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(Princeton University)
LONDON'S HEART.
LONDON'S HEART.
A Novel
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF "GRIF," "JOSHUA MARVEL," "BLADE-O'-GRASS," "GOLDEN
GRAIN," AND "BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES."
New Edition
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1874.
LONDON:
SWIFT AND CO., REGENT PRESS, KING STREET,
REGENT STREET, W.
CONTENTS
I. IN WHICH MR. PODMORE DECLARES THAT HE IS NOT
ACCOUNTABLE FOR HIMSELF
II. IN WHICH GRIBBLE JUNIOR DISCOURSES ON CO-OPERATION
III. INTRODUCES THE ROYAL WHITE ROSE MUSIC-HALL
IV. MR. DAVID SHELDRAKE COMES TO A SHREWD CONCLUSION
V. MR. DAVID SHELDRAKE DOES A GOOD NIGHT'S WORK
VI. GRAVE NEWS
VII. THE IRON BOX
VIII. THE REVEREND EMANUEL CREAMWELL STOPS THE WAY
IX. THE REVEREND EMANUEL CREAMWELL AND HIS SON TAKE
DIFFERENT VIEWS OF THINGS
X. FELIX GOES OVER TO THE ENEMY
XI. FELIX, DISSATISFIED WITH THE REALITY, SETS UP AN
IDOL, AND WORSHIPS IT
XII. POLLYPOD WANTS TO KNOW
XIII. THE WINNER OF THE NORTHUMBERLAND PLATE
XIV. TRAPS FOR GULLS----HOW SPIDERS CATCH THE FLIES
XV. SUGGESTS THE DOUBT WHETHER EVERY FRIEND IN NEED
IS A FRIEND INDEED
XVI. THE CAPTAIN ARRIVES
XVII. A HAPPY NIGHT
XVIII. THE BEATING OF THE PULSE
XIX. MR. SHELDRAKE SUGGESTS THAT IT IS TIME FOR MUZZY
TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF
XX. AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION
XXI. LIZZIE TELLS A VERY SIMPLE STORY
XXII. LOVE LINES
XXIII. THE COMMENCEMENT OF A HAPPY DAY
XXIV. SELFISH YEARNINGS AND UNSELFISH LOVE
XXV. ALFRED NEGLECTS THE WARNING OF DON'T TOUCH ME,
AND RUES IT
XXVI. SURPRISES
XXVII. FELIX COMFORTS MARTHA DAY
XXVIII. LIZZIE IN HER NEW HOME
XXIX. FELIX FINDS HIS OYSTER DIFFICULT TO OPEN
XXX. JIM PODMORE HAS A "DAZE"
XXXI. THE SWINDLE WHICH THE LAW PROTECTS KNOWN BY THE
TITLE OF DISCRETIONARY INVESTMENTS
XXXII. THE POLISH JEW
XXXIII. LIZZIE DEEMS IT NECESSARY TO CALL CUNNING TO HER AID
XXXIV. GOOD COUNSEL
XXXV. MR. PODMORE WISHES TO BE INSTRUCTED UPON THE
DOCTRINE OF RESPONSIBILITY, AND DECLARES THAT HE
HAS A PRESENTMENT
XXXVI. HOW FELIX GAINED A CLUE
XXXVII. JIM PODMORE HAS A DREAM, AND WAKES UP IN TIME
XXXVIII. FELIX BECOMES A LANDLORD
XXXIX. ALFRED'S LAST CHANCE
XL. ON EPSOM DOWNS
XLI. ON THE WATCH
XLII. THE CLOUDS BRIGHTEN FOR LILY
XLIII. MR. SHELDRAKE MAKES A BOLD MOVE
XLIV. A CRISIS
XLV. HOW MR. SHELDRAKE PLAYS HIS GAME
XLVI. FATHER AND DAUGHTER
XLVII. FELIX CHECKMATES MR. DAVID SHELDRAKE
LONDON'S HEART.
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH MR. PODMORE DECLARES THAT HE IS NOT ACCOUNTABLE
FOR HIMSELF.
The scene opens in the locality of Soho--that labyrinth of narrow
paths which always wears a depressed and melancholy air, as if it had
just gone into mourning. If Soho ever had bright days in the shape of
a sunny youth, it must have been very long ago. No trace of them
remains; a settled sadness lies upon its queer narrow thoroughfares
now and for evermore. The very voices of its residents are more
subdued and resigned than other voices are in other places.
No locality in London contains so strange a variety of life's phases
as may be found in Soho. And yet it is full of mystery, and its ways
are dark and secret. Men and women may live there for years, and their
antecedents and present modes of life shall be as little known as if
they lived in the most remote corner of the earth. Soho is the molehill
of the Great City. You may have a thousand pounds a year and spend it in
Soho, and your neighbours not only shall not notice it, but shall be as
utterly indifferent to you as if you lived on tenpence a day--as hundreds
of poor fellows are doing at this present moment. Hard-working mechanics
live there; weary-eyed needlewomen; libertines; ballet-girls, whose
salary is twenty shillings a week, and who wear furs and false hair
and diamond rings; and man-owls, who sleep by day and prey by night. On
the doorstep of some of the houses in which these persons dwell,
children in the afternoon play with marbles and broken pieces of
crockery. Here is a group composed of half a dozen dirty-stockinged
little girls, who look at you shyly as you pause before them, and put
their fingers in their mouths and giggle surreptitiously. Speak to this
one--a clear gray-eyed girl of some eight summers, with intelligent
well-formed face and beautiful light hair. Question her, and bribe her
with pence, and you may obtain from her the information that she lives
in the next street, at the baker's, on the second-floor back; that
mother and father live there, of course; that seven brothers and
sisters live there, making a family party of ten in all; that they
have only one room, in which mother cooks the meals, and in which
they all sleep; and that sometimes Uncle Bob pays them a visit, and
eats and sleeps with them for a few days. Wondrous is the inner life
of Soho. It is the abode of much seediness and much suffering. Many
a poor gentleman eats his bread-and-dripping there, and, if he can
afford it, cooks his herring there, and thinks sadly of times, gone
by, when his life had its days of sunshine. He looks forward yearningly
to the time to come; but rich as is the harvest that grows in the fields
of Hope, the chance of its ever being gathered is a dismal one indeed.
The poor gentleman, ill-fed, ill-dressed, reads faded letters in his
garret, kisses pictures there, and dreams hopefully of the future,
which contains for him nothing but a grave.
In one of Soho's quiet streets--belonging to that peculiar family of
streets which are invariably round the corner--is a tallow-chandler's
shop, ambitiously designated by its proprietor, J. Gribble senior, as
an oil and colour warehouse. This designation glares at you from over
the blue shopfront in yellow letters--glares at you defiantly, as if
it is aware beforehand that doubt of its assertion must necessarily
rise in your mind. The window of the shop, in which the stock is
displayed, is dusty and dirty, and everything behind it has a faded
and second-hand appearance. In a corner of the window is a sheet
of note-paper, on which is written--in feeble and uncertain
letters--"Down with Cooperation!" There is an exception, however, to
the generally dusty aspect of the window. In a centre pane, which is
kept clean, is a square of blue cardboard, on which the following
announcement is neatly written, in yellow round-hand:
_J. GRIBBLE JUNIOR_,
_PROFESSOR OF ANATOMY_.
* * * * * *
_Broken Ribs or Bones_
_Carefully Re-set or Neatly Mended;_
_In fact_
_The Whole Frame speedily Recovered on Moderate Terms_.
* * * * * *
_J. G. junior informs the neighbouring Gentry that he has had a most
Extensive Practice, and that, although he has had_
_THOUSANDS OF PATIENTS_
_under his Treatment, he has never turned out one Incurable_.
_J. G. junior has had Numerous Patients brought to him Partly Deformed
or Weakened through Improper Treatment, and has in a very few Hours
invariably restored to them their Original Strength_.
* * * * * *
_Consultations, Examination, and Operations performed Daily
from 8 a.m. till 10 p.m_.
* * * * * *
_Patients admitted on application, and without the vexatious delay
which is occasioned by references being required_.
_NO CURE, NO PAY. ADVICE TO ALL GRATIS_.
* * * * * *
_J. G, junior's Royal Umbrella and Parasol Hospital,
Second-floor Front_.
The stock has not a very inviting appearance: comprising, for the most
part, candles, mouse-traps, balls of twine, bars of yellow soap--so
arranged as to be suggestive of prison-windows--and limbs and wings
and dead bodies of flies. These latter seem to be the peculiar
attribute of shop and parlour windows in Soho. One might almost be
pardoned for the supposition that every discontented fly in London
makes it a practice to go to Soho and die.
The shop has its public entrance for customers, and its private
entrance for the residents of the house--so private indeed, so
circumscribed and squeezed up, that scarcely one out of fifty
passers-by would know that it was there; and that one, seeing it by
merest chance, might well be lost in wonder at the perplexing idea of
a stout man struggling through the narrow passage into which the
mockery of a door must necessarily open. Three bell-handles display
themselves on each side of the door to snare and entrap the
uninitiated; a goggle-eyed knocker (with a face so hideous that babies
have gone into convulsions at the sight of it) also adds to the
entanglement of ideas. For, knowing that the house contains many
inhabitants who have no connection with each other, and some of whom
may indeed be at variance, the uninitiated brings confusion upon
himself by ringing the wrong bell or knocking the wrong knock. A
woman, who lodged somewhere in the vicinity of the coal-cellar, was
often the occasion of much distress to the knockers and ringers. This
woman, who always made her appearance fresh from the washing-tub, and
who came up-stairs invariably wiping her wet arms upon her apron, was
afflicted with the perpetual conviction that a ring or a knock,
whether single, or double, or treble, was certainly intended for her;
and as her temper was none of the sweetest, unpleasant scenes
occurred. Many a box on the ears did youthful knockers and ringers
receive from the damp hands of the disappointed woman, and many an
angry mother would make her appearance in the passage a few minutes
afterwards and exchange shrill civilities with the bad-tempered
castigator. Sometimes these angry mothers would go almost into
hysterics because the woman below declined to comply with such
invitations as, "Come up, and I'll show yer!" or, "Come up, and I'll
scratch yer eyes out for yer!" or, "What d'yer mean by slappin' my boy
Billy about on the 'ead, which was weak from a babby? What d'yer mean
by it, yer minx?--What d'yer mean?" (This last _fortissimo_.) "Come
up, and I'll tear the 'air out of yer 'ead!" After which challenges
and defiances the angry mothers, with very white faces, would issue
into the street, and form the centres of little knots of female
neighbours only too willing to discuss the matter and express their
opinions. A facetious person, who had called several times at the
house, and who was never able to solve the mystery of the bells, once
hit upon what he conceived to be a happy idea. He gave a postman's
knock; but the rush of eager feet from all parts of the house, and the
glare of angry faces that met his smiling one when the door was
opened, were sufficient warnings to him never to try it again; and he
never did.
In the front room of the first floor of this house sits an old man,
working in somewhat idle fashion on a few wooden castors or wheels. It
is Saturday on a summer evening in June. The window is open; on the
sill are two flower-pots. The room, which is a humble one, is very
clean and tidy, and there are evidences of comfort, even of refinement
about it, humble as it is. Some cheap graceful ornaments are on the
mantelshelf: a pair of shells; a shepherd and a shepherdess, condemned
by the exigencies of art to live apart from each other,
notwithstanding their languishing looks; and, in the centre of the
mantelshelf, a vase with two of yesterday's roses in it. These roses,
as they are placed in the vase, touch the photograph of a young girl,
which hangs in a frame above them. She is pretty and fresh-looking,
and there is a smile upon her face which induces gladness in the
beholder: as spring flowers and bright skies do. On either side of the
portrait, hung on a higher level, is a picture of the same young girl,
disguised. On the right-hand side of the mantelshelf she is dressed in
a Spanish costume; on her shoulders is a black-lace shawl arranged
with the most charming negligence; and as she looks at you from behind
a fan, you catch just a glimpse of laughing eyes. On the left-hand
side of the mantelshelf she is dressed in the costume of a century
ago, in brocaded silk dress, and with black beauty-spots on her
cheeks; she wears a white wig, and, in the act of curtseying, looks at
you saucily and demurely, coquetting the while with a white
handkerchief which she holds in her fingers. The stove is hidden by an
ornament of paper flowers, the colours and arrangement of which are
more artistic than the majority of those sold in the streets. There is
one singular peculiarity about the furniture in the room: everything
movable is on wheels. The chairs, the table, a footstool, the very
ornaments on the mantelshelf--all on wheels made expressly for them.
There is no carpet on the floor; but the chairs make no noise as they
are moved, for the wheels (made of box or deal, according to
requirement) are covered with leather. Even the flower-pots on the
window-sill have wheels, and the old man is at present occupied in
making wheels for a work-box, which it is not difficult to guess
belongs to the young girl whose portrait hangs above the roses. He
works noiselessly and slowly, and with great care. It is evident that
he is engaged on a labour of love. He handles the wood as if it were
sensitive; he looks at his handiwork fondly, and holds it up to the
light and examines it with loving interest. Once he rises and stands
before the mantelshelf, and gazes with a tender light in his eyes at
the picture of the young girl. Then he returns to his tools, and
resumes his work. A slight sound disturbs him, and he pauses in his
work to listen. As he listens he raises his hand to his ear, and
directs his eyes towards a screen, which makes, as it were, a second
apartment of the cosiest corner of the room. Something that the old
man loves lies behind this screen, which is so arranged that the
pictures on the mantelshelf and the roses and the ornaments of paper
flowers can be seen by the person lying there. A pale, thin, bent old
man is he: not bent by age, but by constant stooping; with long
hair--a fringe of it only round his head--nearly white, and with a
thoughtful expression on his face that would well become a student;
which this old man is not, in the ordinary acceptation of the term.
Among the decorations on the mantelshelf is the smallest of clocks, in
a case of wood, carved most likely by Swiss hands. As the old man sits
and works, a click from the Swiss clock warns him that another hour is
nearly gone. "Five minutes to nine," he whispers, and he steps softly
towards the screen, and moves it so that, when he returns to his seat,
he can see what it has before hidden from his sight. With the
exception of the click, and presently of the striking of the hour in
thin bell-notes, not a sound is heard in the room; for the old man has
list slippers on his feet. The shifting of the screen has disclosed a
single iron bedstead, on which lies a woman asleep. She is careworn
and middle-aged; and when her features are composed, a likeness may be
discerned in them to the picture of the girl on the mantelshelf. But
at the present moment her lips wreathe distressfully, and an
expression of pain rests upon her face.
So, in this quiet room, the sick woman sleeping and the old man
working, the minutes pass swiftly, and the click of the little Swiss
clock is heard again. Five minutes to ten. The old man, who has been
growing restless, and who has several times gone to the bed to see if
the woman is awake, grows more restless still as he hears the last
click. "Alfred promised to be here by this time," he says, with an
anxious look at the door as he lays his work aside. On a little table
near the bed are two medicine bottles, one large and one small, which,
with their labels tied nattily round their necks, look ridiculously
like clergymen with their bands on. The old man takes one of these
medicine bottles, and reads the directions: "Two tablespoonfuls to be
given immediately she awakes, and after that, the same quantity every
four hours."
"And she won't take it from any other hand than mine or Lily's," he
muses. "If Alfred doesn't come home, and she doesn't wake, I must get
somebody to go for Lily."
As he stands debating with himself what is best to be done, he hears a
tap at the door. It heralds the appearance of a young woman, one of
the lodgers in the upper part of the house. She has her hat and shawl
on, and a basket is on her arm.
"Ah, Mrs. Podmore," he says abstractedly, "will you step inside?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Wheels," she answers; "I'm in a hurry. How's your
daughter to-night?"
"Not so well, not so well," he says. "She's wandering a little, I
think. The doctor was here in the afternoon, and I could tell by his
face that he thought she was worse. And I have to give her her
medicine directly she wakes."
"I'm sorry she's not well. We've all got our trials, Mr. Wheels! My
sister's little boy's down with the fever too. I'm going to take a run
round to see how he is."
"Not serious, I hope?"
"I don't know," replies Mrs. Podmore gravely; "he seems to me to be
sinking--but we're all in God Almighty's hands. One thinks of one's
own, Mr. Wheels, at such times. Thank God, _our_ little one's
upstairs, asleep, safe and well. But we feared we was going to lose
her in the spring, and I never see a child struck down but I think of
_her_."
"I often think of little Polly, too," says the old man sympathisingly,
"and of how near she was to death. Do you remember how Lily grieved?"
"Remember it!" exclaims Mrs. Podmore, with grateful enthusiasm. "I
shall remember it to my dying day. What I should have done without her
I don't know. When Polly was a-laying there so quiet and solemn and
white, and my heart was fit to break, Lily used to come and cheer me
up. She was the only comfort I had, bless her kind heart and pretty
face!"
"Yes, yes," cries the old man eagerly; "and how Polly took to her
after that! and how fond she was of my girl! But who could help being
that--who could help being that?"
"I had enough to do, what with looking after Jim and Polly," continues
the homely woman. "What with keeping the place clean and sweet, and
making the things the doctor ordered, and mending Jim's clothes, and
getting his dinner and tea ready for him every morning before he went
out; and what with him coming home dead-beat and worried with anxiety
about Polly, I wonder how I ever got through with it. As for doctors,
my blood curdles again when I see them looking so steady and cold at
somebody that's a-dying before their very eyes. Our Polly had been
abed nigh upon three weeks, when the doctor comes and looks at her and
feels her pulse, and shakes his head. My eyes was never off his face
for a second; and when I saw him shake his head, I turned so faint
that I thought I should have dropped. He was going away without a
word, when I stopped him in the passage. I tried to speak, but I
couldn't, and I thought it was cruel of him to be so particular about
buttoning his gloves, while I was in that state of agitation that I
could hardly stand. 'Don't take on so, Mrs. Podmore,' he said; 'you've
done your best, and that ought to be a consolation to you.' As if
anything could have been a consolation to me! I asked him if he
couldn't give me a bit of hope; but he shook his head again, and said,
'While there's life there's hope.' I knew what that meant, and I had
to catch hold of the banisters to steady myself. Then I went and sat
by Polly's bed, and began to cry. It seemed to me that she was gone
from us already, and that home wasn't home any more. And I was
frightened when I thought of Jim. His heart's bound up in Polly, you
see, Mr. Wheels; they used to have quite a little play between them of
a morning. She'd creep close to him in bed, and put her arms round his
neck, and there they'd lay a-cuddling one another for half an hour
before he had to get up. When he had had his breakfast and had kissed
her a dozen times, and was out in the passage going to work, she'd
call him back and make fun of him, and they'd laugh together that
cheery like that it did my heart good to hear 'em. Sometimes she
wouldn't call him, and he'd wait in the passage. She knew he was
waiting, and she'd set up in bed, with a cunning little smile on her
lips, and her head bent forward, and her pretty hand raised,
listening. He knew what was going on inside that little head of hers,
and he'd stamp his feet and pretend to go downstairs. Then she'd call
out to him, 'Father, father!' and he'd say, 'Here I am, Pollypod!' and
they'd have another romp together, until he said, 'Now I _must_ be
off, Pollypod!' and away he'd run, waking half the people in the house
with his clatter. I was always easy in my mind about Jim when he went
away like that. I thought of all this after the doctor gave Polly up,
and I was frightened. Jim was very late that night, and Lily was with
me when he came home. 'How's my little Pollypod?' he said; but he
didn't wait for an answer--he saw it in my face. I thought he'd have
gone mad; but we got him quieted after a bit, and Lily sat up with me
that night watching. Well, it was a little past four o'clock in the
morning, and Jim was asleep, and Lily and me was watching and fearing,
watching and fearing! Ah! it's an anxious time that watching of a
night, when you fear you're a-going to lose something that's dearer to
you than life! The tick of the clock then isn't like the tick of the
clock at any other time. It seems to bring a warning to you, like; it
sounds so solemn, that it brings a creeping feeling on you, and you're
almost too frightened to look over your shoulder. That night we could
have heard a pin drop, everything was so quiet. Polly was so still
that I put my face close to hers on the pillow to catch her breathing,
and I was laying like that when she opened her eyes quite wide. It
gave me a dreadful turn, for I didn't know what was going to happen.
But she opened her eyes for good, thank God! 'Where's father?' she
asked. I couldn't have heard her, she said it so soft, if my face
hadn't been close to hers, and if my heart hadn't been in my ears.
'Where's father?' she asked. I motioned to Lily, and she woke Jim; and
Polly moved her thin little hand towards him and smiled. She wanted to
put her hand on his neck, but she was that weak she couldn't. So Jim,
with the tears running down his face, but making believe to laugh as
if they was having a game together, puts his face quite close to hers,
and kisses her, and from that moment Polly mended; and father and her
they romp together in the morning as they used to do, and pretend more
than ever, I think."
Here Mrs. Podmore wipes her eyes, and asks the old man to forgive her
for being such a gossip. "I've come to ask you, as you're going to
stay in, to tell Jim, if he comes home before I'm back, that I won't
be gone long."
"I'll tell him; and perhaps, Mrs. Podmore, you wouldn't mind my asking
your husband if he would go to the music-hall, and bring Lily home. I
can't leave my daughter, you see, and Alf's not here, and I don't like
the idea of Lily walking through the streets by herself."
"Ask him and welcome," says Mrs. Podmore; "but, love your heart Mr.
Wheels, Jim'll be that sleepy when he comes upstairs that I don't
think he's to be trusted. He can hardly see hisself home when he's
done work, he's that worked off his legs; and he's worse on Saturday
than on any other night. How he manages to tumble through the streets
is more than I can tell; it's a mercy he ain't run over. He always
waits in the passage for me to come and help him up, and when he _is_
up, he tumbles down dead beat. That's why I asked you to tell him
about my being out, you being nearest the street-door. To be sure
Jim is a little brighter sometimes than others, and he may be so
to-night."
The old man clings to this hope, and nods to Mrs. Podmore, who hurries
out of the house. Then the old man falls to counting the seconds until
Mr. Podmore makes his appearance. He has not long to wait. In a short
time he hears the street-door opened and slammed-to. "That's Mr.
Podmore," says the old man, starting from his chair and listening
anxiously; "I hope he's not too tired to go."
Mr. Podmore seems to be not only too tired to go, but too tired to
come. When he has slammed the street-door, he leans against it, and
dozes. He has no need to close his eyes, for they were closed when he
opened the door. He remains in this position for a few moments, then
shuffles along the passage. Coming to the stairs, he sits upon the
lowest step, and yields to the soft-sleeping murmurs which are
overpowering him. Rousing himself, he sets himself in motion again,
and begins to ascend the stairs, dragging his feet wearily, and falls
asleep again before he arrives at the landing. In this way he reaches
the old man, who is waiting to speak to him, and who is already
tormented by the fear that this is not one of Mr. Podmore's bright
nights.
Mr. Podmore is followed by a dog--a rough, yellow Scotch
terrier--every hair in whose body bristles with watchfulness. It is a
small dog, viciously faithful, and as it waits patiently and
intelligently upon its master's movements, observing every motion with
its watchful grey eyes, it declares clearly, "Here am I, wide awake,
and armed at all points. Touch him if you dare with any but a friendly
hand! Address him at your peril in any but a friendly voice! I'm on
guard, faithful and true, and I can distinguish friends from foes. I
can smell them." No signs of impatience are visible in the dog's
demeanour at Mr. Podmore's slow progress upstairs. It follows its
master's footsteps with serious attention, watches while he dozes,
pricks up its ears as he sets himself in motion again, and now stands
on the landing before the old man with its nose close to its master's
legs.
"Good-evening, Mr. Podmore," says the old man.
"Good-evening."
He blinks at the light which the old man holds in his hands, closes
his eyes, and shows so decided a disposition to lean against nothing,
that the old man has to save him from falling. This arouses him for a
moment, and seeing the door open, he staggers into the room, and sinks
into a chair. He is a well-made man, thirty years of age perhaps, and
belongs unmistakably to the working classes--to one of the most
perilously-worked of the working-classes. He carries a blue-cotton
pocket-handkerchief containing an empty basin and plate which has held
his dinner, and his hands and face are black with dirt. As he sits in
the chair, having fallen rather heavily into it, the dog stretches
itself under the seat, with its nose between its master's legs. You
can see nothing of it but the tip of its nose and its two watchful
grey eyes, steady and clear and humid, on the look-out for squalls.
"Where's my wife?" murmurs Mr. Podmore drowsily.
"She asked me to tell you," replies the old man, regarding Mr. Podmore
doubtfully, "that she's gone to see her sister's child, who is ill.
She'll be back soon."
"All right," says Mr. Podmore, upon whose ears the old man's gentle
voice falls so soothingly that the soft sleep-murmurs take more
complete possession of him; he sways forward in his chair, and is on
the point of falling to the ground on his face, when he recovers
himself by a sudden convulsive movement.
"Hush!" says the old man, casting an apprehensive look towards the
bed. "Don't make a noise."
"Never fear," murmurs Mr. Podmore. "I have enough--noise--every
day--to last me--my life-time."
He does not say this all at once, but breaks off two or three times to
doze. Seeing him in this condition, the old man relinquishes his
intention of asking him to go for Lily; his great anxiety now is to
get rid of the tired-out man. But Mr. Podmore, overpowered by
exhaustion, and wooed by the quiet that prevails, is so desperately
bent upon falling into a deep sleep, that the old man has much
difficulty in arousing him.
"Come, come," he urges, "rouse yourself, Mr. Podmore. Don't you think
you would be more comfortable in bed?"
"I'm comfortable--enough," says Mr. Podmore, leaning his head on the
old man's breast; "if you'll--let me be. I'm dead--beat. Where's
my--precious--little Pollypod?"
"Up-stairs. Waiting for you. I want to take you to her."
Mr. Podmore rises unresistingly, and they stagger up-stairs to his
apartment on the third floor. The dog follows them. A candle is alight
in the wash-bowl, and Pollypod is in bed, asleep. The dog, satisfied
that a safe haven is reached, leaps upon the bed, and after licking
Pollypod's face, curls itself at the foot of the bed, following its
master's movements now with lazily-watchful eyes. Mr. Podmore clings
to the old man, who assists him on to the bed, and determines to wait
until the tired-out man is asleep. Mr. Podmore, nestling close to
Pollypod, thinks it necessary to enter into an explanation before his
senses entirely desert him, and he mingles his apologies with
expressions of endearment towards his child.
"You see, Mr. Wheels," he murmurs, at intervals, "when a man's--a
pointsman--(my little darling!)--and has to be at it--fourteen and
sixteen and eighteen--hours a day--he ain't accountable--for hisself.
The company says--he is--and the public says--he is; but I'm--a
pointsman--and I know--better. (Don't I, Pollypod!) I've been on
duty--now--since five o'clock--this morning--and I'm dead--beat.
(Dead--beat, Pollypod!) What'd the public--say to that--if they knew
it? I'm dead--beat--and I ain't accountable--for myself. (Am I,
my pretty?) I wish the public--and the company--'d try it
theirselves,--for a month. (To-morrow's Sunday, Pollypod, thanks be!)
Last week--there was a--a accident--on our line--you saw it--in the
papers. One woman--was killed--and others was--shook. The papers had
articles on it--and the pointsman--who was dead--beat--was took in
custody--and the coroner--said--said----"
But what the coroner said is not repeated on the present occasion, for
Mr. Podmore falls into utter unconsciousness, and being undoubtedly as
dead-beat as it is in the power of mortal to be, sleeps the deepest of
deep sleeps. While the faithful dog, cozily coiled up on the bed,
blinks and blinks at the candle, in a state of uncertainty as to
whether a lurid star which gleams in the long dull wick is friend or
foe.