One night Edward Hooper, having consulted his watch frequently, and
compared it with the clock of slow notoriety in the warehouse in Tooley
Street, until his patience was almost gone, at last received the warning
hiss, and had his books shut and put away before the minute-gun began to
boom. He was out at the door and half-way up the lane, with his hat a
good deal on one side of his head and very much over one eye, before the
last shot was fired.
"It's a jolly time of day this--the jolliest hour of the twenty-four,"
muttered Ned to himself, with a smile.
His speech was thick, and his smile was rather idiotic, by reason of his
having drunk more than his usual allowance at dinner that day.
By way of mending matters, Ned resolved to renew his potations
immediately, and announced his intentions to himself in the following
words:
"Com--mi--boy--y-you'll go--ave an--urrer por-o-porer--thash yer sort!"
At a certain point in the drunkard's downward career he ceases to have
any control over himself, and increases his speed from the usual
staggering jog-trot to a brisk zigzag gallop that generally terminates
abruptly in the grave.
Ned Hooper, a kind-hearted fellow enough, and thinking himself not so
bad as he seemed because of that same kind-heartedness, had reached the
galloping point, and was travelling unusually fast along the high road
to ruin.
Being of a generous nature, Ned was in the habit of extending his
patronage to various beer-shops, among others to that one near London
Bridge which has been described as the property of Gorman. Business,
pleasure, or fancy led him to that shop on the evening in question. He
was standing at the counter steadying himself with his left hand and
holding a pewter-pot in his right, when the door of the inner room
opened, and Gorman crossed the floor. He was in a thoughtful mood, and
was about to pass out without raising his eyes, when Ned arrested him
with:
"Good ev-n'in', Misher Gorm'n."
Gorman glanced back, and then turned away as if in contempt, but,
suddenly checking himself, returned, and going up to Hooper with as
affable a smile as his countenance would admit of, said that he was
delighted to shake hands with him, and that he was the very man he
wanted to see, as he wished to have a word of conversation with him.
"Conv'shas'n wi' me?" said Ned, swaying himself to and fro as he
endeavoured to look steadily in the face of his friend; "fire away,
shen. I'm sh' man f'r conv'shash'n, grave or gay, comic--'r--shublime,
's all the shame to me!"
He finished the pot, and laid it, with an immense assumption of care, on
the counter.
"Come out, we'll walk as we talk," said Gorman.
"Ha! to b'shure; 'at's poetical--very good, very good, we'll wa-alk as
we talk--ha! ha! very good. Didn't know you wash a poet--eh? don't look
like 'un."
"Come along, then," said Gorman, taking him by the arm.
"Shtop!" said Ned, drawing himself up with an air of drivelling dignity,
and thrusting his hand into his trouser-pocket.
"What for?" asked the other.
"I haven't p-paid for my b-beer."
"Never mind the beer. I'll stand that," said Gorman, dragging his
friend away.
Ned consented to be dragged, and said something to the effect that he
hoped to have the pleasure of standing treat on some future occasion.
"Now, then," said Gorman, somewhat firmly, though not sternly, for he
knew that Ned Hooper was not to be browbeat; "are you sober enough to
attend to what I've got to say?"
"Shober as a dudge," answered Ned.
Gorman looked earnestly in his face for a few moments, and then began to
talk to him in a continuous strain by way of testing him.
"C'found these cabs an' b-busseses; a feller c-can't hear a word," said
Ned.
"Your lodgin's an't far off, are they?"
"Close 't 'and," answered Ned.
"Let's go to 'em," said Gorman.
In silence Ned Hooper led the way, and, conducting his friend into his
"chamber," as he styled his poor abode, begged him to be seated, and
threw himself into an armchair beside the little fire. There was a pipe
on the chimney-piece, which Ned began to fill, while Gorman opened the
conversation.
"You're hard up, rather, just now?" said the latter.
"'Xactly so, that's my c'ndition to a tee."
Ned smiled as he said this, as though it were the most satisfactory
state of things possible, and lighted his pipe.
"Of course you've no objection to make a fifty pound note or so?" asked
Gorman.
"None in sh' wo'ld; always," he became very earnest here, "_always_
sh'posin' that I make it honestly."
"Of course, of course," rejoined the other; "I would never propose
anything that would lead you into a scrape. You don't suppose I would
do that, I hope?"
"Shertenly not," replied Ned with a smile; "fire away."
"Well, then, I'm anxious just now to procure a dead corpse."
Ned Hooper, drunk as he was, felt somewhat startled by this, but, being
a man of wandering and lively imagination, turned from the point in
question to an idea suggested by it.
"I sh'pose a living corpse wouldn't do, would it? It must be a dead
one--eh?"
"Be serious if you can," said Gorman angrily. "I want a corpse."
Ned Hooper, who, like many good-humoured men, was easily roused when in
a state of intoxication, fired at the tone of Gorman's voice, and looked
at him as sternly as he could, while he replied:
"What have _I_ got to do with yer wants an' yer co'pses--eh? You don't
sh'pose I keep a stock of 'em on hand ready-made, do you--eh?" Then
relapsing into a placid frame, he smiled, and added, "But fire away, ol'
feller, I'm yer man for conv'sashin, specially w'en it's in the comic
line."
"That's right," said Gorman, clapping Ned on the shoulder and
endeavouring to conciliate him; "now, then, the question is, how am I to
get 'un?"
"Ah, thash the question, if Shakspr's to be b'lieved."
"Well, but couldn't you think?" said Gorman.
"Think!" exclaimed the other, "what am I paid a salary for? What are my
brains doin' night an day--eh? Of course I can think; thash's my
pr'feshion, is thinking."
Gorman cast a scornful look at his friend, but he deemed it prudent to
admit the truth of what he said, and suggested that he might perhaps
remember a certain medical student with whom he had once held pleasant
converse in his (Gorman's) house of entertainment.
"R'member him, of course," hiccuped Ned.
"Well, then, he could get us a corpse, you know--couldn't he?"
Ned looked uncommonly knowing at this point, and admitted that he rather
thought he could--a dozen of them, if necessary.
"Well, I want one, and I'll pay well for it if it's of the right sort.
It must be at least six-foot two, thin about the jaws, with lanky black
hair, and a yellow complexion."
Ned smiled facetiously, but at the same time shook his head.
"Six f't two," said he, "an't a common height; it won't be easy to get
'un so tall; but--but," he pondered here with a grave expression of
countenance, "but it might be stretched a bit, you know--eh? As to thin
jaws, most of 'em is thin about sh' jaws, an' black hair ain't un--
uncommon."
Ned yawned at this point, and looked very sleepy.
"Well, you'll speak to him, won't you, and I'll make it worth while for
both of you?"
"Oh yesh, I'll shpeak to him," said Ned, as his head fell on the table
and his senses utterly forsook him.
"Bah! you beast," muttered Gorman, casting a glance of scorn on his
friend as he rose to leave. He had the sense, before going, to
extinguish the candle, lest Ned should overturn it and set the house on
fire; not that he cared either for Ned or the house, but as the former
happened to be necessary to him just then, he did not wish him to be
burned too soon. Then he went out, closing the door softly after him.
Half an hour afterwards Ned's friend and fellow-lodger, John Barret,
entered the room, accompanied by Fred Auberly.
"Come, Fred," said the former, "we can chat here without interr--
hallo--"
"What's wrong?" inquired Fred, endeavouring to make out objects by the
feeble flicker of the fire, while his friend struck a light.
Barret did not reply, but the light soon revealed Ned's disreputable
figure half sprawling on and half clinging to the table.
"Surely this is not your chum, John?" asked Fred in surprise.
"Yes, that's him," answered Barret in a low sad voice. "Help me to get
him into bed, like a good fellow."
Without a word the young men raised the drunken figure in their arms,
and laid it like some loathsome object on one of the beds in the
adjoining room.
"How can you stay with him?" asked Auberly, after they had returned to
the other room and seated themselves at the fire.
"He is an old schoolfellow of mine," said Barret in a low voice. "I'm
sorry you've seen him in this state. He was a very different fellow
once, I assure you; and if it were not for that accursed drink he would
be as pleasant a companion as exists. You know I have no friends in
London save yourself, Fred, and this young fellow.--I came to stay with
him at first, not knowing his character, and now I remain to try to--
to--save him; but I fear his case is hopeless. Come, Fred, we won't
talk of it. You were saying, as we came along, that your father is
sterner than ever, were you not?"
"Ay," said Fred, with a sigh, "he won't even let me call to see my
sister too--that's the worst of it. For the rest I care not; my brush
has sustained me hitherto, and my love for my profession increases every
hour. I feel towards it, John, as a man may be supposed to feel towards
the sweet, young girl whom wicked guardians had for a long time refused
to let him wed. Nothing but death shall separate us now!"
Barret smiled, and was about to make some rejoinder, but he checked
himself and changed the subject.
"How is your sister?" said he, "I have not heard of her for a long
time."
"Not well," answered Fred; "the doctors shake their heads and speak of
the shock having been too much for her. Dear Loo, she never was strong,
and I'm afraid that she has received fatal injury on the night of the
fire. I'm told that my poor father is sadly cut up about her--attends
on her night and day, and humours her every whim. This is so unlike him
that it fills me with anxiety on account of dear Loo, whom I have not
seen since I went to live at Kensington."
"Kensington, Fred? I did not know you had gone to live there."
"I was just going to mention that when we came in. I have got a very
comfortable lodging with--who do you think? you'll never guess--Mrs
Willders, the mother of our young friend Willie who works with old Tom
Tippet upstairs. You may well look surprised. I came upon the lodging
quite accidentally, and, finding that it suited my inclinations and my
purse, I took it at once for a few weeks. It's in a very poor locality,
no doubt, but you know a man must cut his coat according to his cloth,
and my cloth is not broad at present. But then," continued Fred, with
sudden animation, "it's a splendid place for a painter! There are such
picturesque regions and bits near it. Why, Kensington Gardens are
sufficient to make the fortune of a landscape-painter--at least in the
way of trees; then an hour's walk takes you to rural scenery, or canal
scenery, with barges, bridges, boats, old stores, cottages, etcetera.
Oh! it's a magnificent spot, and I'm hard at work on a picturesque old
pump near Shepherd's Bush Common, with a bit of old brick wall behind
it, half-covered with ivy, and a gipsy-like beggar-girl drinking at it
out of her hand; that--that'll make an impression, I think, on the Royal
Academy, if--if _they take it in_."
"Ah! _if_ they take it in," said John Barret, smiling.
"Well," retorted Fred Auberly, "I know that is a point of uncertainty,
and I'm not very sanguine, because there is great lack of room.
Nevertheless, I mean to send it. And you know, John, `faint heart never
won fair lady,' so--"
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a shrill whistle at
the top of the house, which, as it drew nearer, became identified with
the air of "Rule Britannia!"
"That's Willie Willders," said Barret, laughing.
"I guessed as much, and with your leave I'll call him in. He knows of
my having become an inmate of his mother's house, and as he is probably
going home I would like to send a message to his mother. Hallo,
Willie."
"Ay, ay, sir!" answered the youth, in the tones of a thoroughbred
seaman. Not that Willie had ever been at sea, but he was so fond of
seamen, and had mingled with them so much at the docks, as well as those
of them who had become firemen, that he tried to imitate their gait and
tones.
"Come here, you scamp, and stop your noise."
"Certainly, sir," said Willie, with a grin, as he entered the room, cap
in hand.
"Going home, lad?" asked Fred.
"Yes, sir--at least in a permiscuous sort of way entertainin' myself as
I goes with agreeable talk, and improvin' obsarvation of the shop
winders, etceterrer."
"Will you take a message to your mother?"
"Sure-ly," answered Willie.
"Well, say to her that I have several calls to make to-night and may be
late in getting home, but she need not sit up for me as I have the
door-key; tell her not to forget to leave the door on the latch."
"Wery good, sir," said Willie. "May I make so bold as to ask how Miss
Loo was when you seed her last?"
"Not well, I regret to say," replied Fred.
"Indeed! I'm surprised to hear that, for she's agoin' out to tea
to-morrow night, sir."
"My surprise is greater than yours, lad; how d'you know that, and where
is she going to?" asked Auberly.
Here Willie explained in a very elaborate manner that a note had arrived
that forenoon from Miss Tippet, inviting Mr Tippet to tea the following
evening, and expressing a hope that he would bring with him his clerk,
"_Mister_" Willders, the brother of the brave fireman who had saved
Loo's life, and that Miss Louisa Auberly was to be there, and that Mr
Tippet had written a note accepting the same.
"Then you'll have to take another message from me, Willie. Tell Miss
Tippet when you go to-morrow that I will give myself the pleasure of
looking in on her in the course of the evening," said Fred. "Mr
Auberly is not to be there, is he?"
"No, not as I knows of."
"Well, good-night, Willie."
Willie took his departure, marching to the usual national air, and soon
after Fred Auberly bade his friend good-night and left him.