PHIL HAS A TRYING DAY.
PHIL'S new home was little more agreeable than the old one had been.
Moll had gone eastward, and established herself in a miserable tenement
in Shoreditch.
Phil was constantly in the streets following his "business," for Moll
was anxious to reap as much benefit as possible from his misfortune.
At first, she used to accompany him into the streets, for she had some
fear lest Phil should attempt to run away from her. But she soon found
that the boy would gain more by his begging if left to himself. So she
would repair to a public-house close by, or would watch him from a
distance, thus managing to make Phil feel that she was never far off,
and he could not get away from her if he would.
But after a while, she grew tired of keeping constant watch over
the boy, and would send him out alone, threatening him with severe
punishment if he did not return at the time she named, and still more
cruel treatment if he did not bring her as much money as she expected.
Phil was often to be seen in the City, hanging about the entrances to
Liverpool Street and Broad Street stations. In all weathers he was sent
out, and it was a hard life he led. There came to be a very sad look in
his blue eyes, and a glance at the little maimed form might well make
the most cautious forego prudence and drop a copper into his hand. As a
rule, Phil met with many who were soft-hearted enough to give to him.
But there were days when the police seemed especially on the alert, or
when every one appeared in too great a hurry to pay heed to him, for
the busy crowds who pass along the City streets are not easily arrested
by a call for alms. And when his pockets were light, Phil went back to
his mother in fear and trembling.
Several weeks passed ere Phil found his way to the hospital. He had not
forgotten his purpose.
He thought of it daily, and longed to see Sister Kathleen again, but
fear of his mother, who always questioned him closely as to his doings,
for some time withheld him from making the attempt.
At last, when summer had come, Phil had the opportunity for which he
had been waiting.
One morning, his mother roughly told him that he had better take
himself off till nightfall, as she was going out for the day and would
lock up her room.
"And mind that you make good use of the time," she added, "for I shall
want a nice supper when I come back, and you must bring the money for
it."
Phil needed no second bidding to be off. The freedom thus accorded was
as welcome to him as a holiday to a schoolboy. Hastening out, he lost
no time in getting away from Shoreditch. It was a bright June day. Even
in the City, the heat was not great, and when, leaving the more crowded
thoroughfares, Phil found his way on to the Thames Embankment, a fresh
breeze met him as he went westwards.
Instinctively, he had turned in the right direction for the hospital.
But he wandered on a long, long way without feeling sure that he was
getting any nearer to it. What a big, big place London seemed to the
little crippled-lad, dragging himself wearily along the pavements!
Sometimes he paused to beg of the passers-by or to rest for a while
on a doorstep, but though he grew hot and tired and faint for want of
food, he was still bent on reaching the hospital.
Asking his way and following as well as he could the confusing
directions given to him, Phil at last arrived at his destination, and
found himself before the main entrance to the hospital. Trembling from
fatigue and fear, he ascended the steps with difficulty, and entered
the large hall.
"Now then, what do you want, pray?"
The question, put in deep, severe tones by a tall, broad-shouldered,
soldierly-looking man in official livery, made little Phil fairly shake
from head to foot. He had never seen this porter before, and the august
mien and authoritative air of the dignitary looking down on him from
his superior height, with stern disapproval in his glance, took from
Phil all courage.
"Please, sir," he could only gasp, "can I see Sister Kathleen?"
"No, you can't," was the abrupt reply. "Sister Kathleen's not here. She
has been ill, and has gone away for a change. Now then, be off with
you. We don't want any beggars hanging about."
Phil went without a word. The porter's harsh manner so frightened him
that he did not dare to put another question, nor even thought of
asking to see one of the nurses in whose charge he had been.
He was bitterly disappointed. For weeks, the only ray of light in his
sad young life had come from the hope of seeing Sister Kathleen again,
and now that hope was destroyed; for it seemed to him as he passed out
of the hospital gates that he should never see either Sister Kathleen
or his Aunt Lizzie any more.
He made his way to the Strand, which was familiar ground to him, and
there began to beg. The child's face was so sorrowful, and his voice
had such a plaintive ring, that many a one looked on him with pity and
gave him money.
Presently, Phil ventured to exchange one of his pennies for a roll of
bread. After looking cautiously around, to see that no policeman was
near, he crept into a sheltered doorway and sat down to rest and take
his meal. He had not been there many minutes when a girl passed by,
carrying a basket filled with little nosegays. As he glanced at her,
Phil started up with a cry of delight.
"Fan, Fan!" he cried.
The girl looked round astonished, but she was no less pleased than Phil
when she saw who had called her.
"Why, Phil, it's never you!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, it's me," he said breathlessly. "And oh, Fan, I've been to the
hospital to see Sister Kathleen, and she isn't there; she's gone away."
"Is she? Why, how's that?" asked Fan.
"The man said she had been ill," replied Phil.
"Dear me!" said Fan. "Well, do you know, Phil, I've seen Sister
Kathleen. Many a time I've looked about the streets for you, hoping I
might see you to tell you, but neither you nor your mother were ever to
be seen anywhere."
"We live a long way from here," said Phil. "But where did you see
Sister Kathleen?"
"Why, she came to see you, of course; don't you know she said she
would? I happened to be in the alley that evening, and when I saw her
coming along so neat and nice in her long cloak and black bonnet, I
knew who she was at once. So, when I heard her asking for you, I went
forward and told her that you and your mother had gone away, and nobody
knew where you were living. She looked so sorry. I saw tears come into
her eyes, Phil. And then she said that if I should find out where you
were living, she'd be ever so much obliged to me if I'd let her know."
"Did she?" said Phil, looking pleased.
"Yes, she said just that in so many words. Where are you living, Phil?"
"17 St. Bride's Lane, Shoreditch," said Phil. "But you won't be able to
tell her, Fan. She's gone away from the hospital."
"Won't she never come back no more?" asked Fan.
Phil shook his head. "I don't know," he said.
"P'raps she will," said Fan; "anyhow, I'll ask some day when I'm
passing the hospital. Don't say anything to your mother about it, Phil."
"Oh no!" said Phil, surprised that Fan should think it necessary to say
this, since he had no confidences with his mother. He remembered now
that it was getting late, and his mother would be very angry if he kept
her waiting for supper.
"I must go home," he said, taking hold of his crutch and wearily
raising himself from the doorstep. "Come a little way with me, Fan."
Fan agreed, and walked with him to the bottom of Fleet Street, where
they parted, and Phil went on alone. By this time he was very tired,
and it was all he could do to keep moving on till St. Bride's Lane was
gained. It was almost dark when at length he reached home. He went
up-stairs to Moll's room with dread, expecting that she would punish
him for coming so late. But to his surprise the door was still locked,
and his mother was nowhere to be seen. Somewhat relieved, Phil sat down
on the landing to await her return. So worn out was he that he had not
sat there long ere he fell asleep.
He was roused by some one falling over him in the dark, and then
beginning to scold him violently for being where he was. It was not his
mother, however, but the woman who lived in the next room.
"Waiting for your mother, are you?" she said, as Phil, recovering from
his bewilderment, explained why he was there. "Then you'll have to
wait, it strikes me. Your mother won't be home to-night, nor for many
nights to come, I fancy."
"Why not?" asked Phil sleepily. "Where is she?"
"Where is she? Why, in gaol, to be sure. She's been taken up for
receiving stolen goods from a servant gal."
"Will they keep her there?" asked Phil, too heavy with sleep to
comprehend exactly what had happened, but glad to learn that he need
not expect his mother immediately.
"Little fear; for it's as clear as daylight that she knew the things
were stolen. She'll be tried in a few days, and if they don't give her
six months, I'm much mistaken."
So saying, the woman passed on into her room.
And Phil, curling himself up, was soon asleep again.
He woke the next morning with aching head and limbs, and a general
sense of weariness and sickness. He picked himself up from his hard
couch, and made his way down-stairs and into the street. The hour was
early, and the morning air as fresh as it ever was in that narrow
street, but it failed to revive Phil.
He dragged himself along wearily till he came to a coffee stall, where
some workmen were having breakfast. Phil bought a cup of coffee and
a slice of bread and butter. But whilst he drank the coffee eagerly,
he found to his surprise that he could not get on with the bread and
butter. He was fain to give the greater part of it to a half-starved
cur, which, judging him perhaps as uncared for as itself, made friendly
advances to him.
Phil had not forgotten the news of his mother which he had heard on
the previous night, but it had made such a confused impression on his
mind that he almost fancied it was a dream. But he soon learned that it
was true, for when he returned to the house, he found the neighbours
talking about his mother's arrest. And one and another told him that
he need not expect to see her for some time to come. One of the women
asked him how he would get along without his mother.
Phil made no reply, but he thought he could get along very well, if
only his head would not ache so badly and he did not feel so weak and
queer.
The door of his mother's room was still locked, and Phil tried in vain
to push it open. But the woman who lived in the next room called her
husband to his help, and the man succeeded in forcing back the lock.
When it was known that the door was open, all the inhabitants of the
house flocked into the room, eager to look at Moll's belongings. Later
in the day came a policeman, who searched every hole and corner of
Moll's room, and took possession of certain things he found there. But
no one paid much attention to Phil, who hung about, feeling sick and
wretched.
When at last the neighbours' curiosity was satisfied, and Moll's room
deserted, Phil, conscious of a weary longing for rest, lay down on the
bed. And there, alone and uncared for, he remained all day, dozing most
of the time, but waking at intervals to a sense of pain and thirst and
general discomfort.