"Why, if it ain't you, Master Sep, as I thought we were never going to
see no more!" cried Mrs Lower to the desolate-looking man outside her
snug bar. "But, my; you do look bad, and it's close upon ten years
since I've set eyes upon you. There, do come in and sit down. Yes;
that's poor Lower's chair; he's been gone years now, Master Sep, and I'm
left a lone widow, my dear; but your name was one of the last words he
spoke--your name and poor Miss Agnes's. Do you ever see her in the big
city, Master Sep?"
Septimus shook his head.
"Has she left here?" he said.
"Didn't you know?" said Mrs Lower. "Ah, yes, long enough ago!" and she
stooped her head and whispered in her visitor's ear. "But there, we
needn't talk about troubles now. How haggard and worn you do look! And
how's Mrs Septimus? I always think of her as Mrs Grey. But what's it
to be now? Isn't it awful about poor master, whom I'd never have left
if I'd known what was to happen? No, Master Sep, not to marry a dozen
Lowers, and be the mistress of fifty County Arms; though, rest him! poor
Lower was a good, kind husband, for all we were elderly folk to wed, and
had forgotten how to make love. Now, say a hot cup of tea, Master Sep,
or a hot steak with a little ketchup. If you'd been a bit sooner, there
was a lovely sweetbread in the house; but there, it's no use to talk of
that; so say the steak and tea. I _am_ glad to see you, my dear boy!"
Septimus signified his desire for the tea, and Charles was summoned, and
dismissed with his orders, but not without making a tolerable
investigation of the guest whom his mistress delighted to honour--an
investigation apparently not very satisfactory, from the imperious way
in which he gave his orders in the kitchen.
"Now, just a toothful of my orange cordial, Master Sep. Now, don't say
no, because you must. I make it myself, and the gentlemen take it on
hunting-days. Now, tip it up like a good boy; and here's a biscuit.
See now; don't it put you in mind of old times, when you were a naughty
child, and wouldn't take your physic? How time does go, to be sure;
why, it's only like yesterday. But there, I won't bother you. Have a
pair of slippers and a comfortable wash. Did you bring any luggage?"
Ten minutes passed, and then Septimus was again seated in the snug bar,
with the kettle singing its song of welcome upon the hob; a savoury
steak was before him; and the comely old dame, in her rustling black
silk, smilingly pouring out the strong tea she had been brewing, taking
a cup too herself, "just for sociability sake," as she told her visitor.
"And so poor master's gone, and you're coming down to the old place
again?" said Mrs Lower.
Septimus groaned.
"Ah, Master Sep, I can respect your feelings; but though poor master's
dead and gone, he had his failings, while he never did his duty either
by you or your poor mother."
Septimus Hardon nearly dropped his cup as he gazed blankly in his old
nurse's face.
"What--what do you mean?" he exclaimed.
"Why, he was always hard, and--But there, poor man, he's dead and gone,
and we all have our failings, and plenty of them. But come, my dear
boy, pray do eat something."
Septimus tried to eat a few morsels, but his appetite was gone, and he
soon laid down his knife and fork.
"Of course you'll come down and live at the old place, Master Sep?" said
Mrs Lower.
Septimus shook his head sadly.
"O, Master Sep!" cried the old lady, "don't sell it; don't part with it,
it would be a sin."
"But it will never be mine!" cried Septimus passionately. "O, nurse,
nurse! this is a hard and a bitter world. I came down here almost in
rags, tramping down like a beggar, and now, in cold and brutal terms, my
uncle tells me that I am a bastard--that I have no right to enter my own
father's house; while, if this is true, I am a beggar still."
Mrs Lower looked astounded. "What," she exclaimed, "does he mean to
say? But there, it's nonsense. You can soon prove to him that you are
not."
"How?" exclaimed Septimus wearily. "Everything goes against me. I have
been away ten years; my father sent me from his house; he refused all
communications with me; and now I return on the day before the funeral."
"O, but you must go to the lawyers!" cried Mrs Lower. "They can put
you right."
The couple sat talking for some time. It was refreshing to Septimus to
find so sincere a welcome, for he had put Mrs Lower's hospitality to
the test on the strength of the sovereign his aunt had slipped into his
hand. But the old dame could give him no information touching his
birth, and but little respecting the place and time of his father's
marriage.
Weary at length of the subject, Septimus listened to the history of
Somesham during the past few years, till, taking compassion upon her
visitor's jaded looks, Mrs Lower showed him his bedroom, where he tried
to forget his present sorrows in sleep.
But sleep came not, and he tossed feverishly from side to side,
bewildered by the thoughts that rushed through his brain: old faces, old
scenes, and, foremost among them, home, and the stern countenance of his
father, came crowding back. Now he would doze, but to start up in a few
minutes under the impression that he was called. He dozed off again and
again, but always to start up with the same fancy, and once he felt so
sure that he leaped out of bed and opened his door; but the dark passage
was empty, and all without quite still, so he returned to his bed, sat
there for a few minutes thinking, and then went to the window, drew the
blind, and stood gazing out upon the buildings of the familiar
market-place.
The wind swept by, swinging the old sign to and fro, while all looked so
calm and peaceful that he returned to his bed, and again tried for rest,
falling into a fevered, half sleeping, half waking state, wherein the
old faces still came crowding back, now nearer and nearer, now seeming
to vanish away into nothingness, till at last that one old face seemed
to exclude all others, and he saw his father as he saw him last,
frowning harshly upon him; but soon the face assumed an aspect of pity,
a look that told the suffering man that he was forgiven, before it
changed into the frigid hardness of death.
Septimus Hardon started up in bed and gazed at the dim, shaded window,
hardly realising where he was, as he tried to get rid of the dread image
which oppressed him; but the night through, hour after hour, as soon as
he closed his eyes, there was the same cold, stern face, as though
impressed upon his brain, and wanting but the exclusion of the light for
him to direct his gaze inward upon the fixed lineaments. So on, hour
after hour, dozing and starting up, till the first streaks of the coming
day appeared in the east, and as they grew stronger, peering in through
the bedroom window, and holding forth to view the various objects in the
room in a half-shadowed, ghostly manner that completely chased away the
remaining desire for sleep that lingered with the unnerved man.
"Knocked three times, mem," said Charles, "and can't make him hear."
"Never mind," said Mrs Lower. "I'll go myself presently."
Mrs Lower had carefully prepared what she considered a snug breakfast,
and put her regular body to no slight inconvenience by waiting past her
usual hour for the morning meal; but she thought of her visitor's
fatigue and trouble.
"He can't do better than sleep, poor boy," she muttered, descending the
stairs, after listening at the bedroom door for the third time; when she
sat in the bar and waited for quite an hour, till suddenly a thought
struck her, which set her trembling and wringing her hands, and her
comely old face worked as she tried to keep back the tears.
"O, if he has--if he has! O, my poor boy!" she exclaimed, hurrying up
the staircase, and stumbling at every second step in her agitation. "O,
Charles, come with me!"
The door yielded to her touch, and almost falling against the bed, Mrs
Lower found it empty, while the pillow was quite cold.
"O, look round--look round, Charles!" she gasped, as she sank upon her
knees at the bedside, and buried her face in the clothes.
"No one here, mem," said Charles, after a cursory glance round--not
being able to comprehend his mistress's emotion.
"O, look behind the door, Charles!" gasped Mrs Lower; "and at the
bedposts."
"Silk dress behind the fust, and wallance and hangings on the seconds,"
said Charles methodically. "What next, mem?"
"Can't you see him, Charles?" said Mrs Lower, slowly raising her head.
"No, mem," said Charles; "he's gone, safe. Did he pay, mem?"
"Nonsense!" cried Mrs Lower angrily; "he was a friend of mine;" and
then the doubting dame carefully examined the room, looking in the most
impossible of corners for the missing visitor, and only stopping as she
was about to peer up the chimney by seeing a half-concealed grin upon
the face of Charles.
"I'll ask Boots if he's seen him, mem," said Charles, to get out of his
difficulty.
But that gentleman had neither seen Septimus Hardon nor the articles of
clothing after which he was named; so that it seemed evident that the
visitor had taken his unbrushed boots and departed.
"So very strange!" muttered Mrs Lower to herself.
"The seediest pair of boots we've ever had in the place," said Charles
in confidence to the chambermaid; and then, after due cogitation, he
came to the conclusion that if many of the visitors to the County Arms
were like the unknown of the past night, his situation would not be
worth the energy he displayed for the comfort of all who sought there
rest and refreshment.
Volume One, Chapter XVII.
"NOTHING LIKE LEATHER."
The very morning upon which waiter Charles of the County Arms, Somesham,
spoke so disparagingly of Septimus Hardon's boots, the maker, or rather
re-maker, of the said boots sat, as soon as it was broad daylight--not
an extremely early hour in his home--industriously plying his craft,
till, after divers muttered anathemas, a voice growled:
"Confound it, Ike, I wish that old lapstone was at the bottom of the
Thames. Who's to sleep?"
"Get up, then," said the lapstone-smiter slowly and heavily.
"Get up!" growled the voice, "get up!"
"What, in the middle of the night! Ain't six yet, is it?"
"Just struck," said the lapstone-man, following the example of the
clock, and hammering vigorously at a scrap of leather about to be used
in the repair of an old boot before him; while from sundry smothered
growls coming from the room behind the shop where the shoemaker was at
work, it was evident that the idler had buried a portion, if not the
whole of his face, beneath the blankets, and again offered sacrifice to
the sleepy god.
It had always been a matter of dispute amongst the confraternity as to
where Matthew Space slept. Some said that he reposed nightly amongst
the casuals at Saint Martin's Workhouse; but as, when he had work, he
would often be at it by half-past eight in the morning, it was evident
that he did not lodge there; for the most industrious would not be at
liberty for another hour, on account of the work to be done in payment
for the lodging. Others talked of the Adelphi, and the recesses of
Waterloo Bridge. In short, there was always plenty of chaff flying
concerning old Matt's lodgings; but the cleverest never threshed out the
grain of wheat they sought, for the old man was as close a tusk as was
ever attacked by flail. His club was generally considered to be the
mouldy, fungoid-looking house in Hemlock-court, where he could mostly be
found of an evening, if the seeker had failed to see him sitting over
his pint-pot in Bell-yard; and, according to circumstances, he dined at
various places. If trade flourished, and the ill wind that blew misery
to Chancery suitors wafted half-crowns to his pocket, he dined in state
at the cook-shop, shut up in one of the little elbow-cramping boxes,
where there were dirty table-cloths, and everything was steamy and
sticky with the pervading vapour, whose odour was as that of the
soup-copper after the "inmates" have had their pauper repast; sometimes
in the street, as we have seen, when his dinners varied--kidney-pies,
saveloys, peas-pudding served on paper, or perhaps only the warm tuber
taken from a potato can; though, when funds were low, Matt generally
leaned towards the kidney pieman, an old friend with a red nose and a
white apron, augmented at night by very business-like white sleeves,
when, extinguishing the coke-fire of his tin, he became a trotter
himself for the time being, as he went from public-house to gin-palace
disposing of his stock of succulent sheep's-feet. There was a great
deal of the epicure in Matt Space, and had he been a Roman emperor he
might have been as lavish in the recorded worship of the gastric region.
As it was, he had always looked upon money as of value only for the
pleasure it afforded his palate, till better feelings had been roused
within him. Well versed was Matt in the edibles best suited for
families of large size but small income; he was deep in tripe, was old
Matt Space, and he knew the shop in Clare-market and Newport-market best
worthy of confidence. You never caught him buying sausages at random,
nor yet purchasing his baked sheep's-heads or fagots in Leather-lane.
No; Matt knew better; and if he could not get the prime article, he
would content himself with a penny-loaf and two ounces of single
Glo'ster. No one could get such scraps from the butcher's as Matt; and
if any one of his acquaintance wanted a pound or two, it was almost
worth their while to ask the old man to dinner, for the sake of getting
him to undertake the commission. For did not the old fox always go into
the Lane by Lincoln's-inn, where such a trade was done in chops that the
butcher must have bought his sheep nearly all loin, and that, too, of
the primest, for the legal gentlemen of the district were rather
particular. As to distance Matt never studied that when he was bent
upon any delicacy, being ready to visit Saint Martin's-lane for hot
black-puddings, Leadenhall-market for cocks'-heads or giblets,
Billingsgate for cockles or mussels; but all to oblige friends.
Now, although old Matt made great shifts over his dinners, he revelled
in his tea; that is to say, his evening coffee--coffee-shop tea being a
decoction, as the tea is carefully boiled to the extraction of all its
strength, but to the destruction of all flavour, and Matt foolishly
preferred the simple infusion of everyday life. So Matt enjoyed his
evening coffee--a half-pint cup for a penny, and three large greasy
slices of bread-and-butter for the same coin--the butter being always
the best Dorset, slightly rank in the eating, and prepared by some
peculiar Dutch process without the assistance of cows. Old Matt never
missed his tea if his funds would at all hold out; for at this
delectable coffee-house there were newspapers and, better still,
magazines of so tempting a nature that they often made the old man late
back to his duties. The real enjoyment that he felt over his book must
have flavoured the repast, for he always seemed to relish these meals
immensely. Generally speaking, men of his trade--haunters of his
haunts--are rabid politicians; but not so Matt: missing a glance at the
morning or evening paper never troubled him; but still there were times
when the old printer took an interest in questions current; and if "the
poor man" happened to be on the _tapis_, Matt digested the leading
articles most carefully.
But no one knew where Matt slept, and many a job he lost in consequence;
though this he set down to the score of his ill-luck. And yet he need
not have been so nervous about anyone tracking him to his den; for Lower
Series-place was once the resort of many of the choice spirits of a
bygone age: lordly gallants strutted there in the showy costumes of
their day; here, too, was the famous Kit-cat Club; but the glory had
departed when Matt chose the court for his resting-place: where the wits
made their rendezvous, were misery and dirt, frouzy rotting tenements,
vice and disease. Trade was in the place, but in its lowest and least
attractive forms; for there might be bought "half-hundreds" of coals in
little sacks; ginger-beer; great spongy-shelled oysters, opened by dirty
women, ready to place a discoloured thumb upon the loosened bivalve, and
to rinse it in the muddy tub from which it was fished; fruit, too, in
its seasons; potatoes and greens always; mussels, farthing balls of
cotton, brass thimbles, comic songs, and sweets. But the two most
flourishing trades here were those of translating, and dealing in
marine-stores--businesses carried on next door to one another by Isaac
Gross and Mrs Slagg. And a busy shop was Mrs Slagg's, a shop where,
in place of the customary gibbeted black doll, hung a painted and
lettered huge bladebone that might, from its size, have belonged to the
celebrated vastotherium itself, only that it was composed of wood,
carved in his leisure hours with a shoemaker's knife, as a delicate
attention to Mrs Slagg, by her neighbour, Isaac Gross. Gay was Mrs
Slagg's shop with gaudily-illustrated placards, touching the wealth,
ease, and comfort to be obtained by carrying all the worn apparel, rags,
bones, and old iron to Slagg's; serving-maids were walking out in the
gayest of dresses bought with kitchen-stuff; men were fitting on
impossible tail-coats and solid-looking hats bought with old iron,
brass, and pewter; while the demand for white and coloured rags,
waste-paper, bones, and horsehair, appeared insatiable; and to obtain
them, it seemed that Mrs Slagg was ready to ruin herself outright by
giving unheard-of prices. A wonderfully heterogeneous collection was
here of the odds and ends of civilisation: one pane of the window
resembled the foul comb of some mammoth bee, filled up as it was with
bottles presenting their ends to the spectator, who shuddered as he
thought of the labels that once decked those vials, such as "The draught
at bedtime," "The mixture as before," "A tablespoonful every two hours,"
etc; while many a wild and fevered dream that shudder brought back, of
nights followed by days of pain and misery, aching heads, watching,
anxious faces, sleek doctors of the Hardon class, wondering thoughts of
the future, and of past hours unappreciated, unvalued. Every
medicine-bottle in Mrs Slagg's shop was a very telescope, which, if
applied to the eye, presented such a diorama of sickness and sorrow as
caused sensations as of grits getting into the cogs of the wheels of
life and staying their would-be even course. Mrs Slagg's was an
obtrusive shop, irrespective of the flaming placards that literally
shouted at you, and the black board, painted in old-bony skeleton
letters, with the legend "Keziah Slagg, Dealer in Marine-stores," though
the terrene ruled to the exclusion of the marine. In its way, it was in
everybody's way, and seemed to have taken the disease rampant in the
region of Lowther Arcadia--"a breaking out"--in this case a hideous
leprosy of loathsome objects, that would have at you, catching skirt or
umbrella, or being run over after they had been kicked in the way by
racing children. The shop was gorged, and its contents oozed out, ran
over, and trickled down the steps into the cellar, which was also full
and repulsive, sending foul fungoid growths up through the trap to the
pavement, and also apparently dipping under where the traffic lay to
force its way up on the other side, where the growth spread again along
the wall, so that passengers had to run the gauntlet on their journey to
and from Temple Bar. In fact, Mrs Slagg's shop was a very refiner's
furnace for old refuse, which boiled and bubbled over into court and
cellar, as we have seen; while in front of the shop of Mr Isaac Gross,
extended trays of old iron, bundles of white and coloured rags, odorous
bones, crippled tools, wormy screws, screws without worms, odds and
ends--odds without ends, and ends that seemed at odds with the world,
and tried to trip it up as it went by.
Watching over her treasures would sit Mrs Slagg, just inside her door,
stout, happy, and dirty, in a bower of old garments, which waved in
every passing breeze; and, saving when clients came to obtain the
unheard-of prices for the rags and metal, and the bones and grease, upon
which this ogress lived, Mrs Slagg's time was divided between shouting,
"You bring that 'ere back!" to the children, and playing "Bo-peep" with
Mr Isaac Gross, who, also working just inside his shop, would lean out
occasionally to look at Mrs Slagg; though it took upon an average about
nine peeps before both peeped together, when Mrs Slagg would nod and
smile at Mr Gross, and Mr Gross would nod and smile at Mrs Slagg; and
then work would be resumed, while it was understood in the court that
something was to come of it.
But, beyond what has been described, there was another fact which
pointed towards something coming of the neighbours' intimacy; for Mrs
Slagg's cellar being, as she termed it, "chock!" a portion of her
stock-in-trade had worked its way into Mr Gross's back-parlour, and
there stood in the shape of a large heap of waste-paper--a heap that Mr
Gross would look at occasionally, and then smile in a very slow, heavy
manner, as if smiling was a difficult task, and took time, for fear it
should be broken if hastily performed, and become a laugh.
And a nice spot was Lower Series-place! Like Bennett's-rents, it seemed
as if every house was a school, and it was always leaving-time; for if,
for a short cut, you hazarded a walk through the court, you were
attacked by hordes of little savages, who pegged at you with tops, ran
hoops between your legs, yelled in your ears, knocked tipcats in your
eyes, kicked your shins at hopscotch, drove shuttlecocks upon your hat,
lassoed you with skipping-ropes, and forming rings around, apostrophised
you in tuneful, metrical language.
No doubt old Matt was used to all this, and so enjoyed a second nature;
for be it known that he lodged with Mr Isaac Gross, boot and shoemaker,
in Lower Series-place, otherwise Rogue's, otherwise Shire-lane.
Matt's landlord was a big bachelor of six-and-thirty, with much more
body than he seemed to have muscles to control, the effect being that he
was slow--Mrs Slagg said, "And sure," which is doubtful. Mr Gross had
round high shoulders, and more hair than he knew what to do with, or he
would have had it cut; but he did not, only oiled it, brushed it down
straightly, parted it in the middle, and then stopped it from falling
down over his eyes when at work, by confining it with a band of black
ribbon crossing his forehead and tied behind--the effect altogether,
when taken in conjunction with his fat, heavy, sparsely-bearded face,
being decidedly pleasing--judging by Mrs Slagg's standard. He was not
a dirty man, but he never by any chance looked clean, on account of a
peculiar tinge in his skin, due perhaps to his trade, the short pipe in
his mouth from morn till night, and the salubrious air of the court.
Mr Gross was a doctor in his way, buying boots and shoes in the last
stage of consumption, and then, by a grafting, splicing, and budding
process, with the sounder portions of many he produced a few wearable
articles, which, blacked to the highest pitch of lustre, shone upon his
board to tempt purchasers from amongst those who could not afford the
new article. You might buy a pair of boots from Isaac whose component
parts were the work, perhaps, of the cordwainers of many lands, which
scraps he would build up again as if they were so many bricks, or
perhaps mere bats, rough with mortar; and in this way Isaac Gross lived
and flourished.
It was from first wearing his boots that old Matt came to lodge with
Isaac Gross, sharing with him the back-parlour, turned for their
accommodation into a double-bedded room without bedsteads; but of itself
a pleasant grove, whose fruitful sides teemed with boots and shoes in
every stage of decay or remanufacture, hung upon nails wherever a nail
would hold, the window-frame and its cross-bars not being spared. As to
the large and ever-increasing pile of waste-paper owned by Mrs Slagg,
old Matt resisted the encroachment with some bitterness; but still it
grew, and though the old man grumbled, he would not move, for he liked
his abode for its freedom from all restraint, since he could go to bed
when he liked, stay as long as he liked, and use his own discretion
respecting the removal of boots or other articles of clothing. The
place was dirty, but that he did not mind; odorous, but then it was the
true sherry twang; but what suited Matt best was, that his landlord
troubled him little about rent, leaving him to pay when so minded, and
never hinting at arrears; while still another advantage was that, next
to a lamp-post, old Matt found his landlord the most satisfactory
listener he knew, one ready to be talked to upon any subject, and to
fall into the talker's way of thinking.
On the morning when the words at the head of this chapter were spoken,
in spite of the hammering, Matt continued to sleep on until nearly
eight, when he rose, had his boots polished at half-price in the shade
of Temple Bar, and then walked to the barber's, declaring a brushing to
be the finest thing in the world for corns. Here he had an easy shave
and a wash for a penny; breakfasted heartily and sumptuously to the
surprise of _habitues_ and waitress, by calling for a rasher of bacon,
and having a crumpled, greasy, brown dog's ear brought him to devour
with his bread-and-butter and coffee. For Matt was in high spirits: he
was in full work upon a newspaper for a few days, and he had discovered
the paragraph which, in spite of the drawback of its terrible contents,
was a piece of news that should give Mr Septimus Hardon the income and
position "of what I always said he was, sir,--a gentleman." So old Matt
breakfasted, as he said, "like a prince," for fivepence, spent the
change of his sixpence in a morning paper, and walked back to his
lodging to read it at leisure, for his work would not begin till the
afternoon.
Mr Isaac Gross had finished his economical bachelor breakfast,
consisting of bread-and-butter and packet-cocoa, combining cheapness,
succulence, and convenience. The breakfast-things were cleared away--
not a long task--and Isaac was about to add a pile of old account-books
to the waste-paper heap in the back-room.
"She bring them in?" said Matt.
Isaac, with his pipe in his mouth, nodded, and said in a gruff, slow
growl, "Waste-paper."
"So it seems," said Matt, opening one or two of the books, and then
closing them with an air of disgust, when his landlord took them up,
added them to the heap, and before returning to his bench, had a peep
out towards Mrs Slagg's; but evidently the look was wasted, for he
sighed, and took up his stirrup-leather, while old Matt drew down his
mouth and bestowed a grim, contemptuous smile upon him as he rustled his
paper, and, sitting down on a low workman's bench, began to read.
"Ah!" said Matt, stopping in his reading to refresh himself with a pinch
of snuff from a pill-box, "I thought so; they had an adjourned inquest
about that case I told you of; but there's only a short para here."
"Umph!" ejaculated Isaac, taking a good pull at his wax-end, and then
readjusting his boot in the stirrup, but directly after disarranging it,
to take a peep at Mrs Slagg--this time with success; but he frowned at
her--a telegram that she knew meant the lodger was at home, and that
friendly communications must stop.
"They've brought it in--"
"Ain't seen my wax, have you?" said Isaac slowly.
"Accidental death," said Matt, not noticing the interruption; "and it's
my opinion that--What?"
"I want my wax," said Isaac, hunting about.
"Well, get it," growled Matt, rather annoyed at being interrupted.
"Ain't seen it, have you?" said Isaac.
"No!" growled the old man, turning over his paper.
"Had it along with the dubbin just before breakfast," said Isaac.
"And then," continued Matt, "the coroner gave his order for the burial,
and--"
But Isaac Gross, who, in his slow fashion, was as industrious as the
bees, like them, could not get on without his wax, so he interrupted the
speaker with, "I want my wax," as he routed amongst his tools for the
missing necessary.
"You're waxing a great nuisance, Ike," said Matt, "and I wish you'd find
your wax;" and then he readjusted his spectacles, and had another pinch
of snuff. "Hullo!" he growled, starting up and going to the door to
speak to a woman who stood there, and who eagerly, whispered a few words
as she passed a note and a shilling into his hand. "Yes; I'll take the
note, but I don't want that," he said, refusing the shilling, which fell
upon the door-step. "Now, look here," he said aloud, and very gruffly--
for the woman had already turned to go--"I don't like this business at
all; but if I'm to do it, I don't want paying for it; and if you don't
take back that money, I sha'n't take the letter."
"Hush, pray!" whispered the woman, glancing at Isaac's round, wide-open
eyes. "Don't be angry with me, please--don't speak so loud."
The appealing voice somewhat softened the old man, but he kept on
growling and muttering, as, after a few more words, the woman--the same
who had visited the Jarkers--picked up the shilling and left him,
watched all the while most eagerly by Mrs Slagg, who did not seem to be
easy in her mind respecting female visitors to her neighbour's place of
business.
"It won't do, it won't do," muttered the old man, taking his seat after
glancing at the note. "I don't like it.--Well," he said aloud, "have
you found that wax?"
"It was in my pocket," said Isaac, slowly and seriously pointing to the
discovered necessary covered with bread-crumbs, tobacco-dust, and flue.
"Now then, let's have a bit more news," said Matt, once more settling
himself.
"Ain't there a murder nowheres?" said Isaac, whose work was now
progressing.
"No, there ain't!" said Matt gruffly. "Nice taste you've got; but
here's two fires--p'r'aps they'll do for you?"
"Ah!" said Isaac slowly, "let's have them;" but again, to Matt's
annoyance, further progress was stayed by the entrance of a man to
dispose of three pairs of old boots.
Old Matt crumpled up his paper and put it away in disgust, and as soon
as the man had taken his departure he began to examine the boots.
"Ah!" he said, "nice trade yours--three pair of decent boots for three
shillings; and then you'll touch them up and sell them for five
shillings a pair. Tell you what--I'll give you a shilling and my old
ones for this pair."
"Why, you can't wear 'em till they're mended," said Isaac.
"Can't I?" replied Mat with a grim smile; "I can wear these, old fellow,
which are a deal worse;" and he placed one of his old ones on the bench.
This was unanswerable, so Isaac only smoked.
"Try which pair fits you best," he said at last, "and I'll do them up a
little bit for another shilling."
"No book-cover soles," said Matt, pointing with his thumb over his
shoulder at the heap in the back-room.
Isaac grinned after his slow fashion, and then growled, "Fust-class
leather and good workmanship."
"For two shillings?" said Matt.
"And the old ones," said Isaac.
"Why, they're worth nothing to you," said Matt.
"And they ain't worth nothing to you," said Isaac.
"S'pose I'm going out to dinner and want a change?" said the old man
with a grin.
"'Nother shilling, then," said Isaac determinedly.
"Why, they ain't worth sixpence!" exclaimed Matt indignantly.
"Not to you," said Isaac slowly.
"No, nor you, nor anybody, except the owner," said Matt.
"Which is it to be?" said Isaac in intervals, between drawing home
stitches. "Two bob and the old uns, or three bob wi'out?"
"Done up?" said Matt.
"Done up," said Isaac.
"With new leather?" said Matt.
"With fust-class, well-seasoned leather," said Isaac, cutting off his
wax-ends.
"Take 'em at two, then," said Matt, rising; "and I'll tell you what it
is, Ike, I put up with your smoke and your courting; but if you don't
make an end of choking me up with your confounded waste-paper, I'll
move, Ike--I'll move."
Isaac Gross smiled, faster this time, for he took his pipe out of his
mouth to allow the smile to break into a grin; he then had a peep at
Mrs Slagg, who was on the watch, having seen Matt outside; and then, as
the old man made his way through the impedimenta of Lower Series-place,
turning the note he had received over and over in his hand, and
muttering as he went, Isaac's hammer went on "tap, tap, tap," till he
was out of hearing.