"No, I won't. I'm hungry. I'll eat it. Thankee."
With a coarse laugh he left the room, and poor Martha sat down again to
her weary toil, which was not in any degree lightened by the fact that
she had just given away her last shilling.
A moment after, the door opened suddenly and Mr Sparks looked in with a
grin, which did not improve the expression of his countenance.
"I say, I wouldn't finish that dress to-night if I was you."
"Why not, Phil?" asked the girl in surprise.
"'Cause the lady won't want it to-morrow arternoon."
"How do you know that?"
"No matter. It's by means of a kind of second-sight I've got, that I
find out a-many things. All I can say is that I've got a strong
suspicion--a what d'ye call it--a presentiment that Mrs Middleton, of
Number 6, Conway Street, Knightsbridge, won't want her dress to-morrow,
so I advise you to go to bed to-night."
Without waiting for a reply Mr Sparks shut the door and descended to
the street. Purchasing and lighting a cheroot at the nearest tobacco
shop with part of Martha's last shilling, he thrust his hands into his
pockets, and sauntering along various small streets and squares, gave
his undivided attention to business.
For a man whose wants were rather extensive and urgent, the "business"
did not seem a very promising one. He glanced up at the houses as he
sauntered along, appearing almost to expect that some of them would
undergo spontaneous combustion for his special accommodation.
Occasionally he paused and gazed at a particular house with rapt
intensity, as if he hoped the light which flashed from his own eyes
would set it on fire; but the houses being all regular bricks refused to
flare up at such a weak insult.
Finding his way to Trafalgar Square, Mr Sparks threw away the end of
his cheroot, and, mending his pace, walked smartly along Piccadilly
until he gained the neighbourhood of Knightsbridge. Here he purchased
another cheroot, and while lighting it took occasion to ask if there was
a street thereabouts named Conway Street.
"Yes, sir, there is," said a small and exceedingly pert
crossing-sweeper, who chanced to be standing near the open door of the
shop, and overheard the question. "I'll show you the way for a copper,
sir, but silver preferred, if you're so disposed."
"Whereabouts is it?" asked Mr Sparks of the shopman, regardless of the
boy.
"Round the corner to your right, and after that second turning to your
left."
"Oh, that's all wrong," cried the boy. "W'y, 'ow should 'ee know
hanythink about streets? Never goes nowheres, does nothink but sell
snuff an' pigtail, mornin', noon, and night. 'Ee should have said,
_right_ round the corner to your right, and 'ee should have added `sir,'
for that's right w'en a gen'l'm'n's spoke to, arter w'ich, w'en you've
left this 'ere street, take second turnin' to your left, if you're
left-'anded, an' then you come hall right. That's 'ow 'ee ought to have
said it, sir."
In the midst of this flow of information, Mr Sparks emerged into the
street.
"I'll show you the way for love, sir, if you ain't got no money," said
the boy in a tone of mock sincerity, stepping up and touching his cap.
"Let 'im alone, Bloater," cried another and smaller boy, "don't you see
ee's one of the swell mob, an' don't want to 'ave too much attention
drawed to him?"
"No 'ee ain't, Little Jim, ee's only a gen'l'm'n in disguise," replied
the Bloater, sidling up to Mr Sparks, and urgently repeating, "show you
the way for a copper, sir, _only_ a copper."
Mr Sparks, being, as we have said, an irascible man, and particularly
out of humour that evening, did not vouchsafe a reply, but, turning
suddenly round, gave the Bloater a savage kick that turned him head over
heels into the road.
The Bloater, whose proper name was Robert Herring, from which were
derived the aliases, Raw Herring and the Bloater, immediately recovered
himself and rushed at Mr Sparks with his broom. He was a strong,
resolute, passionate boy, yet withal good-humoured and placable. In the
first burst of indignation he certainly meant to commit a violent
assault, but he suddenly changed his mind. Perhaps the look and
attitude of his antagonist had something to do with the change; perhaps
the squeaky voice of Little Jim, shouting "hooray, Bloater, go in an'
win," may have aroused his sense of the ludicrous, which was very
strong, and helped to check him. At all events, instead of bringing his
broom down on the head of Mr Sparks, Bloater performed an impromptu
war-dance round him and flourished his weapon with a rapidity that was
only surpassed by the rapid flow of his language.
"Now then, Gunpowder, come on; wot do you mean by it--eh? You
low-minded son of a pepper-castor! Who let you out o' the cruet-stand?
Wot d'ee mean by raisin' yer dirty foot ag'in a _honest_ man, w'ch _you_
ain't, an' never was, an' never will be, an' never _could_ be, seein'
that both your respected parients was 'anged afore you was born. Come
on, I say. You ain't a coward, air you? If so, I'll 'and you over to
Little Jim 'ere, an' stand by to see fair play!"
During this outburst, Mr Sparks had quietly faced the excited boy,
watching his opportunity to make a dash at him, but the appearance of a
policeman put a sudden termination to the riot by inducing the Bloater
and Little Jim to shoulder their brooms and fly. Mr Sparks, smiling
grimly, (he never smiled otherwise), thrust his hands into his pockets,
resumed his cheroot, and held on the even tenor of his way.
But he had not yet done with the Bloater. That volatile and revengeful
youth, having run on in advance, ensconced himself behind a projection
at the corner of the street close to which Sparks had to pass, and from
that point of vantage suddenly shot into his ear a yell so excruciating
that it caused the man to start and stagger off the pavement; before he
could recover himself, his tormentor had doubled round the corner and
vanished.
Growling savagely, he continued his walk. One of the turns to the left,
which he had to make, led him through a dark and narrow street. Here,
keeping carefully in the middle of the road for security, he looked
sharply on either side, having his hands out of his pockets now, and
clenched, for he fully expected another yell. He was wrong, however, in
his expectations. The Bloater happened to know of a long ladder, whose
nightly place of repose was on the ground in a certain dark passage,
with its end pointing across that street. Taking up a position beside
this ladder, with Little Jim--who followed him, almost bursting with
delight--he bided his time and kept as quiet as a mouse. Just in the
nick of time the ladder was run out, and Mr Sparks tripping over it,
fell violently to the ground. He sprang up and gave chase, of course,
but he might as well have followed a will-o'-the-wisp. The young
scamps, doubling like hares, took refuge in a dark recess under a stair
with which they were well acquainted, and from that position they
watched their enemy. They heard him go growling past; knew, a moment or
two later, from the disappointed tone of the growl, that he had found
the opening at the other end of the passage; heard him return, growling,
and saw him for a moment in the dim light of the entrance as he left the
place. Then, swiftly issuing from their retreat, they followed.
"I say, Bloater," whispered Little Jim, "ee's got such an ugly mug that
I do b'lieve ee's up to some game or other."
"P'raps 'ee is," returned the Bloater, meditatively; "we'll let 'im
alone an' foller 'im up."
The prolonged season of peace that followed, induced Mr Sparks to
believe that his tormentors had left him, he therefore dismissed them
from his mind, and gave himself entirely to business. Arrived at Conway
street, he found that it was one of those semi-genteel streets in the
immediate neighbourhood of Kensington Gardens, wherein dwell thriving
tradespeople who know themselves to be rising in the world, and
unfortunate members of the "upper ten," who know that they have come
down in the world, but have not ceased the struggle to keep up
appearances. It was a quiet, unfrequented street, in which the hum of
the surrounding city sounded like the roar of a distant cataract. Here
Mr Sparks checked his pace--stopped--and looked about him with evident
caution.
"Ho, ho!" whispered Little Jim.
"We've tracked 'im down," replied the Bloater with a chuckle.
Mr Sparks soon found Number 6. On the door a brass plate revealed
"Mrs Middleton."
"Ha! she _must_ have it, must she, an' _won't_ take no denial," muttered
the man between his teeth.
Mr Sparks observed that one of the lower windows was open, which was
not to be wondered at, for the weather was rather warm at the time. He
also observed that the curtains of the window were made of white
flowered muslin, and that they swayed gently in the wind, not far from a
couple of candles which stood on a small table. There was no one in the
room at the time.
"Strange," muttered Mr Sparks, with a grim smile, "that people _will_
leave lights so near muslin curtains!"
Most ordinary people would have thought the candles in question at a
sufficiently safe distance from the curtains, but Mr Sparks apparently
thought otherwise. He entertained peculiar views about the danger of
fire.
From the position which the two boys occupied they could not see the man
while he was thus engaged in examining and commenting on Number 6,
Conway Street, but they saw him quite well when he crossed the street,
(which had only one side to it, a wall occupying the other), and they
saw him still better in the course of a few seconds when a bright light
suddenly streamed towards him, and illumined his villainous countenance,
and they heard as well as saw him, the next instant, when he shouted
"_fire--fire_!" and rushed frantically away.
"Hallo!" exclaimed the Bloater, and dashed off at full speed. Little
Jim echoed the sentiment and followed.
Robert, alias Raw Herring, was a sharp-witted lad. He understood the
case, (partly at least), in a moment, and proceeded to appropriate
action. Being intimately acquainted with that part of London, he took a
short cut, overshot Mr Sparks, and was first to give the alarm at the
fire-station. When, therefore, Mr Sparks ran in, panting and shouting
"fire!" great was his surprise to find the men already roused, and the
horses being attached to the engine.
"Where away?" inquired one of the firemen, supposing that Sparks,
perhaps, brought information of another fire.
"Number 6, Conway Street," he gasped.
"All right, we've got the noos already. The boys brought it."
The Bloater, with a mouth extending from ear to ear and all his teeth
displayed, uttered the single word "sold!" as Mr Sparks turned his eyes
on him. One glance was enough. The man became very pale, and suddenly
left the station amid a shout of laughter from the firemen, as they
leaped on the engine and drove away, followed by the two boys whose
spirits were already excited to the highest pitch of ecstasy by a fire.
It was early morning before the fire was subdued, and Number 6 left the
blackened skeleton of a house. Long before that, the Bloater and Little
Jim had sought repose in the cart-shed of a neighbouring stable. Long
before that Mr Philip Sparks had retired to rest, growling anathemas on
the heads of boys in general, and crossing-sweepers in particular; and
not _very_ long before that poor Martha Reading had put in the last
stitch of her work, and fallen into a profound sleep in her chair.
Mr Sparks turned out to be a true prophet. Mrs Middleton did _not_
insist on having her dress home that afternoon, and when Martha, true to
her promise, conveyed it to Number 6, Conway Street, she found no one
there to receive it except a few drenched men of the Red Brigade, and
the police.