"That's all right," said Gorman, resuming his seat in front of the fire; "now you speak like a man. Sit down and I'll go over the matter with you, and make your mind easy by showing you that it ain't either a difficult or risky piece of work. Bless you, it ain't the first time I've been up to that sort o' thing."

It did not require the diabolical leer that accompanied this remark to convince his hearer of its truth.

"Now, then," said Gorman, with a business air, "first of all, how stands the stock in the shop?"

"Rather low," answered Boone, who had reseated himself on the stool; "in fact, I've got little or nothing more than what is visible. I've bin so hard-up of late that I've had to crowd everything into view an' make the most of appearances. All the dressed dolls has got their frocks spread out, and the undressed ones their arms an' legs throwed about to make 'em take up as much room as possible. The lids of all the work boxes is open, the slates and puzzle boxes stuck up in single rows, with their broadsides to the front, and the collapsin' worlds is all inflated. Everything in the front is real, but all behind is sham dummies an' empty boxes."

Gorman opened his eyes a little on hearing this.

"Good," he said, after a pause; "you're a cleverer fellow than I took you for. I thought you was well off, and I'm sure the neighbours think the same, for the place looks pretty full an' thrivin'. I suppose, now, if it was all sold off you wouldn't have enough to pay up my loans?"

"Nothink like it," said Boone earnestly. "I've slaved night and day, an' done my best, but luck's again' me."

"Ah, that's 'cause you've bin faint-hearted in time past; you're goin' to be bold in time to come, my good fellow; you'll have to be bold, you will. Come, I'll explain how. But first, let me ask how much you think the stock is worth."

"Not much above fifty pounds."

"Hum! it looks like more."

"That's true, an' the people about think it's worth two or three hundred, for you see I have a lot o' cheap jewellery, and some of the inquisitive ones have been trying to pump me of late. They all think I'm thriving," said Boone, shaking his head sorrowfully.

"So you are, so you are, man," said Gorman jocosely, "and you're going to make your fortune soon, and so am I, though at present I'm poor enough. However, that don't matter. Here's your course for the future, which you're to steer by. You'll go an' begin chatting with your neighbours at odd times, and your conversation, curiously enough, will always be about the times bein' better than usual, an' about the approach of Christmas, an' the stock you mean to lay in against that festive season. After that you'll lay in the stock—fifty pounds' worth; and it won't be sham; it'll be real—"

"But where is the money to come from?" asked Boone.

"Oh, don't you trouble about the money; I'll provide that. I've a curious power of raisin' the wind on easy terms. Fifty pounds' worth of real goods will be bought by you, my thriving shopman, and you'll let some of the neighbours, partiklerly these same inquisitive 'uns, see the goods and some of the invoices, and you'll tell them that you've laid in 150 pounds worth of stock, and that you think of layin' in more. On the strength of the press o' business you'll get another shop-lad, and you'll keep 'em employed a good deal goin' messages, so that they won't get to know much about the state o' things, and I'll take care to send you a rare lot o' customers, who'll come pretty often for small purchases, and give the shop an uncommon thrivin' look. Oh, we'll make a splendid appearance of doin' business, and we'll have lots of witnesses ready to bother these sharp lawyers if need be—won't we, Boone?"

Poor Boone, whose colour had not yet improved much, smiled in a ghastly way, but said nothing.

"Well, then," resumed Gorman, after a few minutes' meditation, "when this thriving trade is in full swing we'll get it insured. You know it would never do to risk the loss of such valuable stock by fire—eh, Boone? common prudence pints that out! You say what you have is worth fifty, and what you'll lay in is fifty more, makin' a hundred, so we'll insure for five hundred; there's a clear gain of four hundred per cent, only think of that! Well, the house I have already insured for five hundred, that makes nine hundred, and we'll insure the furniture and fixings for fifty; that'll look business-like, you know. Then the goods laid in will be carefully removed in the night at various times before the fire, so you had better see that they are small and portable objects; that'll make another fifty pounds, if not more. So I see my way to a thousand pounds. That's a neat sum, ain't it, Boone?"

Still Boone made no reply, but favoured his visitor with another ghastly smile.

"Well, then," pursued Gorman, "all you've got to do is, on a certain night that I will fix, to set the shop alight, and the thing's done quite easy. But that's not all. You've got an old mother, I believe; well, it would be very unnatural in you to run the risk of being burned to death, an' leaving her penniless; so you'll insure your life for five hundred pounds, and I'll pay the first premium on it, and then you'll die—"

"Die!" exclaimed Boone, with a start.

"Ay; why not, if you're to get a small fortune by it."

"But how's that to be managed?" inquired Boone, with a look of doubt.

"Managed? Nothing easier. You'll be so desperately upset by the fire— perhaps singed a little too—that you'll be taken ill and won't get better. I'll look carefully after you as your loving friend, and when you're about dead you'll get up and clear off in a quiet way. I'll make arrangements to have a corpse as like you as possible put in your bed, and then you'll be buried comfortably, and we'll share the insurance. Of course you'll have to leave this part of the town and disguise yourself, but that won't be difficult. Why, man, if you were only fond of a joke you might even attend your own funeral! It's not the first time that sort of thing has bin done. So, then, you'll have your life insured, but not yet. Your first business is to set about the purchase of the stock, and, let me tell you, there's no time to lose, so I advise you to write out the orders this very night. I'll fetch you fifty pounds in a day or two, and you'll pay up at once. It'll look well, you know, and after it's all settled we'll divide the plunder. Now then, good-night. I congratulate you on your thriving business."

Gorman opened the door of the inner room as he said the last words, so that the lad in the shop might hear them. As he passed through the shop he whispered in his friend's ear, "Mind the consequences if you fail," and then left him with another hearty good-night.

Poor David Boone, having sold himself to the tempter, went about his duties like an abject slave. He began by ordering goods from various wholesale dealers in the city, after which he took occasion to stand a good deal at his shop door and accost such of his neighbours as chanced to pass. The conversation at such times invariably began with the interesting topic of the weather, on which abstruse subject Boone and his friends displayed a surprising profundity of knowledge, by stating not only what the weather was at the time being, and what it had been in time past, but what it was likely to be in time to come. It soon diverged, however, to business, and usually ended in a display of fresh goods and invoices, and in references, on the part of Boone, to the felicitous state of trade at the time.

Do what he would, however, this thriving tradesman could not act his part well. In the midst of his prosperity his smiles were ghastly and his laughter was sardonic. Even when commenting on the prosperity of trade his sighs were frequent and deep. One of his friends thought and said that prosperity was turning the poor man's brain. Others thought that he was becoming quite unnatural and unaccountable in his deportment; and a few, acting on the principle of the sailor's parrot, which "could not speak much, but was a tremendous thinker," gave no outward indication of their thoughts beyond wise looks and grave shakes of the head, by which most people understood them to signify that they feared there was a screw loose somewhere.

This latter sentiment, it will be observed, is a very common one among the unusually wise ones of the earth, and is conveniently safe, inasmuch as it is more or less true of every person, place, and thing in this sad world of loose screws.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A LITTLE MORE HATCHING.

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.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A SMALL TEA-PARTY.

Miss Tippet's tea-party began by the arrival of Willie Willders, who, being fond of society, and regardless of fashion, understood his hostess literally when she named her tea-hour! For full half an hour, therefore, he had the field to himself, and improved the occasion by entertaining Miss Tippet and Emma Ward with an account of the wonderful inventions that emanated from the fertile brain of Mr Thomas Tippet.

Strange to say, a deep and lasting friendship had sprung up between the eccentric old gentleman and his volatile assistant. Willie sympathised so fully with his master in his wild schemes, and displayed withal such an aptitude for mechanical contrivance, and such a ready appreciation of complex theories, that Mr Tippet soon came to forget his extreme youth, and to converse with him, propound schemes and new ideas to him, and even to ask his advice; with as much seriousness as though he had been a full-grown man.

This was of course very gratifying to Willie, who repaid his master's condescension and kindness by devoting himself heart and soul to the duties of what he styled his "profession." He was a good deal put out when his brother Frank asked him one day what his "profession" was, and resolving never again to be placed in such an awkward position of ignorance, asked his employer what was the name of his business, to which the employer replied that it had no particular name; but, on being urged by his assistant to give it a name, he suggested that he might, if so disposed, style himself a poly-artist, which, he explained, meant an artist of many occupations. Willie felt that this might be translated "jack-of-all-trades," but on mature consideration he resolved to adopt it, in the belief that few people would understand what it meant, and that thereby he would be invested with a halo of mystery, which was, upon the whole, a gratifying reflection.

Gradually, however, Willie was led to diverge from his employer to his brother Frank, in regard to whom Miss Tippet entertained the strongest feelings of admiration, because of his courageous conduct in saving Louisa Auberly. Willie pursued this theme all the more willingly that Emma appeared to be deeply interested in it.

Emma Ward was very romantic in her nature; yet she had a keen appreciation of the ludicrous,—which caused her to appear somewhat light-headed and giddy in the eyes of superficial observers; but she possessed an underlying earnestness of soul, which displayed itself in a thousand ways to those who had much intercourse with her. She was an ardent hero-worshipper; and while Miss Tippet was her heroine, Frank Willders was, at that time, her beau ideal of a hero, although she only knew him from description.

Willie was still in the middle of a glowing account of a fire, in which Frank and his friends Dale and Baxmore were the chief actors; and Emma was listening with heightened colour, parted lips, and sparkling eyes, when Matty Merryon opened the door and announced Mr Tippet.

That gentleman was still in the act of shaking his sister's hands with both of his, and kissing her on both cheeks heartily, when Matty announced Miss Deemas.

Matty, being Irish, allowed her soul to gush out too obviously in her tones; so that her feelings towards the Eagle, though unexpressed, were discernible.

Miss Deemas strode up to Miss Tippet, and pecked her on the right cheek, much as an eagle might peck a tender rabbit, which it could slay and devour if it chose, but which it preferred to spare for a time. She was immediately introduced to Mr Tippet, whom she favoured with a stiff bow, intended to express armed neutrality in the meantime; with a possibility, if not a probability, of war in the future. The eccentric gentleman felt chilled, but ventured to express an opinion in regard to the weather, glancing for confirmation of the same towards the window, through which he naturally enough expected to see the sky; but was baffled by only seeing the green venetian blinds, which ruled off the opposite houses in narrow stripes. Before he had recovered himself to make any further observation, Miss Deemas had attempted, in a condescending way, to peck the cheek of Emma Ward; but that young lady, feeling disinclined, so managed that she received the peck on her forehead.

On Willie, Miss Deemas bestowed a glance of utter indifference, which Willie replied to with a gaze of desperate defiance.

Then Miss Deemas seated herself on the sofa, and asked her "dear friend" how she did, and how she felt, and whether things in general were much as usual; from which elevated region of generalities she gradually descended into the more particular sphere of gossip and scandal.

It is only just to Miss Tippet to say that the Eagle did not find her a congenial bird of prey in this region. On the contrary, she had to drag her unwilling friend down into it; and as Miss Tippet was too conscientious and kind-hearted to agree with her in her sweeping censures and caustic observations and wilful misconstructions, it is difficult to conceive wherein she (the Eagle) found pleasure in her society. Probably it was because she found in her one who would submit meekly to any amount of contradiction, and listen patiently to any amount of vituperative declamation.

"So it seems Mr Auberly has disinherited and dismissed his son, my dear," said Miss Deemas, smoothing her dress with both hands, as though she were about to lay Mr Auberly in her lap, and analyse him.

"I'm sorry to say that it is too true, Julia," answered Miss Tippet, with a sigh.

"Ha! it's so like one of these creatures," said Miss Deemas, pursing her thin lips; "so domineering, so towering, in their pride of mere physical power."

Mr Tippet glanced at the Eagle in surprise, not being able to understand to what sort of "creatures" she made reference.

"Poor Frederick," sighed Miss Tippet, "I don't know what he'll do (ring the bell, Emma, darling); he's such a bold, high-spirited young man, and it's all owing to his determination to take to—to what's-'is-name as a profession (bring the tea, Matty). It's very sad."

"That must be a new sort of profession," observed Miss Deemas pointedly.

"Oh! I mean painting, you know. It's impossible to arrange one's things in such very correct language, you know, dear Julia; you are really too—oh! did you hear of Joe Corney, and what's-his—fireman's visit to Mrs Denman? To be sure you did; I forgot it was in your house. It was such a funny account; you heard of it, brother (ring the bell again, dear), didn't you?"

Mr Tippet, whose wonted vivacity was quite subdued by the freezing influence of the Eagle, said that he had not heard of it; whereupon Miss Tippet said that she had heard of it, and so had Willie Willders, who had heard of it from his brother Frank, who had heard of it from Joe Corney himself; and then she attempted to relate the matter, but failed, and finally asked Willie to tell the story, which Willie did with much gusto; looking at Miss Deemas all the time, and speaking in a very positive tone, as if he thought she was doubting every word he said, and was resolved to hurl it in her teeth, whether she chose to believe it or not.

"Capital!" exclaimed Mr Tippet, laughing heartily, when Willie had concluded; "what an energetic old lady she must be! Really, I must get introduced to her, and show her the self-acting fire-extinguisher I have just invented. You remember it, Willie?" Willie nodded. "I've laid it aside for some time; but it is very nearly complete now. A little more work on it will finish it. My only difficulty in regard to it is, madam," he addressed himself to Miss Deemas here, "that it is apt to burst, and I am uncertain whether or not to add a safety-valve to prevent such a catastrophe, or to make the metal so very strong, that nothing short of gunpowder would burst it; but then, you see, that would make the whole affair too heavy. However, these are only minor difficulties of detail, which a little thought will overcome."

Miss Deemas received all this with a sinister smile, and replied with the single word, "Oh!" after which she turned immediately to Miss Tippet, and remarked that the weather had been unusually warm of late for the season of the year, which remark so exasperated Willie Willders that he turned with a face of crimson to Emma, and asked her if she didn't feel a draught of cold air coming over her from somewhere, and whether she would not sit nearer the fire, and farther away from the window!

Willie meant this for an uncommonly severe cut; for Miss Deemas sat at the end of the sofa, near the window!

Fortunately, at this point, Matty Merryon ushered in Loo Auberly, who was instantly enfolded in Miss Tippet's arms, and thence transferred to Emma's, in which she was led to the sofa, and gently deposited in the softest corner.

"Darling Loo!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, with tears in her eyes; "you look so thin and pale."

There could be no doubt on that point. Little Loo, as Emma styled her, was worn to a shadow by sickness, which had hitherto baffled the doctor's skill. But she was a beautiful shadow; such a sweet, gentle shadow, that one might feel thankful, rather than otherwise, to be haunted by it.

"Pray don't mind me; I'm too tired to speak to you yet; just go on talking. I like to listen," said Loo softly.

With ready kindness, Miss Tippet at once sought to draw attention from the child, by reverting to Mrs Denman; and Matty created a little opportune confusion by stumbling into the room with the tea.

Matty usually tripped over the carpet at the door, and never seemed to become wiser from experience.

"Poor Mrs Denman," said Miss Tippet, pouring out the tea; "it must have been an awful shock; think of a (Sugar, brother? I always forget), what was I—oh, yes; think of a fireman seizing one round the (Cream, Willie? I know you have a sweet tooth, so I don't need to ask if you take sugar)—yes, he carried her down that dreadful what-d'ye-call-it, and into the next house with nothing (A little more sugar, Julia? No? )— nothing on but her what's-'is-name. Oh! it was sad; sad to lose all her fine things, too—her furniture, and—and thingumies. Do try a piece of cake, brother."

"I know a worse case than hers," said Willie, with a knowing look.

"Do you?" exclaimed Miss Tippet.

"Oh! do tell it," cried Emma earnestly; "he's just been telling it to me, and it is so sad and interesting."

"Come, let's hear about it, lad," said Mr Tippet.

Thus encouraged, Willie related his adventure with the clown's family, and told his tale with such genuine feeling, that Miss Tippet, Loo, and Emma found their eyes moist when he had concluded.

There was a good deal of comment upon this subject, and Miss Deemas animadverted very strongly upon actors in general and clowns in particular. As to ballet-girls, she could not find words to express her contempt for them; but in reference to this Miss Tippet ventured to rebuke her friend, and to say that although she could not and would not defend the position of these unfortunates, yet she felt that they were very much to be pitied, seeing that they were in many cases trained to their peculiarly indelicate life by their parents, and had been taught to regard ballet-dancing as quite a proper and legitimate what's-its-name. No doubt this was only a palliation of the life they led, but she thought that if anyone was to be severely blamed in the matter it was the people who went to witness and encourage such wicked displays.

Miss Deemas dissented generally from all her friend's observations, and, wishing to change the subject, asked Loo if her father was coming to fetch her home.

"No," said Loo; "dear papa is not well to-night, but he is to send the carriage for me. Oh, I wish," she continued, reverting to the previous subject, "I wish I could do something for these poor people. I'm so very, very sorry for the fairy."

"So you can, if you choose," said Miss Deemas sharply.

"No, indeed I cannot," replied Loo in an earnest voice; "I'm too ill and weak now to be of any use to anyone. Once I was useful to dear papa, but ever since the fire I have not been of use to anybody; only a hindrance to them. Since I have been ill I have thought much more about what I read in the Bible, and I've had a great desire to do good in some way or other, but how can I—so weak and helpless?"

Loo almost sobbed, for her sympathies had been awakened by Willie, and a chord had been touched which had been vibrating in her breast for some weeks past.

"Your father is rich, is he not?" asked the Eagle.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Well, a word to him may be the cause of much good, in the shape of money at least, to people in distress; but rich people don't always like to spend their money in that way."

Loo hung down her head and made no reply, for she knew that her father did not like to part with money. She had often heard him refuse to do so in days gone by, even when very pathetic appeals (as she thought) were made to him; and experience told her that it was in vain to look for help in that quarter.

The party was now increased by the arrival of Frederick Auberly, who at once infused life into everybody, except Miss Deemas, who had life enough of her own, and would by no means accept the loan of any from anyone else. Fred therefore ignored her altogether, and told stories and cracked jokes and sang songs as if no such female iceberg were present.

Poor Loo was overjoyed to see him, and laying her head on his breast, bade him speak away and not ask questions; only speak, and allow her to listen and rest.

Fred obeyed, and at once began an earnest discussion with Willie as to the best method of getting a stout gentleman out of a third-floor window in case of fire, when Matty Merryon entered with a flushed face and said that a fireman who would not give his name wished to see Willie Willders for a minute; and she was inclined to think it was his brother.

"What! Frank?" exclaimed Willie, rising to go downstairs.

"Stay, Willie," cried Miss Tippet eagerly; "don't go down. Pray let me have him up; I should so like to see him, and I'm sure so would Loo; the man, you know, who went up the what's-its-name, and brought you—yes, send him up, Matty."

"Plaze, mim, he won't come," replied the girl, "I know'd ye would like to see him, an' axed him in."

"Tell him," said Miss Tippet, "that I request it as a favour."

While Matty was delivering this message, the Eagle took occasion to sniff once or twice in a contemptuous manner, and wondered why people worshipped men just because they happened to be big, and what they called handsome. For her part, she hated all men, but if she were to be obliged to choose between any class (which she was thankful to say was not necessary in her case), she would certainly give the preference to ugly men and small.

Willie Willders nodded his head approvingly, and, being exasperated into a savage serio-comic condition, as well by the Eagle's voice and aspect as by her sentiments, he said that she was quite right, and that if he were a lady like her he would hold the same opinions, because then, said he, "being stout, I could wallop my husband an' keep him down, an' the contrast of his ugly face with mine would not be so obvious."

Frank's step on the stair fortunately prevented this open and desperate attack being noticed. Next moment all turned their eyes in breathless expectation towards the door.

Being on duty, Frank appeared in fireman's costume, with the sailor-like undress cap in his hand. He bowed to the company, and apologised to Miss Tippet for intruding, but he had wished to ask his brother Willie to call at the fire station on his way home to convey a letter to his mother, and merely meant to see him at the door.

"I'm very glad you came, Mr Willders," said Miss Tippet, "for I assure you we all regard you as the preserver of our dear Miss Auberly's life when you went up the—the—thing. Here she is. You must shake— that's it—so nice!"

The last part of Miss Tippet's remark referred to Loo stretching out her hand to Frank, who advanced promptly and shook it with great tenderness. He then shook hands with Fred, who expressed his regard for him in warm terms; also with Mr Tippet, who paid him some enthusiastic compliments, and said something to the effect that the parent stem from which two such branches as he and Willie had grown must be a prime plant.

As he turned from Mr Tippet—who, being very short, appeared to be looking up at a steeple while he delivered this opinion—Frank's eyes encountered those of Emma Ward, who was gazing at him in such undisguised admiration, that, being a somewhat bashful man, he felt a little confused, and dropped his eyes, figuratively, on the floor. Emma blushed scarlet with shame at being caught in this way, and thereafter became rigidly grave and indifferent.

When Frank again raised his eyes—which, by the way, he did immediately—they encountered the eagle glance of Miss Deemas frowning defiance on him, as being a sort of type or pattern specimen of his highly objectionable race. Had Miss Deemas been a man (which would have gratified her more than she could have expressed) Frank could have met the frown with a smile of pity. As it was, he turned to the little eager countenance of Miss Tippet, and felt deeper respect than ever for the sex; thus showing that just as an exception proves a rule, so an unfavourable contrast strengthens a cause.

"Pray sit down, Mr Willders," entreated Miss Tippet earnestly; "I should like so much to hear how you did it from your own lips, and how you can possibly venture up such dreadful things, just like going up the outside of the Monument. Dear Loo, and you came down it, too; but, to be sure, your eyes were shut, which was as well, for you were only in your night—Ah, well, yes, do sit down Mr Firem—-Willders, I mean."

Frank thanked her, but declined, on the ground that he was on duty, and that he feared he was doing wrong in even looking in on them for the few minutes he had stayed. "Good-night, ma'am," he continued, "good-night. You'll call at the station on your way home, Willie?"

Willie said he would, and then all the company, excepting the Eagle, shook hands with the stalwart fireman, looking up at him as if he were a hero just returned from the proverbial "hundred fights." Even Emma Ward condescended to shake hands with him at parting.

"Perhaps you'll be in the middle of a fire this very night," cried Tom Tippet, following him to the door.

"It is quite possible," said Frank, with a smile.

Miss Deemas was heard to snort contemptuously at this.

"Perhaps you may even save more lives!" cried Miss Tippet.

"It may be so," answered Frank, again smiling, but evidently feeling anxious to make his escape, for he was not one of those men who like to be lionised.

"Only think!" exclaimed Miss Tippet as Frank quitted the room.

"Ha!" ejaculated the Eagle, in a tone which was meant to convey her well-known opinion that women would do such things quite as well as men if their muscles were a little stronger.

It is but justice to Miss Deemas to explain that she did not champion and exalt women out of love to her sex. Love was not one of her strong points. Rampant indignation against those whom she bitterly termed "lords of creation" was her strong tower of refuge, in which she habitually dwelt, and from the giddy summit of which she hurled would-be destruction on the doomed males below. Among her various missiles she counted the "wrongs of her sex" the most telling shaft, and was in consequence always busy sharpening and polishing and flourishing this dread weapon in the eyes of her friends as well as her enemies, although, of course, she only launched it at the latter.

Perched on her self-exalted eyrie, Miss Deemas did not know that there was a pretty large number of her own sex in the comparatively humble multitude below, who, while they clearly recognised the "wrongs of women" (and preferred to call them "misfortunes") did not attribute them solely, or even largely, to the wickedness of men, but to the combined wickedness and folly of society in general, and who were of opinion that such matters were to be put right by patient, persevering, laborious, and persistent efforts on the part of men and women acting in concert, and not by the unwomanly acts and declamation of ladies of the Deemas stamp, whom they counted the worst enemies of the good cause—some wittingly, others unwittingly so. These people among the comparatively humble multitude below, also had the penetration to perceive that the so-called "wrongs" did not lie all on one side, but that there was a pretty large class of the so-called "lords" who went about the world habitually in a sad and disgraceful state of moral semi-nakedness, in consequence of their trousers having been appropriated and put on by their better-halves, and that therefore it was only meet that men and women should be united (as indeed they were from the first intended to be) in their efforts to put each other's "wrongs" to "rights."

In addition to all this, these weak-minded (shall we call them?) people, moving in the comparatively humble multitude below, entertained the belief that rising in antagonism to the male sex in this matter was not only unnecessary and unjust and impolitic, but also ungenerous, for they reflected with much calm satisfaction that the "lords" are, after all, "under woman's control."

But Miss Deemas and all the ladies of the Eagle stamp did not think so. They did not believe that a strong mind means a mind strong enough to exercise its own powers to the ascertainment and reception of truth and the rejection of falsehood and fallacy; strong enough, under the influence of God's love, to perceive the paths of duty in all their ramifications, and to resolve to follow them. They did not believe that a high spirit, in the true sense of the word, meant a spirit broken down altogether and brought into subjection to its owner's, not another's, will. By no means. A strong mind with the Deemas-eagles meant unutterable and unalterable obstinacy, blind as a bat, with the great guns blazing all round, and the colours nailed to the mast. High spirit with them meant the inclination—ever present, always strong, and often asserted—to seize all the rest of the world, male and female, and lead it by the nose!

The Deemas-eagles as a class receive ready-made opinions, fabricated by someone else, and call them their own—receiving them originally and holding them subsequently, not because they are true, but because they are pleasant to their eyes and sweet to their taste. They hold them stoutly, too, probably because, having no foundation, they would be apt to fall and get broken if not upheld.

Having said thus much in behalf of the Deemas eagles, we now dismiss them, with an apology to the reader.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A FIREMAN'S LIFE.

The clocks were striking nine when Frank issued from Miss Tippet's dwelling and walked briskly away. On turning a corner he came upon one of the numerous fire-escapes that nightly rear their tall heads against the houses all over London, in a somewhat rampant way, as though they knew of the fires that were about to take place, and, like mettlesome war-horses, were anxious to rush into action without delay.

On the pavement, close by the escape, stood a small sentry-box, and the moment Frank came in sight of it he remembered that it was the nocturnal habitation of his friend Conductor Samuel Forest. Sam himself was leaning his arms on the lower half of his divided door, and gazing contemplatively along the street.

"Well, Sam, what news?" inquired Frank as he came up.

"That you, Willders?" said Sam, a quiet smile of recognition playing on his good-humoured features. "I thought it must be the giant they're exhibitin' in Saint James's Hall just now, takin' a stroll at night to escape the boys. Why, when do you mean to stop growing?"

"I don't mean to interfere with Nature at all," replied Frank; "and I believe the world will be big enough to hold me, whatever size I grow to."

"Well, what's the news?" inquired Sam, emerging from his narrow residence, and proving in the act, that, though not quite so tall as his friend, he was one who required a pretty fair share of room in the world for himself.

"Nothing particular," said Frank, leaning against the escape; "only a chimney and a cut-away affair last night, and a false alarm and a first-floor burnt out the day before."

"How's Thompson?" asked Forest.

"Poorly, I fear," said Frank, with a shake of his head. "The sprained ankle he got when he fell off the folding-board is getting well, but the injury to his spine from the engine is more serious."

"Ah! poor fellow!" said Forest, "he's just a little too reckless. How came he by the sprain?"

"It was in the basement of a bookbinder's in Littleton Street," said Frank, lighting a cigar. "We got the call about 11 p.m., and on getting there found three engines at work. Mr Braidwood ordered our fellows to go down into the basement. It was very dark, and so thick of smoke that I couldn't see half-an-inch before my nose. We broke through the windows, and found ourselves ankle-deep in water. The engines had been at work flooding the place for some time, and there was more water than we expected; but we had got on the folding-boards without knowing it, an' before we knew where we were, down went Thompson into water four feet deep. I think myself some of the water-pipes had burst. He rose gasping, and I caught him by the collar and hauled him out. It was in trying to recover himself when he fell that he got the sprain. You've heard how he came by the other mishap?"

"Yes, it was gallopin' down Ludgate Hill, wasn't it?"

"Ay; the engine went over a barrow, and the jolt threw him off, and before he got up it was on him. By good fortune it did not go over him; it only bruised his back; but it's worse than we thought it would be, I fear."

"Ah! one never knows," said Forest gravely. "There's one man Jackson, now, only two weeks ago he was up in a third floor in Lambeth, and had brought down two women and a child, and was in the back-rooms groping for more, when the floor above gave way and came down on him. We all thought he was done for, but some of the beams had got jammed, and not five minutes after he steps out of a window all right—only a scratch or two, not worth mentioning; yet that same man fell down a flight of stairs at the same fire, with a boy on his shoulder, and sprained his ankle so bad that he's bin laid up for three weeks; but he saved the boy."

"Ah! it was worth the sprain," said Frank.

"It was," responded Forest.

"Well, good-night," said Frank, resuming his walk.

Samuel Forest responded "good-night," and then, getting into his box, sat down on its little seat, which was warranted not to hold two, trimmed the lamp that hung at his side, and, pulling out a book from a corner, began to peruse it.

Sam was of a literary turn of mind. He read a great deal during his lonely watches, and used often to say that some of his happiest hours were those spent in the dead of night in his sentry-box. His helmet hung on a peg beside him. His hatchet was in his girdle, and a small cap covered his head. Looking at him in his snug and brightly illuminated little apartment, he appeared—by contrast with the surrounding darkness—inexpressibly comfortable. Nevertheless, Sam Forest could have told you that appearances are often deceptive, and that no matter how it looked, his box was but a cold habitation on a biting December night.

While deeply immersed in his book, Sam heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and pricked up his ears. He was a good judge of such sounds. As they drew near, he quietly took off his cap, put on his helmet, and stepped from his box. The street was very silent; and, perhaps, not one of the hundreds of sleepers there thought of the solitary man who held vigil, and was so alert to do them service, if the hour of their extremity should come.

But a cry arose that startled them—"Fire! fire!!"

Another moment, and two men dashed round the corner, yelling at the top of their voices. Gasping for breath, they named the locality. Almost before they had done so, two policemen were on the spot, and in another moment the fire-escape was in motion. Instructed by the conductor, the two strangers and the policemen lent their willing aid. Before ten minutes had passed, the tall machine was run up to a burning house, the lower part of which was blazing; while, from the upper windows, frantic cries were heard for help, and sundry figures in dishabille were seen waving their arms. The escape was run up, and one after another the inmates were rescued from their perilous position.

While this scene was enacting Frank was pursuing his way to the Regent Street Fire Station; but news of the fire got there before him. He arrived just in time to don his helmet and take his place on the engine. Away they went, and in ten minutes after the arrival of the fire-escape, they dashed up, almost running into an engine which appeared from an opposite direction.

The fire was blazing brightly by this time, and the whole neighbourhood was in a state of commotion and excitement.

The two engines were got to work with as little delay as possible. A body of police kept the gathering crowd back, and soon volumes of steam began to mingle with the black smoke of the burning building. The superintendent was early on the scene, and he directed Frank and another fireman to try to persuade the people in the adjoining houses to remain quiet, and not throw their furniture over the window; but this, some of them would not consent to do. It was plain that one or two were mad with fear and excitement; and as the ruling passion is strong in death, so it would seem to be by no means weak in the midst of danger from fire; for many of them bent their whole energies to the saving of their goods and chattels—regardless of their lives.

One stout old gentleman, in particular, was seen at a third-floor window, heaving out chairs and stools and books, and small tables, and clocks, and even quantities of crockery, with desperate energy, to the great danger of the onlookers, at whose feet the various articles fell, and were dashed to atoms!

Frank darted up the stairs that led to this man's apartments, and burst in upon him.

"Oh! come along, fireman; help me to save my things," he exclaimed, as he struggled with superhuman efforts to thrust a table through the window, which was too small to permit its passage.

"Stop, sir, are you mad?" cried Frank sternly.

"Help me! help me! Oh! fireman, it will be all burned. Fire! fire! fire!!!"

His voice rose into a fierce yell, as he strove in vain with the table.

"You're quite safe," cried Frank, holding him; "your house ain't alight, and the engines have got it almost under."

But Frank spoke to deaf ears; so he coolly lifted the man in his arms, carried him kicking downstairs, and placed him in charge of a policeman.

Just then, a cry was raised that there were two kegs of gunpowder in one of the shops on the ground floor. The owner of the shop came up in a frantic state, and corroborated this statement.

"It'll blow the house to bits, sir," he said to Mr Braidwood.

"Of course it will," remarked the latter in a quiet voice. "Come here, my man," he added, taking the shopkeeper apart from the crowd, and questioning him closely.

Immediately after, he ordered the engines to play on a particular part of the building.

Just then, Frank came up to the superintendent.

"There's gunpowder in the back-shop somewhere, I'm told, sir; shall I go in for it?"

"No, Willders; you couldn't find it in the smoke. Take the branch, lad, and get up into that window above the door."

Frank sprang to obey. At the same time, Mr Braidwood suddenly seized a horse-cloth, and dashed in through the smoke. In a few seconds, he returned with one of the kegs of powder in his arms. Giving it to one of his men, he darted in again, and speedily re-issued with the second keg of powder, amid the frantic cheering of the crowd. Having done this, he continued to superintend the men until the fire was got under, which was soon accomplished, having been attacked promptly and with great vigour soon after it broke out.

"You needn't wait, Mr Dale," said Braidwood, going up to his foreman. "It's all safe now. I'll keep one engine; but you and your lads get off to your beds as fast as ye can."

Dale obeyed, and a few minutes after, the engine was galloping homewards.

Willie Willders was in the station when it arrived, and so was Fred Auberly, who, having accompanied Willie, had got into such an interesting talk with the sub-engineer in charge, that he forgot time, and was still in animated conversation when the wheels were heard in the distance.

The three were out at the door in an instant.

On came the engine, the horses' feet and the wheels crashing harshly in the silent night. They came round the corner with a sharp swing. Either the driver had become careless, or he was very sleepy that night, for he dashed against an iron post that stood at the corner, and carried off two wheels. The engine went full thirty yards on the two off-wheels, before it came to the ground, which it did at last with a terrific crash, throwing the firemen violently to the ground.

The sub-engineer and Fred and Willie sprang forward in great alarm; but the most of the men leaped up at once, and one or two of them laughed, as if to show that they had got no damage. But one of them lay extended on the pavement. It needed not a second glance to tell that it was Frank Willders.

"Lift him gently, lads," said Dale, who was himself severely bruised.

"Stop," exclaimed Frank in a low voice; "I've got no harm except to my left leg. It's broken, I think. There's no use of lifting me till you get a cab. I'll go straight home, if—" He fainted as he spoke.

"Run for a cab, Willie," said Fred Auberly.

Willie was off in a moment. At the same instant, a messenger was despatched for Dr Offley, and in a short time after that, Frank Willders was lying on his mother's sofa, with his left leg broken below the knee.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

MR JAMES AUBERLY.

With a very stiff cravat, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed his sick child.

Stiff and starched and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for through all the stiffness and starch there shone on his countenance an expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo's emaciated form.

Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child's heart.

"Dear papa," she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her coverings. "I want you to do me a favour." She said this timidly, for she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt emboldened to make her request.

"I will do it, dear," said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as physically, as he had never bent before—for the prospect of Loo's death had been presented to him by the physicians. "I will do it, dear, if I can, and if the request be reasonable."

"Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!" cried Loo, eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.

"Hush, darling," said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress; "you must not excite yourself so. I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has become an artist in spite of my objections."

"Yes, but let him come home, I mean, and be happy with us again as he used to be, and go to the office with you," said Loo.

Mr Auberly replied somewhat coldly to this that Fred was welcome to return home if he chose, but that his place in the office had been filled up. Besides, it was impossible for him to be both a painter and a man of business, he said, and added that Loo had better not talk about such things, because she did not understand them. All he could say was that he was willing to receive Fred, if Fred was willing to return. He did not say, however, that he was willing to restore Fred to his former position in regard to his fortune, and as Loo knew nothing about her brother having been disinherited, she felt that she must be satisfied with this cold concession.

"Can you not ask some other favour, such as I could grant?" said Mr Auberly, with a smile, which was not nearly so grim as it used to be before "the fire." (The family always talked of the burning of Mr Auberly's house as "the fire," to the utter repudiation of all other fires—the great one of monumental fame included.)

Loo meditated some time before replying.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed suddenly, "I have another favour to ask. How stupid of me to forget it. I want you very much to go and see a fairy that lives—"

"A fairy, Loo!" said Mr Auberly, while a shade of anxiety crossed his face. "You—you are rather weak just now; I must make you be quiet, and try to sleep, if you talk nonsense, dear."

"It's not nonsense," said Loo, again stretching out the thin hand, which her father grasped, replaced under the coverings, and held there; "it's quite true, papa," she continued energetically! "it is a fairy I want you to go and see—she's a pantomime fairy, and lives somewhere near London Bridge, and she's been very ill, and is so poor that they say she's dying for want of good food."

"Who told you about her, Loo?"

"Willie Willders," she replied, "he has been to see her and her father the clown a good many times."

Mr Auberly, frowned, for the name of Willie Willders did not sound pleasantly in his ears.

"Do go to see her, pray, dear papa," pleaded Loo with much earnestness, "and give her some money. You know that darling mamma said, just before she was taken away," (the poor child persistently refused to use the expression "when she died"), "she wanted you to take me sometimes to see poor people when they were sick, and I've often thought of that since—especially when I have come to the verse in my Bible which tells me to 'consider the poor,' and I have often—oh, so very often—longed to go, but you were always so busy, dear papa, that you never had time, you know," (the stiff man winced a little at this) "but you seem to have more time now, papa, and although I'm too weak to go with you, I thought I would ask you to go to see this poor fairy, and tell her I will go to see her some day—if—if God makes me strong again."

The stiff man winced still more at this, but it was only a momentary wince, such as a man gives when he gets a sudden and severe twinge of toothache. It instantly passed away. Still, as in the case of toothache, it left behind an uneasy impression that there might be something very sharp and difficult to bear looming in the not distant future.

Mr Auberly had covered his face with his hand, and leant his elbow on the head of the couch. Looking up quickly with a smile—still tinged with grimness, for evil habits and their results are not to be got rid of in a day—he said:

"Well, Loo, I will go to see this fairy if it will please you; but somewhere near London Bridge is not a very definite address."

"Oh, but Willie Willders knows it," said Loo.

"But where is Willie Willders?" objected her father.

"Perhaps at home; perhaps at Mr Tippet's place."

"Well, we shall soon find out," said Mr Auberly, rising and ringing the bell.

Hopkins answered the summons.

Stiff, thin, tall, sedate, powdered, superfine Hopkins, how different from the personage we saw but lately plunging like a maniac at the fire-bell! Could it have been thee, Hopkins? Is it possible that anything so spruce, dignified, almost stately, could have fallen so very low? We fear it is too true, for human nature not unfrequently furnishes instances of tremendous contrast, just as material nature sometimes furnishes the spectacle of the serene summer sky being engulfed in the black thunderstorm!

"Hopkins!" said Mr Auberly, handing him a slip of paper, "go to this address and ask for the boy William Willders; if he is there, bring him here immediately; if not, find out where he is, search for him, and bring him here without delay. Take a cab."

Hopkins folded the paper delicately with both his little fingers projecting very much, as though they wished it to be distinctly understood that they had no connection whatever with the others, and would not on any account assist the low-born and hard-working forefingers and thumbs in such menial employment. Hopkins's nose appeared to be affected with something of the same spirit. Then Hopkins bowed—that is to say, he broke across suddenly at the middle, causing his stiff upper man to form an obtuse angle with his rigid legs for one moment, recovered his perpendicular—and retired.

Oh! Hopkins, how difficult to believe that thy back was once as round as a hoop, and thy legs bent at acute angles whilst thou didst lay violent hands on—well, well; let bygones be bygones, and let us all, in kindness to thee, learn the song which says—

"Teach, O teach me to forget."

Hailing a cab with the air of six emperors rolled into one, Hopkins drove to Mr Tippet's residence, where he learned that Willie had gone home, so he followed him up, and soon found himself at Notting Hill before the door of Mrs Willders' humble abode. The door was opened by Willie himself, who stared in some surprise at the stately visitor.

"Is William Willders at 'ome?" said Hopkins.

"I rather think he is," replied Willie, with a grin; "who shall I say calls on him—eh? You'd better send up your card."

Hopkins frowned, but, being a good-natured man, he immediately smiled, and said he would walk in.

"I think," said Willie, interposing his small person in the way, "that you'd as well stop where you are, for there's a invalid in the drawing-room, and all the other rooms is engaged 'cept the kitchen, which of course I could not show you into. Couldn't you deliver your message? I could manage to carry it if it ain't too heavy."

In a state of uncertainty as to how far this was consistent with his dignity, Hopkins hesitated for a moment, but at length delivered his message, with which Willie returned to the parlour.

Here, on the little sofa, lay the tall form of Frank Willders, arrayed in an old dressing-gown, and with one of his legs bandaged up and motionless. His face was pale, and he was suffering great pain, but a free-and-easy smile was on his lips, for beside him sat a lady and a young girl, the latter of whom was afflicted with strong sympathy, but appeared afraid to show it. Mrs Willders, with a stocking and knitting-wires in her hands, sat on a chair at the head of the bed, looking anxious, but hopeful and mild. An open Bible which lay on a small table at her side, showed how she had been engaged before the visitors entered.

"My good sir," said the lady, with much earnestness of voice and manner, "I assure you it grieves me to the heart to see you lying in this state, and I'm quite sure it grieves Emma too, and all your friends. When I think of the risks you run and the way you dash up these dreadful fire— fire—things—what-d'ye-call-ums. What do you call them?"

"Fire-escapes, ma'am," answered Frank, with a smile.

"Ah, fire-escapes (how you ever come down them alive is a mystery to me, I'm sure!) But as I was saying, it makes one shudder to think of; and— and—how does your leg feel now?" said Miss Tippet, forgetting what she had intended to say.

"Pretty well," replied Frank; "the doctor tells me it has broken without splintering, and that I'll be all right in a few weeks, and fit for duty again."

"Fit for duty, young man!" exclaimed Miss Tippet; "do you mean to say that you will return to your dreadful profession when you recover? Have you not received warning enough?"

"Why, madam," said Frank, "some one must look after the fires, you know, else London would be in ashes in a few months; and I like the work."

"Like the work!" cried Miss Tippet, in amazement; "like to be almost smoked to death, and burned alive, and tumbled off roofs, and get upset off what's-its-names, and fall down fire—fire—things, and break all your legs and arms!"

"Well—no, I don't like all that," said Frank, laughing; "but I like the vigour and energy that are called forth in the work, and I like the object of the work, which is to save life and property. Why," exclaimed Frank enthusiastically, "it has all the danger and excitement of a soldier's life without the bloody work, and with better ends in view."

"Nay, nay, Frank," said the peaceful Mrs Willders, "you must not say 'better ends,' because it is a great and glorious thing to defend one's native land."

"A very just observation," said Miss Tippet, nodding approval.

"Why, mother, who would have expected to hear you standing up for the red-coats in this fashion?" said Frank.

"I stand up for the blue-jackets too," observed Mrs Willders meekly; "they fight for their country as well."

"True, mother," rejoined Frank; "but I did not refer to ultimate ends, I only thought of the immediate results in connection with those engaged. The warrior fights, and, in so doing, destroys life and property. The fireman fights, and in doing so protects and preserves both."

"Hear! hear!" interrupted Willie; "but the copy-book says 'Comparisons are odiows!' don't it? Mother, here's a fathom and two inches or so of humanity as wants me to go with him to Mr Auberly. I s'pose Frank can get along without me for a little while—eh?"

"Certainly, my son; why does he want you?"

"Don't know. P'raps he's goin' to offer to make me his secretary. But you don't seem at all alarmed at the prospect of my being carried off by a flunkey."

"You'll come back, dearie, I doubt not."

"Don't you? Oh, very well; then I'll just look after myself. If I don't return, I'll advertise myself in the Times. Good-bye."

Willie returned to the door and announced that he was ready to go.

"But where is William?" asked Hopkins.

"Mister William Willders stands before you," said the boy, placing his hand on his heart and making a bow. "Come now, Long-legs," he added, seizing Hopkins by the arm and pushing him downstairs and into the cab. Leaping in after him he shut the door with a bang. "Now then, cabby, all right, Beverly Square, full split; sixpence extra if you do it within the half!"

Away they went, and in a few seconds were in the Mall driving at a rattling pace.

"See that house?" asked Willie, so suddenly as to startle Hopkins, who was quite overwhelmed by the vigour and energy of his young companion.

"Eh! which! the one with the porch before the door?"

"No, no, stoopid! the old red-brick house with the limbs of a vine all over the front of it, and the skeleton of a Virginia creeper on the wall."

"Yes, I see it," said Hopkins, looking out.

"Ah, a friend o' mine lives there. I'm on wisitin' terms there, I am. Now then, mind your eye, pump-handle," cried Willie; "the turn's rather sharp—hallo!"

As they swung round into the Bayswater Road the cab came in contact with a butcher's cart, which, being the lighter vehicle, was nearly upset. No serious damage resulted, however, and soon after they drew up at the door of the house next Mr Auberly's; for that gentleman still occupied the residence of his friend.

"Master Willders," said Hopkins, ushering him into the presence of Mr Auberly, who still sat at the head of the couch.

Willie nodded to Loo and then to her father.

"Boy," said the latter, beckoning Willie to approach, "my daughter wishes me to go and visit a poor family near London Bridge. She tells me you know their name and address."

"The fairy, you know," said Loo, explaining.

"Ah, the Cattleys," answered Willie.

"Yes," resumed Mr Auberly. "Will you conduct me to their abode?"

In some surprise Willie said that he would be happy to do so, and then asked Loo how she did.

While Mr Auberly was getting ready, Willie was permitted to converse with Loo and Mrs Rose, who was summoned to attend her young mistress. Presently Mr Auberly returned, bade Mrs Rose be very careful of the invalid, and then set off with Willie.

At first the boy felt somewhat awed by the remarkably upright figure that stalked in silence at his side, but as they continued to thread their way through the streets he ventured to attempt a little conversation.

"Weather's improvin', sir," said Willie, looking up. "It is," replied Mr Auberly, looking down in surprise at the boldness of his small guide.

"Good for the country, sir," observed Willie.

Mr Auberly, being utterly ignorant of rural matters, thought it best to say nothing to this.

We may add that Willie knew just as little (or as much), and had only ventured the remark because he had often heard it made in every possible variety of weather, and thought that it would be a safe observation, replete, for all he knew to the contrary, with hidden wisdom.

There was silence after this for some time.

"D'you know Mr Tippet well, sir?" inquired Willie suddenly.

"Ye—yes; oh yes, I know him pretty well."

"Ah, he's a first-rater," observed Willie, with a look of enthusiasm; "you've no notion what a trump he is. Did you hear ever of his noo machine for makin' artificial butter?"

"No," said Mr Auberly, somewhat impatiently.

"Ah, it's a wonderful invention, that is, sir."

"Boy," said Mr Auberly, "will you be so good as to walk behind me?"

"Oh, cer'nly, sir," said Willie, with a profound bow, as he fell to the rear.

They walked on in silence until they came to the vicinity of the Monument, when Mr Auberly turned round and asked Willie which way they were to go now.

"Right back again," said Willie.

"How, boy; what do you mean?"

"We've overshot the mark about half a mile, sir. But, please, I thought you must be wishin' to go somewhere else first, as you led the way."

"Lead the way, now, boy," said Mr Auberly, with a stern look.

Willie obeyed, and in a few minutes they were groping in the dark regions underground which Mr Cattley and his family inhabited. With some difficulty they found the door, and stood in the presence of "the fairy."

Thin though the fairy had been when Willie saw her last, she might have been called fat compared with the condition in which they now found her. She appeared like a mere shadow, with a delicate skin thrown over it. A bad transparency would have been more substantial in appearance. She lay alone on her lonely pallet with a farthing candle beside her, which cast a light sufficient only to make darkness visible. Being near the poor invalid, it caused her large dark eyes to glitter in an awful manner.

Willie at once forgot his companion, and running up to the fairy, seized her hand, and asked her how she did.

"Pretty well, Willie. It's kind of you to come and see me so often."

"Not a bit, Ziza; you know I like it; besides, I've only come to-day to show a gentleman the way."

He pointed to Mr Auberly, who had stopped short in the doorway, but who now advanced and sat down beside the invalid, and put to her several formal questions in a very stately and stiff manner, with a great assumption of patronage. But it was evident that he was not accustomed to the duty of visiting the sick, and, like little boys and girls when they sit down to write a letter, was very much at a loss what to say! He began by asking the fairy about her complaint, and exhausted every point that entered into his imagination in reference to that. Then he questioned her as to her circumstances; after which he told her that he had been sent to see her by his daughter Louisa, who was herself very ill, owing to the effects of a fire in his own house.

At this point the child became interested, and came to his relief by asking a great many eager and earnest questions about Loo. She knew about the fire in Beverly Square and its incidents, Willie having often related them to her during his visits; and she knew Mr Auberly by name, and was interested in him, but his frigid manner had repelled her, until he spoke of Loo having sent him to see her.

"Oh, I've been so sorry about Miss Loo, sir," said Ziza, raising her large eyes full in Mr Auberly's face; "I've heard of her, you know, from Willie, and when I've been lying all alone here for hours and hours together, I have wondered how she spent her time, and if there were kind people about her to keep up her spirits. It's so strange that she and I should have been both hurt by a fire, an' both of us so different every way. I do hope she'll get better, sir."

Mr Auberly became suddenly much interested in the fairy, for just as "love begets love," so does interest beget interest. His feelings having been roused, his tongue was loosed, and forthwith he enjoyed a delightful conversation with the intelligent child; not that there was any remarkable change as to the matter of what was spoken, but there was a vast change in the manner of speaking it.

Willie also chimed in now and then, and volunteered his opinions in a way that would have called forth a sharp rebuke from his patron half an hour before; but he was permitted to speak, even encouraged, now, for Mr Auberly was being tickled pleasantly; he was having his feelings and affections roused in a way that he had never thought of or tried before; he was gathering golden experiences that he had never stooped to touch before, although the mine had been under his feet all his life, and his path had been strewn with neglected nuggets from the cradle—fortunately not, as yet, to the grave! Ziza's Bible lay on the counterpane close to her wasted little hand. While she was talking of Loo, with deep sympathy beaming out of her eyes and trembling in her tones, Mr Auberly laid his hand inadvertently on it. She observed the action, and said—

"Are you going to read and pray with me, sir?"

Mr Auberly was taken very much aback indeed by this question.

"Well—no," said he, "that is—if—fact, I have not brought my prayer-book with me; but—but—I will read to you if you wish it."

Sympathy was gone now; the fairy felt that, and, not clearly understanding why, wondered at it. She thanked her visitor, however, and shut her eyes, while Mr Auberly opened the Bible and cleared his voice. His confusion was only momentary; still the idea that he could be confused at all by two mere children in such a wretched cellar so nettled the worthy man, that he not only recovered his self-possession, but read a chapter with all the solemn dignity of tone and manner that he would have assumed had he been officiating in Saint Paul's or Westminster Abbey. This was such a successful essay, and overawed his little congregation so terribly, that for a moment he thought of concluding with the benediction; but, being uncertain whether he could go correctly through it, he wisely refrained.

Thereafter he rose, and bade the fairy good-night.

"Your father does not return till late, I suppose?" he said, while he held her hand.

"No; it is morning generally before he gets away. The pantomimes are hurting him, I fear, for he's not so active as he once was, and he says he feels the falls very bad."

"Poor man! It's very sad; but I suppose it's the usual way with that class of men. Well, goodnight again."

"Good-night, sir!" responded the fairy, with a bright smile, "and thank you very much for your visit. Good-night, Willie."

Willie said good-night in such a sulky tone, and followed Mr Auberly to the door with such a reckless swagger, that the fairy gazed after him in unutterable surprise. After shutting the door with a bang, he suddenly opened it again, and said in a loud voice—

"I say, I'll get my wages day arter to-morrow. I'll bring you a couple o' bobs then. It's all I can afford just now, for cigars are dear. If you're hard up for wittles in the meantime, just grin and bear it; you'll not die, you know, you'll only get thinner. I have heard that a bit o' boiled shoe-leather ain't a bad thing to keep one easy till relief comes."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr Auberly in the distance, and bustling back as lie spoke; "I quite forgot; how stupid of me! I was directed by my daughter to give you this."

He took a ten-pound note from his purse, and put it into the fairy's hand.

"This is from Louisa," he continued, "and I may add that it is the savings from her pocket-money. I did not wish the dear child to part with it, and said I would give it to you from myself; but she was so urgent, and seemed so distressed when I refused my consent, that I gave in; so you have to thank my daughter, not me."

Mr Auberly smiled and nodded as he turned to go, and there was really very little grimness in the smile on this occasion—very little indeed! Willie also nodded with great violence and frequency; he likewise winked with one eye, and otherwise sought to indicate that there were within him sundry deep and not easily expressed thoughts and feelings, which were, upon the whole, of a satisfactory nature.

As for the fairy, she never once smiled or thanked Mr Auberly, but simply stared at him with her lustrous eyes open to their very widest, and she continued to stare at the door, as though she saw him through it, for some time after they were gone. Then she turned suddenly to the wall, thanked God, and burst into tears—glad tears, such as only those can weep who have unexpectedly found relief when their extremity was greatest.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A CHANGE IN FORTUNE.

There is nothing more surprising in regard to sublunary matters than the way in which unexpected events arise out of what may be called unintentional causes.

When David Boone and his friend Gorman planned the insurance and destruction of the toy shop and its contents, they no more expected that the very first steps towards that end would result in the conversion of a poor into a flourishing business, than they expected that the expression of a wish would convert Poorthing Lane into Beverly Square; yet so it was.

Poor David was rendered so desperate by his straits, and so anxious to escape from the crime into which his friend sought to plunge him, that he meditated suicide; but, lacking the courage to accomplish this, he relieved his feelings by carrying out the details of his business and the preliminary steps of his plan, with the wild and reckless energy of a maniac. The more he thought of the meshes which Gorman had cast around him, the more did he regard escape impossible. He therefore sought relief in action. He not only talked to his neighbours (as per agreement) about his rapidly increasing business, but he made purchases on a scale more extensive than he had ever before contemplated, even in his dreams. Being convinced that ruin, sooner or later, was his doom, he indulged in the most extravagant excesses, with much of the feeling which prompts some seamen, when the ship is sinking, to break into the spirit room and spend the short remnant of life in jollity. He experienced a sort of savage delight in ordering right and left from wholesale dealers in town and country, and even went so far as to write to Germany for toys, using the name of a well-known London house which had hitherto (and justly) believed him to be an honest man. The result of this was that Poorthing Lane was besieged for some time by railway vans, and waggons so huge that apparently an inch more added to their bulk would have rendered their passage impossible. Great deal boxes were constantly being unpacked in front of Mr Boone's door, much to the annoyance of Miss Tippet, who could not imagine how it happened that her sedate and slow-going landlord had got such a sudden increase of business. Little did she think, poor lady, that this was the fuel with which it was intended to roast her alive!

Some of the smaller accounts for goods thus purchased Boone paid at once with the money furnished to him by Gorman, and thus got credit for being a capitalist. Others he deferred payment of until a more convenient season.

His friend Gorman, who would not have bent the joint of his little finger to have saved him from destruction, was so anxious to get up a good appearance, for the sake of getting the insurance effected advantageously, that he did his best to carry out his part of the plan, and, being a man of energy who in the paths of virtue might have risen to a high position among men, he succeeded beyond his expectation. Crowds of purchasers were sent by him to the shop of "the celebrated toy-man." Some were mere decoy-ducks, who came and went (for a consideration) pretty frequently, and only "priced" the goods. Others were genuine purchasers, and between the two they created so much traffic in the toy-shop, that the multitude—so difficult to move by mere suasion, but so prone to follow blindly in the wake of a senseless rush, when once the rush takes place—began to move in the direction of the toyshop, and shortly before Christmas the demand for toys was so great, that Boone had to engage two assistants to carry on the business, and even the lane itself began to feel the benefit of the sudden increase of traffic.