good, child’n,” she said, in passing out, “and don’t ’urt poor little Dumps.”
“Oh no,” chorused the five, while, with faces of intense and real solemnity, they assured nurse that they would not hurt Dumps for the world.
“We’ll be so dood!” remarked Dolly, as the door closed—and she really meant it.
“What’ll we do to him now?” asked Harry, whose patience was exhausted.
“Tut off him’s head,” cried Dolly, clapping her fat little hands.
“No, burn him for a witch,” said Jenny.
“Oh no! ve’ll skeese him flat till he’s bu’sted,” suggested Job.
But Jenny thought that would be too cruel, and Harry said it would be too tame.
It must not be supposed that these and several other appalling tortures were meant to be really attempted. As Job afterwards said, it was only play.
“Oh! I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Jack, who was considerably in advance of the others in regard to education, “we’ll turn him into Joan of Arc.”
“What’s Joan of Arc?” asked Job.
“It isn’t a what—it’s a who,” cried Jack, laughing.
“Is it like Noah’s Ark?” inquired Dolly.
“No, no; it’s a lady who lived in France, an’ thought she was sent to deliver her country from—from—I don’t know all what, an’ put on men’s clo’es an’ armour, an’ went out to battle, an’ was burnt.”
“Bu’nt!” shouted Dolly, with sparkling eyes; “oh, what fun!—We’re goin’ to bu’n you, Pompey.” They called him by Lilly Blythe’s name.
Dumps, who sat in a confused heap in a corner, panting, seemed regardless of the fate that awaited him.
“But where shall we find armour?” said Harry.
“I know,” exclaimed Job, going to the fireplace, and seizing the lid of a saucepan which stood on the hearth near enough to the tall fender to be within reach, “here’s somethin’.”
“Capital—a breastplate! Just the thing!” cried Jack, seizing it, and whistling to Dumps.
“And here’s a first-rate helmet,” said Harry, producing a toy drum with the heads out.
The strong contrast between my doggie’s conditions of grigginess and humiliation has already been referred to. Aware that something unusual was pending, he crawled towards Jack with every hair trailing in lowly submission. Poor Joan of Arc might have had a happier fate if she had been influenced by a similar spirit!
“Now, sir, stand up on your hind-legs.”
The already well-trained and obedient creature obeyed.
“There,” he said, tying the lid to his hairy bosom; “and there,” he continued, thrusting the drum on his meek head, which it fitted exactly; “now, Madame Joan, come away—the fagots are ready.”
With Harry’s aid, and to the ineffable joy of Jenny, Job, and Dolly, the little dog was carefully bound to the leg of a small table, and bits of broken toys—of which there were heaps—were piled round it for fagots.
“Don’t be c’uel,” said Dolly tenderly.
“Oh no, we won’t be cruel,” said Jack, who was really anxious to accomplish the whole execution without giving pain to the victim. The better to arrange some of the fastenings he clambered on the table. Dolly, always anxious to observe what was being done, attempted to do the same. Jenny, trying to prevent her, pulled at her skirts, and among them they pulled the table over on themselves. It fell with a dire crash.
Of course there were cries and shouts from the children, but these were overtopped and quickly silenced by the hideous yellings of Dumps. Full many a time had the poor dog given yelp and yell in that nursery when accidentally hurt, and as often had it wagged its forgiving tail and licked the patting hands of sympathy; but now the yells were loud and continuous, the patting hands were snapped at, and Dumps refused to be comforted. His piercing cries reached my study. I sprang up-stairs and dashed into the nursery, where the eccentric five were standing in a group, with looks of self-condemning horror in their ten round eyes, and almost equally expressive round mouths.
The reason was soon discovered—poor Dumps had got a hind-leg broken!
Having ascertained the fact, alleviated the pain as well as I could, and bandaged the limb, I laid my doggie tenderly in the toy bed belonging to Jenny’s largest doll, which was quickly and heartily given up for the occasion, the dispossessed doll being callously laid on a shelf in the meantime.
It was really quite interesting to observe the effect of this accident on the tender-hearted five. They wept over Dumps most genuine tears. They begged his pardon—implored his forgiveness—in the most earnest tones and touching terms. They took turn about in watching by his sick-bed. They held lint and lotion with superhuman solemnity while I dressed his wounded limb, and they fed him with the most tender solicitude. In short, they came out quite in a new and sympathetic light, and soon began to play at sick-nursing with each other. This involved a good deal of pretended sickness, and for a long time after that it was no uncommon thing for visitors to the nursery to find three of the five down with measles, whooping-cough, or fever, while the fourth acted doctor, and the fifth nurse.
The event however, gave them a lesson in gentleness to dumb animals which they never afterwards forgot, and which some of my boy readers would do well to remember. With a laudable effort to improve the occasion, Mrs McTougall carefully printed in huge letters, and elaborately illuminated the sentence, “Be kind to Doggie,” and hung it up in the nursery. Thereupon cardboard, pencils, paints, and scissors were in immediate demand, and soon after there appeared on the walls in hideously bad but highly ornamental letters, the words “Be kind to Cattie.” This was followed by “Be kind to Polly,” which instantly suggested “Be kind to Dolly.” And so, by one means or another, the lesson of kindness was driven home.
Soon after this event Dr McTougall moved into a new house in the same street; I became regularly established as his partner, and Robin Slidder entered on his duties as page in buttons. It is right to observe here that, in deference to his prejudices, the material of his garments was not blue, but dark grey.
It was distinctly arranged, however, that Robin was to go home, as he called it, to be with Mrs Willis at nights. On no other condition would he agree to enter the doctor’s service; and I found, on talking over the subject with Mrs Willis herself, that she had become so fond of the boy that it would have been sheer cruelty to part them. In short, it was a case of mutual love at first sight! No two individuals seemed more unlikely to draw together than the meek, gentle old lady and the dashing, harum-scarum boy. Yet so it was.
“My dear,”—she always spoke to me now as if I had been her son—“this ‘waif,’ as people would call him, has clearly been sent to me as a comfort in the midst of all but overwhelming sorrow; and I believe, too, that I have been sent to draw the dear boy to Jesus. You should hear what long and pleasant talks we have about Him, and the Bible, and the ‘better land’ sometimes.”
“Indeed! I am glad to hear you say so, granny, and also surprised, because, although I believe the boy to be well disposed, I have seldom been able to get him to open his lips to me on religious subjects.”
“Ah! but he opens his dear lips to me, doctor, and reads to me many a long chapter out of the blessed Word!”
“Reads! Can he read?”
“Ay can he!—not so badly, considering that I only began to teach him two or three months ago. But he knew his letters when we began, and could spell out a few words. He’s very quick, you see, and a dear boy!”
Soon afterwards we made this arrangement with Robin more convenient for all parties, by bringing Mrs Willis over to a better lodging in one of the small back streets not far from the doctor’s new residence.
I now began to devote much of my time to the study of chemistry, not only because it suited Dr McTougall that I should do so, but because I had conceived a great liking for that science, and entertained some thoughts of devoting myself to it almost exclusively.
In the various experiments connected therewith I was most ably, and, I may add, delightedly, assisted by Robin Slidder. I was also greatly amused by, and induced to philosophise not a little on the peculiar cast of the boy’s mind. The pleasure obviously afforded to him by the uncertainty as to results in experiments was very great. The probability of a miscarriage created in him intense interest—I will not say hope! The ignorance of what was coming kept him in a constant flutter of subdued excitement, and the astounding results (even sometimes to myself) of some of my combinations, kept him in a perpetual simmer of expectation. But after long observation, I have come to the deliberate conclusion that nothing whatever gave Robin such ineffable joy as an explosion! A crash, a burst, a general reduction of anything to instantaneous and elemental ruin, was so dear to him that I verily believe he would have taken his chance, and stood by, if I had proposed to blow the roof off Dr McTougall’s mansion. Nay, I almost think that if that remarkable waif had been set on a bombshell and blown to atoms, he would have retired from this life in a state of supreme satisfaction.
While my mind was thus agreeably concentrated on the pursuit of science, it received a rude, but pleasing, yet particularly distracting shock, by the return of Lilly Blythe. The extent to which this governess was worshipped by the whole household was wonderful—almost idolatrous. Need I say that I joined in the worship, and that Dumps and Robin followed suit? I think not. And yet—there was something strange, something peculiar, something unaccountable, about Miss Blythe’s manner which I could by no means understand.
Chapter Eleven
Relates Generally to the Doings and Sayings of Robin Slidder
“My dear,” said Mrs McTougall one evening to the doctor, “since that little boy Slidder came to stay with us things have become worse and worse; in fact, the house is almost unbearable.”
“My dear,” responded Dr McTougall, “you amaze me; surely the boy has not dared to be rude—insolent to you?”
“Oh no, it’s not that; but he must really be forbidden to enter the nursery. Our darlings, you know, were dreadful enough before he came, but since then they have become absolute maniacs.”
“You don’t mean to say that the little rascal has been teaching them bad words or manners, I hope?” returned the doctor, with a frown.
“Dear me, no, papa; don’t get angry,” answered the anxious lady—“far from it. On the contrary, I really believe that our darlings have greatly improved his language and manners by their example; but Robin’s exuberant spirits are far too much for them. It is like putting fire to gunpowder, and they are so fond of him. That’s the difficulty. The boy does not presume, I must say that for him, and he is very respectful to nurse; but the children are constantly asking him to come and play with them, which he seems quite pleased to do, and then his mind is so eccentric, so inventive. The new games he devises are very ingenious, but so exceedingly dangerous and destructive that it is absolutely necessary to check him, and I want you to do it, dear.”
“I must know something about the nature of the mischief before I can check it,” said the doctor.
“Oh, it’s indescribable,” returned the lady; “the smell that he makes in the nursery with his chemical experiments is awful; and then poor Pompey, or Dumps, or whatever they call him—for they seem very undecided about his name—has not the life of—I was going to say—a dog with them. Only last night, when you were out, the ridiculous boy proposed the storming of an ogre’s castle. Nurse was down-stairs at the time, or it could never have happened. Well, of course, Robin was the ogre, darling Dolly was a princess whom he had stolen away, Jack was a prince who was to deliver her, and the others were the prince’s retainers. A castle was built in one corner of all the tables and chairs in the room piled on each other, with one particular chair so ingeniously arranged that the pulling of it out would bring the castle in ruins to the ground. The plan of attack, as far as I could make out, was that the prince should ring our dinner-bell at the castle gates and fiercely demand admittance, the demand to be followed by a burst from the trumpets, drums, and gongs of his soldiers. The ogre, seated on the castle top with the princess, after a few preliminary yells and howls, was to say, in a gruff voice, that he was too much engaged just then with his dinner—that three roast babies were being dished. When they were disposed of, the princess would be killed, and served up as a sort of light pudding, after which he would open the castle gate. A horrible smell was to be created at this point to represent the roasting of the babies. This was to be the signal for a burst of indignation from the prince and his troops, who were to make a furious assault on the door—one of our largest tea-trays—and after a little the prince was to pull away the particular chair, and rush back with his men to avoid the falling ruin, while the ogre and princess were to find shelter under the nursery table, and then, when the fall was over, they were to be found dead among the ruins. I am not sure whether the princess was to be revived, or she was to have a grand funeral, but the play never got that length. I was sitting here, listening to the various sounds overhead, wondering what they could be about, when I heard a loud ringing—that was the castle bell. It was soon followed by a burst of toy trumpets and drums. A most disgusting smell began to permeate the house at the same time, for it seems that the ogre set fire to his chemicals too soon.
“Then I heard roaring and yelling, which really alarmed me—it was so gruff. When it stopped, there was a woeful howl—that was the burst of indignation. The assault came off next, and as the shouting of the troops was mingled with the hammering of the large tea-tray, the ringing of the dinner-bell, and the beating of the gong, you may fancy what the noise was. In the midst of it there was a hideous crash, accompanied by screams of alarm that were too genuine to be mistaken. I rushed up, and found the furniture lying scattered over the room, with darling Dolly in the midst, the others standing in solemn silence around, and Robin Slidder sitting on the ground ruefully rubbing his head.
“The truth was that the particular chair had been pulled away before the proper time, and the castle had come down in ruins while the ogre and princess were still on the top of it. Fortunately Robin saved Dolly, at the expense of his own head and shoulder, by throwing his arms round her and falling undermost; but it was a narrow escape, and you really must put a stop to such reckless ongoings.”
The doctor promised to do so.
“I have to send Robin a message this forenoon, and will administer a rebuke before sending him,” he said; but it was plain, from the smile on the doctor’s face, that the rebuke would not be severe.
“Robin,” he said, with much solemnity, when the culprit stood before him, “take this bottle of medicine to Mr Williams; you know—the old place—and say I want to know how he is, and that I will call to-morrow afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy, taking the bottle with an unusually subdued air.
“And Robin—stop,” continued the doctor. “I am told that the children were visited by an ogre last night.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy, with an uncertain glance at his questioner’s grave face.
“Well, Robin, you know where that ogre lives. Just call and tell him from me that if he or any of his relations ever come here again I’ll cause them to undergo extraction of the spinal marrow, d’you understand?”
At first little Slidder felt inclined to laugh, but the doctor’s face was so unusually stern that he thought better of it, and went away much impressed.
Now Robin Slidder was no loiterer on his errands, nevertheless he did not deem it a breach of fidelity to cast an occasional glance into a picture-shop window, or to pause a few seconds now and then to chaff a facetious cabby, or make a politely sarcastic remark to a bobby. His connection with what he termed “’igh life” had softened him down considerably, and given a certain degree of polish to his wit, but it had in no degree repressed his exuberant spirits.
The distance he had to go being considerable, he travelled the latter part of the way by omnibus. Chancing to be in a meditative frame of mind that day, he climbed to the roof of the ’bus, and sat down with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his eyes deep into futurity. Whether he saw much there I cannot tell, but after wandering for some time in that unknown region, his eyes returned to surrounding things, and, among other objects, alighted on the ’bus conductor, whose head was within a few inches of his toe. It was the head of the Slogger!
That eccentric individual, having sprung up in a few months from the condition of a big boy to that of an exceedingly young man, had obtained a situation as conductor to a ’bus. He was so busy with his fares when Robin mounted the ’bus that he failed to observe him until the moment when the latter returned from futurity. Their eyes met simultaneously, and opened to such an extent that if size had counted for numbers they might have done for four boys.
“Hallo, Buttons!” was the Slogger’s exclamation.
“Hallo, Slogger!” was that of Robin.
“Well, now, this is a pleasure! who’d a thought it?” said the conductor, reaching up his hand.
“Is that for your fare or a shake, Slogger?” demanded Robin.
“A shake, of course, old feller,” replied the other, as Robin grasped the proffered hand;—“but I say,” he added in a lower key, “there’s no Slogger now in this ’ere world; he’s dead an’ buried long ago. My name is Villum Bowls—no connection wotever with Slogger. Oh no! we never mention ’im;—but, I say, w’en did you go into the genteel line? eh, Slidder?”
“Robin—Robin is my name now, Villum Bowls. I’ve changed it since we met last, though I hain’t cut old friends like you. Robin an’ Slidder ’ave been united, an’ a pretty pair they make, don’t they?”
“Middlin’. ’Old on till I get that ancient stout party shoved in. Looks like as if he was a goin’ in the opposite direction, but it don’t matter so long as we can get ’im in.—Now, then, sir, mind the step. All right? I say, Slid— Robin, I mean—”
“Vell, Slog— Villum, I mean; why don’t you say wot you mean, eh?”
“’Ow d’you like grey tights an’ buttons?” said the Slogger, with a bland smile.
“So—so,” replied Robin, with a careless air; “the grey is sober enough—quite suitable to my character—an’ I confess I’m fond o’ the buttons.”
“There’s enough of ’em to form a goodish overcoat a’most,” said the Slogger with a critical grin, “but I should ’ave thought ’em not sufficiently waterproof in wet weather.”
“Vell, they ain’t much use for that, Slog—eh, Villum; but you should see the dazzling display they makes in sunshine. W’y, you can see me half a mile off w’en I chance to be walking in Regent Street or drivin’ in the Park. But I value them chiefly because of the frequent and pleasant talks they get me with the ladies.”
“You don’t mean for to say, Robin, that the ladies ever holds you by the button-’oles?”
“No, I don’t; but I holds them wi’ the buttons. This is the way of it. W’en I chance to see a wery pretty lady—not one o’ your beauties, you know; I don’t care a dump for them stuck-up creatures! but one o’ your sweet, amiable sort, with souls above buttons, an’ faces one likes to look at and to kiss w’en you’ve a right to; vell, w’en I sees one o’ these I brushes up again’ ’er, an’ ’ooks on with my buttons to some of ’er togs.
“If she takes it ill, looks cross, and ’alf inclined to use strong language, I makes a ’umble apology, an’ gets undone as fast as possible, but if she larfs, and says, ‘Stoopid boy; w’y don’t you look before you?’ or suthin o’ that sort, I just ’ooks on another tag to another button w’en we’re a fumblin’ at the first one, and so goes on till we get to be quite sociable over it—I might almost say confidential. Once or twice I’ve been the victim of misjudgment, and got a heavy slap on the face from angelic hands that ought to ’ave known better, but on the ’ole I’m willin’ to take my chance.”
“Not a bad notion,” remarked the Slogger; “especially for a pretty little chap like you, Robin.”
“Right you are,” replied the other, “but you needn’t try on the dodge yourself, for it would never pay with a big ugly grampus like you, Villum.”
Having thus run into a pleasant little chat, the two waifs proceeded to compare notes, in the course of which comparison the Slogger gave an outline of his recent history. He had been engaged in several successful burglaries, but had been caught in the act of pocket-picking, for which offence he had spent some weeks in prison. While there a visitor had spoken to him very earnestly, and advised him to try an honest life, as being, to say the least of it, easier work than thieving. He had made the attempt. Through the influence of the same prison-visitor he had obtained a situation, from which he had been advanced to the responsible position which he then held.
“And, d’you know, Robin,” said the Slogger, “I find that honesty pays pretty well, and I means to stick to it.”
“An’ I suppose,” said Robin, “if it didn’t pay pretty well you’d cut it?”
“Of course I would,” returned the Slogger, with a look of surprise; “wot’s the use o’ stickin’ to a thing that don’t pay?”
“Vell, if them’s your principles you ain’t got much to ’old on by, my tulip,” said Robin.
“An’ wot principles may you ’old on by, my turnip?” asked the Slogger.
“It would puzzle me, rather, to tell that,” returned Robin, “’specially talkin’ down to the level of my own toes on the top of a ’bus; but I’ll tell you what, Villum, if you’ll come to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square, just back of Hoboy Crescent, w’ere my master lives, on Sunday next at seven in the evenin’, you’ll hear an’ see somethin’ as’ll open your eyes.”
“Ah! a meetin’-’ouse’?” said the Slogger, with a slight smile of contempt.
“Music-’alls and publics is meetin’-’ouses, ain’t they?”
“Ah, but they ain’t prayer-meetin’ ’ouses,” rejoined the Slogger.
“Not so sure o’ that Villum. There’s a deal o’ prayer in such places sometimes, an’ it’s well for the wisitors that their prayers ain’t always answered. But our meetin’-’ouse is for more than prayer—a deal more; and there’s my young missus—a real angel—comes in, and ’olds forth there every Sunday evening to young fellers like you an’ me. You just come an’ judge for yourself.”
“No thankee,” returned the Slogger.
As he spoke a lady with a lap-dog made powerful demonstrations with her umbrella. The ’bus stopped, and the conductor attended to his duties, while Robin, who really felt a strong desire to bring his old comrade under an influence which he knew was working a wonderful change in himself, sat meditating sadly on the obstinacy of human nature.
“I say, Robin,” said the Slogger, on resuming his perch, “d’you know I’ve found traces o’ that young gal as you took such a interest in, as runned away from the old ’ooman, an’ was robbed by Brassey an’ me?”
“You don’t mean that!” exclaimed Robin eagerly.
“Yes I do. She’s in London, I believe, but I can’t exactly say where. I heard of her through Sal—you know Sal, who ’angs out at the vest end o’ Potter’s Lane. I expect to see Sal in ’alf an hour, so if you’re comin’ back this way, I’ll be at the Black Bull by two o’clock, and tell you all I can pump out of ’er.”
