When Dicky Perrott and the small hunchback were hauling and struggling
across the street, Old Fisher came down from the top-floor back, wherein
he dwelt with his son Bob, Bob's wife and two sisters, and five
children: an apartment in no way so clean as the united efforts of ten
people might be expected to have made it. Old Fisher, on whose grimy
face the wrinkles were deposits of mud, stopped at the open door on the
first floor, and, as Dicky had done, he took a peep. Perplexed at the
monstrous absence of dirt, and encouraged by the stillness, Old Fisher
also ventured within. Nobody was in charge, and Old Fisher, mentally
pricing the pink glass vases at threepence, made for a small chest in
the corner of the room, and lifted the lid. Within lay many of Roper's
tools, from among which he had that morning taken such as he might want
on an emergent call to work, to carry as he tramped Curtain Road.
Clearly these were the most valuable things in the place; and, slipping
a few small articles into his pockets, Old Fisher took a good double
handful of the larger, and tramped upstairs with them. Presently he
returned with Bob's missis, and together they started with more. As they
emerged, however, there on the landing stood the little hunchback,
sobbing and smearing his face with his sleeve. At sight of this new
pillage he burst into sharp wails, standing impotent on the landing, his
streaming eyes following the man and woman ascending before him. Old
Fisher, behind, stumped the stairs with a clumsy affectation of
absent-mindedness; the woman, in front, looked down, merely indifferent.
Scarce were they vanished above, however, when the little hunchback
heard his father and mother on the lower stairs.