All this was patent to the eyes of David Boone, but he was so overwhelmed with a sense of the guilt he was about to incur, and the deception he was even then practising, that he regarded the whole affair as a hollow bubble, which would soon burst and leave nothing behind. Even the rapid increase of the credit-balance in his bank-book did not affect his opinion, for he was not much of a financier, and, knowing that his transactions were founded on deception, he looked on the balance as being deceptive also.

Not so thought Gorman. That wily individual perceived, to his amazement, that things were taking a turn which had never been contemplated, so he silently looked on and wondered, and chuckled and resolved to abide his time.

As prosperity flowed in upon him, David Boone became more insane—for his condition of mind was little, if at all, short of temporary insanity—and his proceedings became more eccentric than ever. Among other things, he became suddenly smitten with a desire to advertise, and immediately in the columns of the tapers appeared advertisements to the effect that "The Celebrated Toy Emporium" was to be found in Poorthing Lane. Finding that this increased his business considerably, he hit upon a plan of advertising which has been practised rather extensively of late years in London. He sent out an army of boys with pots of whitewash and brushes, with directions to print in rough but large legible letters the words, "Who's Boone?" on all the blank walls of the metropolis, and in the papers he answered the question by having printed under the same title, "Why, the manager of the Toy Emporium, to be sure, in Poorthing Lane." He also advertised specially that he had in stock, "an assortment of 500 golden-haired dolls from Germany, full-dressed, half-dressed, and naked."

This last was irresistible. Thousands of young hearts beat high at the mere thought of such numbers—"with golden hair too!" and dozens of mammas, and papas too, visited Poorthing Lane in consequence.

In course of time David Boone's eyes began to open to the fact that he was rapidly making a fortune.

It was after the bustle of the Christmas season was over that he made this discovery. One of his new assistants, a young man named Lyall, was the means of opening his employer's eyes to the truth. Lyall was a clever accountant, and had been much surprised from the first that Boone kept no regular system of books. At the end of the year he suggested that it would be well to take stock and find out the state of the business. Boone agreed. Lyall went to work, and in a short time the result of his labours showed, that after all debts were paid, there would remain a satisfactory credit-balance at the bank.

On the evening of the day on which this marvellous fact was impressed on Boone's mind, Gorman called, and found his friend rubbing his hands, and smiling benignantly in the back room.

"You seem jolly," said Gorman, sitting down, as usual, by the fire, and pulling out, as usual, the short pipe. "Business gittin' on well?"

"It is," said Boone, standing with his back to the fire, and swaying himself gently to and fro; "things don't look so bad. I can pay you the arrears of rent now."

"Oh, can you?" said Gorman. "Ah!"

"Yes, and I'm in a position to pay you fifty pounds of the debt I owe you besides," said Boone.

"And a bill at three months for the balance?" inquired Gorman.

No, he could not venture to do that exactly, but he hoped to pay a further instalment before the end of three months.

"Humph! How much may the profits be?"

Boone could not say precisely, not having had all his accounts squared, but he believed they were considerable.

"I'll be bound they are," said Gorman with a growl; "you won't want to set things alight now, I daresay."

"Well, I think it'll be as well to wait a bit, and let us make hay while this sunshine goes on."

"Let you make hay, you mean?"

"Oh, as to that, the most of it will go to your stack for some time to come, Gorman."

"H'm! and what about the insurance?"

"Well, you know," observed Boone, "it's of no use paying the premium for nothing. As we don't mean to set the place alight, you know."

"Ay, but the life insurance, I mean," said Gorman.

Boone laughed, and observed that he thought it best not to die just at that particular time, whereupon Gorman laughed, too, and said he was about right, and that it would be as well to delay both events in the meantime; after saying which, he took his leave in better humour than usual, for Gorman was what men of his own stamp termed a "deep file." He saw into futurity—so he thought—a considerable way farther than most men, and in the future of his own imagination he saw such a pleasant picture that his amiable spirit was quite cheered by it. He saw David Boone making money so fast, that his goods might be insured at a much larger amount; he saw him getting into fresh difficulties, of course, because such a business, on such a foundation, could not go on prosperously except under the most able management, and, even though it did prosper in spite of improbabilities, he foresaw that there was an amiable gentleman, much like himself, who would induce Boone to traffic beyond his means, and when money was wanted, the same kind gentleman (he saw that quite clearly) would come forward generously with a loan, for which he would only ask Boone to make over to him in security his two policies of insurance—fire and life; after which—well, we need not go on revealing the future as it appeared to Gorman's mental vision; suffice it to say, that he saw upon the whole a prospect which gave him great satisfaction.

There were one or two things which he did not see, however, and which might have modified his feelings considerably if he had seen them. Of these we shall say nothing at present.

As for David Boone; his heart rejoiced, for he, too, had visions of the future which charmed him. He saw his debt to Gorman paid, and himself set free from the power of that amiable friend. He saw a toyshop change its locality and its aspect. He saw it transplanted into Regent Street, with plate-glass windows, in which were displayed objects of marvellous ingenuity and transcendent beauty. One window especially exhibiting, not a crowd, but, a very nation of wax-dolls with blue eyes and golden hair! He saw, moreover, a very little old woman, lying in a bed, in an elegant and comfortable apartment, with a Bible beside her, and a contented smile on her face. This old lady resembled his own mother so strongly, that all other prospects of the future faded from his view, and in the fulness of his heart and his success, he resolved then and there to go home and present her with a gift on the strength of the prosperity at that time attained to.

David was sorely perplexed as to what this gift ought to be. He thought of a new silk gown at first; but the remembrance of the fact that his mother was bedridden banished this idea. Owing to the same fact, new boots and gloves were inadmissible; but caps were not—happy thought! He started off at once, and returned home with a cap so gay, voluminous, and imposing, that the old lady, unused though she was to mirth, laughed with amusement, while she cried with joy, at this (not the first) evidence of her son's affection.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

CHANGES AND MYSTERIES.

Seven years passed away. During that period London revolved in its usual course, reproducing its annual number of events—its births, deaths, and marriages; its plans, plots, and pleasures; its business, bustle, and bungle; its successes, sentiments, and sensations; its facts, fancies, and failures—also its fires; which last had increased steadily, until they reached the imposing number of about twelve hundred in the year.

But although that time elapsed, and many changes took place, for better or for worse, in all circles of society, there had not been much change in the relative positions of the actors in our tale; at least, not much that was apparent. Great alterations, however, had taken place in the physical condition of some of them, as the sequel will show.

One bright morning in the spring-time of the year, a youth with the soft down of early manhood on his lips and cheeks, paced slowly to and fro near the margin of the pond in Kensington Gardens.

Being early, the spot was as complete a solitude as the backwoods of North America, and so thick was the foliage on the noble trees, that no glimpse of the surrounding city could be obtained in any direction. Everything that greeted eye and ear was characteristic of "the woods," even to the swans, geese, ducks, and other water-fowl which sported on the clear surface of the pond; while the noise of traffic in the mighty metropolis was so subdued by distance as to resemble the deep-toned roar of a great cataract. A stranger, rambling there for the first time would have found it difficult to believe that he was surrounded on all sides by London!

It was one of those soul-stirring mornings in which Nature seems to smile. There was just enough of motion in the air to relieve the effect of what is called a dead calm. The ripple on the water caught the sun's rays, and, breaking them up, scattered them about in a shower of fragmentary diamonds. Fleecy-white clouds floated in the blue sky, suggesting dreams of fairy-land, and scents of sprouting herbage filled the nostrils, reminding one of the fast-approaching summer.

The youth who sauntered alone by the margin of the pond was broad of shoulder and stout of limb, though not unusually tall—not much above the middle height. His gait was easy, free—almost reckless—as though he cared not a fig for anybody, high or low, rich or poor; yet his eye was bright and his smile kindly, as though he cared for everybody—high, low, rich, and poor. He sauntered with his hands in the pockets of his short coat, and whistled an operatic air in a low melodious tone. He was evidently waiting for someone; and, judging from his impatient gestures, someone who was resolved to keep him waiting.

Presently, a female figure appeared in the far distance, on the broad avenue that leads direct from the Serpentine. She was young and graceful in form; but she walked with a quick step, with her eyes looking down, like one who regarded neither youth nor grace. Curiously enough, this downcast look gave to her fair face a modest, captivating grace, which is never seen to sit upon the lofty brow, or to circle round the elevated nose, of conscious beauty.

The youth at first paid no attention to her (she was not the "someone" for whom he waited); but as she drew near, he became suddenly interested, and threw himself in her way. Just as she was about to pass, she raised her eyes, started, blushed, and exclaimed:

"Mr Willders!"

"Good morning, Miss Ward!" said the youth, advancing with a smile, and holding out his hand; "this is indeed an unexpected pleasure; I did not know that you were addicted to early walking."

"I am indeed fond of early walking," replied Emma, with a smile; "but I cannot say that it is so much pleasure as duty which brings me here. I am a day-governess, and pass this pond every morning on my way to Kensington, where the family in which I teach resides."

"Indeed," said Willie, with that amount of emphasis which denotes moderate surprise and solicits information.

He paused for a single moment; but, seeing that Emma did not intend to speak of her own affairs, he added quickly:

"I am waiting for my brother Frank. We arranged to meet here this morning. I hope that Miss Tippet is well?"

"Quite well," replied Emma, with a blush, as she took a sudden interest in a large duck, which swam up to the edge of the pond at that moment, in the hope, no doubt, of obtaining food from her hand. Its hopes were disappointed, however, for Emma only called it a beautiful creature; and then, turning somewhat abruptly to Willie, said, with a slight look of embarrassment, that she feared she should be late and must bid him good-morning.

Willie felt a good deal puzzled, and had he been the same Willie that we introduced at the commencement of our tale, he would have told Emma his mind candidly, and asked her what was the matter; but Willie was a man now, so he smiled, lifted his hat politely, and wished her good-morning.

Five minutes later, Frank appeared in the distance and hurried forward. Seven years had added a little to the breadth of his shoulders, and the firm self-possession of his step and look; but they had made no other perceptible impression on him. There was, indeed, a deep scar on his right temple; but that was the result of accident, not of time. Many a hairbreadth escape had he made during these seven years of fighting with the flames, and often had his life been in imminent danger; but he was fortunate in having escaped, hitherto, with only a broken leg and a variety of small cuts, scalds, and bruises. The cut on his temple was the severest, and most recent of these. He had got it in a fall through a second floor, which gave way under him as he was attempting to rescue an old bedridden man, who lay in an inner chamber. Frank was carried out in a state of insensibility on the broad shoulders of his friend Baxmore, while Dale rescued the old man.

"How goes it, Frank?" cried Willie, advancing and giving his brother's hand a warm shake; "the cut head mending—eh?"

"Oh, it's all right," replied Frank, with a smile, as they sauntered up and down by the margin of the pond; "the headaches have left me now, I'm thankful to say, and the-doctor tells me it won't leave much of a mark."

"You don't need to care much if it does, for it's an honourable scar, and does not spoil your beauty, old boy."

"Well, Willie," said Frank, "here I am at your request. What have you got to tell me; nothing serious, I hope?"

The stalwart fireman looked earnestly into his brother's face, and exhibited more anxiety than there seemed to be any occasion for.

"No, nothing very serious. It may be serious enough for all I know; but as far as my knowledge goes it's not bad enough to make you look so anxious. Why, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, Willie. Perhaps my late accident has shaken my nerves a bit."

Willie burst into a loud laugh, and said that it was so awfully absurd to hear a man like Frank talking of nerves at all that he could not help it.

"Well, but what is the news you've got to tell me?" resumed Frank. "You're not going to be married, are you?"

Frank asked this with a look and expression so peculiar that Willie again laughed and said that really he could not understand him at all; for even suppose he had been going to be married, that was no reason why he should take it so much to heart, as the expression on his face implied he did.

"Perhaps not, Willie," said Frank with a quiet smile; "but that is not what you want to speak about, then?"

"No, certainly not."

Frank appeared relieved, and Willie, observing the appearance, said—

"Come, now, I really don't see why you should be so very much pleased to hear that. I'm young, it is true, but I'm old enough, and I have a good business, with brilliant prospects, and there appears to me no reason on earth why I should not marry if I felt so disposed."

"None in the world, Willie," said Frank, with some haste, "but you tell me you are not thinking of that just now; so pray let's hear what you've got to say."

"Oh! it's all very well in you, old Blazes, to change the subject in that way, but I'm nettled at your implied objection to my getting married if I choose. However, we won't quarrel over it, so here goes for the point."

Willie's bantering manner instantly left him. He walked in silence for a few seconds, as if he pondered what he had to say.

"There are two points which trouble me just now, Frank, and I want your opinion in regard to them. The first is, Miss Tippet. She is a small point, no doubt, whether we regard her physically or mentally, but she is by no means a small point if we regard her socially, for the good that that little woman does in a quiet, unobtrusive way is almost incredible. D'ye know, Frank, I have a sort of triumphant feeling in regard to the sour, cynical folk of this world—whom it is so impossible to answer in their fallacious and sophistical arguments—when I reflect that there is a day coming when the meek and lowly and unknown workers for the sake of our Lord shall be singled out from the multitude, and their true place and position assigned them. Miss Tippet will stand higher, I believe, in the next world than she does in this. Well, Miss Tippet has been much out of sorts of late, mentally; and Mr Tippet, who is the kindest man alive, has been very anxious about her, and has begged of me to try to counsel and comfort her. Now, it is not an easy matter to comply with this request, because, in the first place, Miss Tippet does not want me to counsel or comfort her, so far as I know; and, in the second place, my motives for attempting to do so might be misunderstood."

"How so?" exclaimed Frank quickly.

"Well, you know, Miss Ward lives with her," said Willie, with a modest look.

There was again something peculiar about Frank's expression and manner, as he said, "Well, it would not signify much, I daresay, if people were to make remarks about you and Miss Ward, for you know it would not be misconstruction after all."

"What mean you?" asked Willie in surprise.

"You remember what you once said to me about your bosom being on fire," pursued Frank. "I suppose the fire has not been got under yet, has it?"

Willie burst into a loud laugh.

"Why, Blazes, do you not know—? But, no matter; we came here to talk of business; after that is done we can diverge to love."

Willie paused here again for a few seconds and then resumed:

"You must know, Frank, that the cause of Miss Tippet's disturbance just now is the strange conduct of her landlord, David Boone, who has been going on of late in a way that would justify his friends putting him in an asylum. His business affairs are, I fear, in a bad way, and he not only comes with excessive punctuality for Miss Tippet's rent, but he asks her for loans of money in a wild incoherent fashion, and favours her with cautions and warnings of a kind that are utterly incomprehensible. Only the other night he came to her and asked if she did not intend soon to visit some of her friends; and on being informed that she did not, he went further and advised her to do so, saying that she was looking very ill, and he feared she would certainly get into bad health if she did not. In fact, he even said that he feared she would die if she did not go to the country for a few weeks. Now, all this would be laughable, as being the eccentricity of a half-cracked fellow, if it were not that he exhibits such a desperate anxiety that his advice should be followed, and even begged of the poor lady, with tears in his eyes, to go to visit her friends. What d'ye think of it, Frank? I confess myself utterly nonplussed."

"I don't know what to think," said Frank after a pause. "Either the man must be mad, or he wishes to rob Miss Tippet's house in her absence."

Willie admitted that the first supposition might be true, but he held stoutly that the second was impossible, for Boone was too honest for that. They conversed for some time on this point, and both came ultimately to the conclusion that the thing was incomprehensible and mysterious, and that it ought to be watched and inquired into. Willie, moreover, said he would go and consult his friend Barret about it.

"You know Barret, Frank?"

"No; but I have heard of him."

"Ah, he's a first-rate fellow—in one of the insurance offices—I forget which. I came to know him when I first went to Mr Tippet's. He lived then in the floor below us with a drunken companion whom he was anxious to reclaim; but he found him so hard to manage that he at last left him, and went to live in Hampstead. He and I became great friends when he lived under our workshop. He got married two years ago, and I have not seen much of him since, but he's a sharp fellow, and knows a good deal more of the Tippets than I was aware of. I'll go and see if he can throw any light on this subject."

"The next point," pursued Willie, "is Cattley the clown. Have you seen or heard of him lately?"

Frank said he had not.

"Well, I am greatly troubled about him. He has become a regular drunkard, and leads his poor daughter a terrible life. He is so broken down with dissipation that he can scarcely procure employment anywhere. His son is fortunately a pretty decent fellow, though somewhat wild, and helps in a small way to support his father, having obtained a situation as clown at one of the minor theatres. The daughter, Ziza, has long ago given up the profession, and has been struggling to maintain herself and her father by painting fire-screens, and making artificial flowers; but the work is severe and ill paid, and I see quite well that if the poor girl is not relieved in some way she will not be able to bear up."

"I grieve to hear this, Willie," said Frank, "but how comes it that you take so great an interest in these people?"

"Frank," said Willie, assuming a tone of deep seriousness, while a glow suffused his cheeks, "can you keep a secret?"

"I think so, lad; at least I promise to try."

"Well, then," said Willie, "I love Ziza Cattley. I knew her first as a fairy, I know her now as a woman who is worthy of a place among the angels, for none but those who know her well and have seen her fighting the battle of life can have the least idea of the self-denial, the perseverance under difficulties, the sweetness of temper, and the deep-seated love of that devoted girl. She goes every night, after the toil of each day, to the door of the theatre, where she waits to conduct her father safely past the gin-palaces, into which, but for her, he would infallibly stray, and she spends all she has in making him comfortable, but I see well enough that this is killing her. She can't stand it long, and I won't stand it at all! I've made up my mind to that. Now, Frank, I want your advice."

To say that Frank was hearty in his assurances that he would do what he could to help his brother, would be a faint way of stating the truth. Frank shook Willie by the hand and congratulated him on having gained the affections of one whom he knew to be a good girl, and then condoled with him on that girl's unfortunate circumstances; but Willie stopped him short at this point by asking him in a tone of surprise what could be the matter with him, for at first he had been apparently annoyed at the notion of his (Willie's) being in love, and now he seemed quite pleased about it. In short, his conduct was unaccountable!

Frank laughed, but said eagerly—

"Why. Willie, did you not tell me long ago that there was a fire in your bosom, lit up by a certain young friend of Miss Tippet's—"

"Oh," interrupted Willie, "Emma Ward; ah, yes, I confess that I did feel spooney once in that direction when I was a boy, but the fairy displaced her long ago. No, no, Frank, I'm not accountable for boyish fancies. By the way, I have just parted from the fair Emma. We had a tete-a-tete here not half an hour before you arrived."

"Here!" exclaimed Frank in surprise.

"Ay, here," repeated Willie; "she passes this pond every morning, she told me, on her way to teach a family in Kensington; by the way, I didn't think of asking whether the father, mother, and servants were included among her pupils. Why, Frank, what an absent frame of mind you are in this morning! I declare it is not worth a man's while consulting you about anything."

"I beg pardon," cried Frank quickly, "your words caused my mind to wander a bit. Come, what do you think of doing?"

"What do you think I should do? that is the question."

"You can offer to assist them," suggested Frank. "I've done so," said the other, "but Ziza won't accept of assistance."

"Could we not manage to get her a situation of some sort with light work and good pay?"

"Ah! a fireman's, for instance," cried Willie, with a sarcastic laugh; "did you ever hear of a situation with light work and good pay except under Government? I never did; but we might perhaps find steady work and good pay. It would only be required for a time, because I mean to—ah, well, no matter—but how and where is it to be got? Good Mr Tippet is of no use, because he is mad."

"Mad, Willie!"

"Ay, mad as a March hare. For years back I have suspected it, but now, I am sure of it; in fact I feel that I have gradually come to be his keeper—but more of that anon. Meanwhile, what is to be done for the Cattleys?"

"Could nothing be done with Mr Auberly?"

Willie shook his head.

"No, I fear not. He was in a soft state once—long ago—six or seven years now, I think—when the dear fairy was ill and he seemed as if he were going to become a man; but his daughter Loo had just begun to be ill at that time. She's been so long ill now that he has got used to it, and has relapsed again into an oyster."

"He might be reached through Loo yet," said Frank.

"Perhaps," replied Willie, "but I doubt it, for he's a blunt old fellow in his feelings, however sharp he may be in his business; besides, Loo is so weak now that very few are allowed to see her except Ziza, and Miss Tippet, and Emma Ward."

The brothers remained silent after this for some time, for neither of them could see his way out of their difficulties; at last Frank suggested that Willie should go home and consult his mother.

"She is wise, Willie, and has never given us bad advice yet."

"I know what her first advice will be," said Willie.

"What?" asked Frank.

"To go and pray about it," answered Willie.

"Well, she might give worse advice than that," said Frank, with much earnestness. "In fact, I doubt if she could give better."

"True," assented Willie, "and now, old fellow, I'm off. Mr Tippet likes punctuality. I'll look in at the station in passing if anything turns up to clear my mind on these matters; meanwhile good-bye."

It is a remarkable fact that Frank Willders took an early walk, as frequently as possible, in Kensington Gardens, near the pond, after this conversation with his brother, and it is a still more remarkable fact, that he always felt like a guilty man on these occasions, as if he were taking some mean advantage of some one; yet it was certain that he took advantage of no one, for nobody ever met him there by any chance whatever! A fact even more remarkable still was, that never, after that day, did Emma Ward go to her duties through Kensington Gardens, but always by the Bayswater Road, although the latter was dusty and unpicturesque compared with the former; and it is a circumstance worthy of note, as savouring a little of mystery, that Emma acted as if she too were a guilty creature during her morning walks, and glanced uneasily from side to side as she went along, expecting, apparently, that a policeman or a detective would pounce upon her suddenly and bear her off to prison. But, whether guilty or not guilty, it is plain that no policeman or detective had the heart to do it, for Miss Ward went on her mission daily without molestation.

It is not easy to say what was the cause of these unaccountable proceedings. We might hazard an opinion, but we feel that our duty is accomplished when we have simply recorded them. Perhaps love had something to do with them—perhaps not—who knows?



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

WHAT DRINK WILL DO.

Time passed on, as time is wont to do, and Christmas came again. The snow was deep in London streets and thick on the roofs and chimneys. It curled over the eaves of the houses in heavy white folds ready to fall and smother the unwary passengers. It capped the railings everywhere with little white knobs, and rounded off the corners of things so, that wherever the eye alighted, the same impressions were invariably conveyed to it, namely, whiteness and rotundity. Corinthian capitals were rendered, if possible, more ornate than ever by snow; equestrian statues were laden with it so heavily, that the horses appeared to stagger beneath their trappings and the riders, having white tips to their noses, white lumps on their heads and shoulders, and white patches on their cheek-bones and chins, looked ineffably ridiculous, and miserably cold. Everything, in fact, was covered and blocked up with snow, and Londoners felt as if they had muffled drums in their ears.

It was morning. The sky was clear, the air still, and the smoke of chimneys perpendicular. Poulterers' shops were in their holiday attire; toy-shops were in the ascendant, and all other shops were gayer than usual. So were the people who thronged the streets and beat their hands and stamped their feet—for it was unusually cold.

Street boys were particularly lively, and chaff was flying as thickly as snow-flakes had fallen the night before. Even the roughs—who forsook their dens, and, with shovels and brooms on their shoulders, paraded the streets, intent on clearing door-steps with or without the leave of inhabitants—seemed to be less gruff than usual, and some of them even went the length of cutting jokes with the cabmen and the boys. Perhaps their spirits were elevated by the proud consciousness of being for once in the way of earning an honest penny!

"I say, Ned," observed one of these roughs (a lively one), who was very rough indeed, to a companion, who was rougher still and gloomy, "look at that there gal cleanin' of her steps with a fire-shovel! Ain't that economy gone mad? Hallo, young 'ooman, what's the use o' trying to do it with a teaspoon, when there's Ned and me ready to do it with our shovels for next to nothin'?"

The servant-girl declined the assistance thus liberally offered, so the two men moved slowly on, looking from side to side as they went, in expectation of employment, while a small boy, in a man's hat, who walked behind them, nodded to the girl, and said she was a "sensible thrifty gal," and that she might be sure there was "some feller unknown who would bless the day he was born after he'd got her."

Fifty yards farther on, a stout, red-faced, elderly gentleman was observed to look out at the street door and frown at things in general.

"Have your door-steps cleaned, sir?" asked the lively rough, taking the shovel off his shoulder.

The elderly gentleman being angry, on private and unknown grounds (perhaps bad digestion), vouchsafed no reply, but looked up at the sky and then over the way.

"Do it cheap, sir," said the lively rough.

"No!" said the elderly gentleman, with a sort of snapping look, as he turned his gaze up the street and then down it.

"Snow's wery deep on the steps, sir," said the rough.

"D'you suppose I'm an ass?" exclaimed the elderly gentleman, in a sudden burst.

"Well, sir," said the lively rough, in the grave tone and manner of one who has had a difficult question in philosophy put to him, "well, sir, I don't know about that."

His large mouth expanded gradually from ear to ear after this reply. The elderly gentleman's face became scarlet and his nose purple, and retreating two paces, he slammed the door violently in the rough's face.

"Ah, it all comes of over-feedin', poor feller," said the lively man, shouldering his shovel and resuming his walk beside his gloomy comrade, who neither smiled nor frowned at these pleasantries.

"A warm old g'n'l'm'n!" remarked the boy in the man's hat as he passed.

The lively man nodded and winked.

"Might eat his wittles raw an' cook 'em inside a'most!" continued the boy; "would advise him to keep out of 'yde Park, though, for fear he'd git too near the powder-magazine!"

At this point the gloomy rough—who did not appear, however, to be a genuine rough, but a pretty good imitation of one, made of material that had once seen better days—stopped, and said to his comrade that he was tired of that sort of work, and would bid him good-day. Without waiting for an answer he walked away, and his companion, without vouchsafing a reply, looked after him with a sneer.

"A rum cove!" he remarked to the small boy in the man's hat, as he continued his progress.

"Rayther," replied the boy.

With this interchange of sentiment these casual acquaintances parted, to meet probably no more!

Meanwhile the gloomy rough, whom the lively one had called Ned, walked with rapid steps along several streets, as though he had a distinct purpose in view. He turned at last into a narrow, quiet street, and going up to the door of a shabby-genteel house, applied the knocker with considerable vigour.

"Now then, go along with you; we don't want your services here; we clear off our own snow, we do. Imprence! to knock, too, as if he was a gentleman!"

This was uttered by a servant-girl who had thrust her head out of a second-floor window to take an observation of the visitor before going down to open the door.

"Is he at home, Betsy dear?" inquired the gloomy man, looking up with a leer which proved that he could be the reverse of gloomy when he chose.

"Oh, it's you, is it? I don't think he wants to see you; indeed, I'm sure of it," said the girl.

"Yes he does, dear; at all events I want to see him; and, Betsy, say it's pressing business, and not beggin'."

Betsy disappeared, and soon after, reappearing at the door, admitted the man, whom she ushered into a small apartment, which was redolent of tobacco, and in which sat a young man slippered and dressing-gowned, taking breakfast.

"How are you, doctor?" said the visitor, in a tone that did not accord with his soiled and ragged garments, as he laid down his hat and shovel, and flung himself into a chair.

"None the better for seeing you, Hooper," replied the doctor sternly.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Ned, "what a world we live in, to be sure! It was 'Hail fellow! well met,' when I was well off; now," (he scowled here) "my old familiars give me the cold shoulder because I'm poor."

"You know that you are unjust," said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, and speaking less sternly though not less firmly; "you know, Ned, that I have helped you with advice and with money to the utmost extent of my means, and you know that it was a long, long time before I ceased to call you one of my friends; but I do not choose to be annoyed by a man who has deliberately cast himself to the dogs, whose companions are the lowest wretches in London, and whose appearance is dirty and disgusting as well as disreputable."

"I can't help it," pleaded Hooper; "I can get no work."

"I don't wonder at that," replied the doctor; every friend you ever had has got you work of one kind or another during the last few years, and you have drunk yourself out of it every time. Do you imagine that your friends will continue to care for a man who cares not for himself?

Ned did not reply, but hung his head in moody silence.

"Now," continued the doctor, "my time is a little more valuable than yours; state what you have got to say, and then be off. Stay," he added, in a softened tone, "have you breakfasted?"

"No," answered Ned, with a hungry glance at the table.

"Well, then, as you did not come to beg, you may draw in your chair and go to work."

Ned at once availed himself of this permission, and his spirits revived wonderfully as he progressed with the meal, during which he stated the cause of his visit.

"The fact is," said he, "that I want your assistance, doctor—"

"I told you already," interrupted the other, "that I have assisted you to the utmost extent of my means."

"My good fellow, not so sharp, pray," said Ned, helping himself to another roll, the first having vanished like a morning cloud; "I don't want money—ah: that is to say, I do want money, but I don't want yours. No; I came here to ask you to help me to get a body."

"A body. What do you mean?"

"Why, what I say; surely you've cut up enough of 'em to know 'em by name; a dead body, doctor,—a subject."

The doctor smiled.

"That's a strange request, Ned. You're not going to turn to my profession as a last resort, I hope?"

"No, not exactly; but a friend of mine wants a body—that's all, and offers to pay me a good round sum if I get one for him."

"Is your friend a medical man?" asked the doctor.

"N-no, he's not. In fact, he has more to do with spirits than bodies; but he wants one of the latter—and I said I'd try to get him one—so, if you can help me, do so, like a good fellow. My friend is particular, however; he wants a man one, above six feet, thin and sallow, and with long black hair."

"You don't suppose I keep a stock of assorted subjects on hand, do you?" said the doctor. "I fear it won't be easy to get what you want. Do you know what your friend intends to do with it?"

"Not I, and I don't care," said Ned, pouring out another cup of coffee. "What does a body cost?"

"Between two and three pounds," replied the doctor.

"Dear me, so cheap," said Ned, with a look of surprise; "then that knocks on the head a little plan I had. I thought of offering myself for sale at Guy's or one of the hospitals, and drinking myself to death with the money, leaving my address, so that they might know where to find me; but it's not worth while to do it for so little; in fact, I don't believe I could accomplish it on three pounds' worth of dissipation."

"Don't jest about your besetting sin," said the doctor gravely; "it's bad enough without that."

"Bad enough," exclaimed Ned, with a sudden flash of ferocity; "ay, bad enough in all conscience, and the worst of it is, that it makes me ready to jest about anything—in heaven, earth, or hell. Oh, drink! accursed drink!"

He started up and clutched the hair of his head with both hands for a moment; but the feeling passed away, and he sat down again and resumed breakfast, while he said in a graver tone than he had yet used—

"Excuse me, doctor; I'm subject to these bursts now and then. Well, what say you about the body? My friend offers me twenty pounds, if I get the right kind. That would be seventeen pounds of profit on the transaction. It's worth an effort. It might put me in the way of making one more stand."

Ned said this sadly, for he had made so many stands in time past, and failed to retain his position, that hope was at dead low-water of a very neap-tide now.

"I don't like the look of the thing," said the doctor. "There's too much secrecy about it for me. Why don't your friend speak out like a man; state what he wants it for, and get it in the regular way?"

"It mayn't be a secret, for all I know," said Ned Hooper, as he concluded his repast. "I did not take the trouble to ask him; because I didn't care. You might help me in this, doctor."

"Well, I'll put you in the way of getting what you want," said the doctor, after a few moments reflection; "but you must manage it yourself. I'll not act personally in such an affair; and let me advise you to make sure that you are not getting into a scrape before you take any steps in the matter. Meanwhile, I must wish you good-day. Call here again to-night, at six."

The doctor rose as he spoke, and accompanied Ned to the door. He left a coin of some sort in his palm, when he shook hands.

"Thankee," said Ned.

"If you had come to beg, you should not have got it," said the doctor. "God help him!" he added as he shut the door; "it is an awful sight to see an old companion fall so low."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AN OLD PLOT.

It is evening now. The snow is still on the ground; but it looks ruddy and warm in the streets, because of the blaze of light from the shop-windows, and it looks colder than it did on the house-tops, by reason of the moon which sails in the wintry sky.

The man in the moon must have been in good spirits that night, for his residence seemed almost fuller than the usual full moon, and decidedly brighter—to many, at least, of the inhabitants of London. It looked particularly bright to Miss Tippet, as she gazed at it through the windows of her upper rooms, and awaited the arrival of "a few friends" to tea. Miss Tippet's heart was animated with feelings of love to God and man; and she had that day, in obedience to the Divine precept, attempted and accomplished a good many little things, all of which were, either directly or indirectly, calculated to make human beings happy.

Emma Ward, too, thought the moon particularly bright that night; in fact she might almost have been regarded as a lunatic; so steadily did she gaze at the moon, and smile to herself without any apparent motive. There was reason for her joy, however, for she had come to know, in some mysterious way, that Frank Willders loved her; and she had known, for a long time past, that she loved Frank Willders.

Frank had become a foreman of the Fire Brigade, and had been removed from his former station and comrades to his new charge in the city. But Frank had not only risen in his profession; he had also risen intellectually. His mother had secured to him a pretty good education to begin with, and his own natural taste and studious habits had led him to read extensively. His business required him to sit up and watch when other men slept. He seldom went to bed before four o'clock any morning, and when he did take his rest he lay down like the soldier in an enemy's country, ready to rush to arms at the first sound of the bugle. His bugle, by the way, was a speaking-trumpet, one end of which was close to the head of his bed, the other end being in the lobby where the men on duty for the night reposed.

During these long watches in the silent lobby, with the two men belted and booted on their tressels, the clock ticking gently by his side, like the soft quiet voice of a chatty but not tiresome friend, Frank read book after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel, romance—all kinds were equally devoured. At the particular time of which we write, however, he read more of poetry than of anything else.

The consequence was that Frank, who was one of nature's gentlemen, became a well-informed man, and might have moved in any circle of society with credit to himself, and profit as well as pleasure to others.

Frank was by nature grave, sedate, earnest, thoughtful. Emma was equally earnest—more so perhaps—but she was light-hearted (not light headed, observe) and volatile. The result was mutual attraction. Let philosophers account for the mutual attraction of these qualities as they best may, we simply record the fact. History records it; nature records it; experience—everything records it; who has the temerity, or folly, to deny it?

Emma and Frank felt it, and, in some mysterious way, Frank had come to know something or other about Emma's feelings, which it is not our business to inquire into too particularly.

So, then, Frank also gazed—no, not at the moon; it would have required him to ascend three flights of stairs, and a ladder, besides passing through a trap to the roof of the station, to enable him to do that; but there was a lamp over the fireplace, with a tin reflector, which had quite a dazzling effect of its own—not a bad imitation of the moon in a small way—so he gazed at that, and thought it very bright indeed; brighter than usual.

We may as well put the reader out of suspense at once by saying that we do not intend to describe Miss Tippet's evening with "a few friends." Our own private opinion in regard to the matter is, that if they had been fewer than they were, and more worthy of the name of friends, the evening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to say that they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual, "favoured the company" with songs, as usual, and—ah—yes—enjoyed themselves as usual till about half-past eleven o'clock, when they all took their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, in consideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend the night with her "dear friend."

Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible for any one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit of kicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow. She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visiting her friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet and Emma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while Miss Deemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.

There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license, to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a single plank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of many hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a foot thick, besides an inner "skin," the whole being held together by innumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oakum and pitch. We had almost fallen into this error—or poetical laxity of expression—by saying that, on the night of which we write, little did Miss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, but from something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor of her own residence, and the ceiling of the house below—as the sequel will show.

That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, sat in his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.

"Now, Boone," said the latter, with an oath, "I'm not goin' to hang off and on any longer. It's more than seven years since we planned this business, the insurances have been effected, you've bin a prosperous man, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever."

"Quite true," replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might have easily been mistaken for a ghost, "but you know I have paid up my premiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin' off some of the principal. Come, don't be hard on me, Gorman. If it had not been that trade has got worse of late, I would have cleared off all I owe you, but indeed, indeed I have not been so successful of late, and I'm again in difficulties. If you will only wait—"

"No," cried Gorman, "I'll not wait. I have waited long enough. How long would you have me wait—eh? Moreover, I'm not hard on you. I show you an easy way to make a good thing of it, and you're so chicken-hearted that you're afraid to do it."

"It's such a mean thing to do," said Boone.

"Mean! Why, what do you call the style of carrying on business that you started with seven years ago, and have practised more or less ever since?"

"That is mean, too," said Boone; "I'm ashamed of it; sorry for it. It was for a time successful no doubt, and I have actually paid off all my creditors except yourself, but I don't think it the less mean on that account, and I'm thoroughly ashamed of it."

There was a good deal of firmness in Boone's tone as he said this, and his companion was silent for a few minutes.

"I have arranged," he said at last, "about your making over your policies of insurance to me as security for the debt you owe me. You won't have to pay them next half-year, I'll do that for you if necessary." He laughed as he said this. "I have now come to ask you to set the house alight, and have the plan carried out, and the whole affair comfortably settled."

Gorman said this in an encouraging voice, assuming that his dupe was ready to act.

"B-but it's awful to think of," said Boone; "suppose it's found out?"

"How can it be found out?"

"Well, I don't know. It's wonderful how crime is discovered," said Boone despondingly; "besides, think of the risk we run of burning the people who live above, as well as my two clerks who sleep in the room below us; that would be murder, you know. I'm sure I have tried my very best to get Miss Tippet to go from home for a short time, I've almost let the cat out of the bag in my anxiety, but she won't take the hint."

"Oho!" exclaimed Gorman, with a laugh.

"Well, have you made the arrangements as I directed you last night?"

"Yes, I've got a lot of tarry oakum scattered about, and there is a pile of shavings," he added, pointing to a corner of the room; "the only thing I'm anxious about is that my young man Robert Roddy caught me pouring turpentine on the walls and floor of the shop. I pretended that it was water I had in the can, and that I was sprinkling it to lay the dust before sweeping up. Roddy is a slow, stupid youth; he always was, and, I daresay, did not notice the smell."

Gorman was himself filled with anxiety on hearing the first part of this, but at the conclusion he appeared relieved.

"It's lucky you turned it off so," said he, "and Roddy is a stupid fellow. I daresay he has no suspicion. In fact, I am sure of it."

"It's not of much importance now, however," said Boone, rising and confronting his friend with more firmness than he had ever before exhibited to him, "because I have resolved not to do it."

Gorman lit his pipe at the fire, looking at the bowl of it with a scornful smile as he replied—

"Oh! you have made up your mind, have you?"

"Yes, decidedly. Nothing will move me. You may do your worst."

"Very good," remarked Gorman, advancing with the lighted paper towards the heap of shavings.

Boone sprang towards him, and, seizing his arms, grasped the light and crushed it out.

"What would you do, madman?" he cried. "You can only ruin me, but do you not know that I will have the power to denounce you as a fire-raiser?"

Gorman laughed, and returned to the fireplace, while Boone sat down on a chair almost overcome with terror.

"What! you dare to defy me?" said Gorman, with an air of assumed pity. "A pretty case you would have to make out of it. You fill your shop with combustibles, you warn your tenant upstairs to get out of the premises for a time in a way that must be quite unaccountable to her (until the fire accounts for it), and your own clerk sees you spilling turpentine about the place the day before the fire occurs, and yet you have the stupidity to suppose that people will believe you when you denounce me!"

Poor David Boone's wits seemed to be sharpened by his despair, for he said suddenly, after a short pause—

"If the case is so bad it will tell against yourself, Gorman, for I shall be certainly convicted, and the insurance will not be paid to you."

"Ay, but the case is not so bad as it looks," said Gorman, "if you only have the sense to hold your tongue and do what you are told; for nobody knows all these things but you and me, and nobody can put them together except ourselves—d'ye see?"

"It matters not," said Boone firmly; "I won't do it—there!"

Both men leaped up. At the same moment there was a sound as of something falling in the shop. They looked at each other.

"Go see what it is," said Gorman.

The other stepped to the door.

"It's only two of my wax-dolls tumbled off the shelf," he said on returning.

An exclamation of horror escaped him, for he saw that the heap of shavings had been set on fire during his momentary absence, and Gorman stood watching them with a demoniacal grin.

Boone was struck dumb. He could not move or speak. He made a feeble effort to stretch out his hands as if to extinguish the fire, but Gorman seized him in his powerful grasp and held him fast. In a few seconds the flames were leaping up the walls, and the room was so full of smoke that they were driven into the front shop.

"Now, then," said Gorman in a fierce whisper, "your only chance is to act out your part as wisely as you can. Shout fire! now till you're black in the face—fire! Fire!! FIRE!!!"

David Boone obeyed with all his might, and, when Gorman released him, ran back into the parlour to try to extinguish the flames, but he was driven back again, scorched and half-choked, while Gorman ran off at full speed to the nearest station, gave the alarm, received the shilling reward for being first to give the call, and then went leisurely home to bed.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

AT THE POST OF DUTY.

Fire! There is something appalling in the cry to most ears; something deadly in the sound; something that tells of imminent danger and urgent haste. After David Boone's first alarm was given, other voices took it up; passers-by became suddenly wild, darted about spasmodically and shouted it; late sitters-up flung open their windows and proclaimed it; sleepers awoke crying, "What! where?" and, huddling on their clothes, rushed out to look at it; little boys yelled it; frantic females screamed it, and in a few minutes the hubbub in Poorthing Lane swelled into a steady roar.

Among the sound sleepers in that region was Miss Deemas. The fair head of that lady reposed on its soft pillow all unconscious of the fact that she was even then being gently smoked before being roasted alive.

Miss Tippet, on the very first note of alarm, bounced out of bed with an emphatic "There!" which was meant to announce the triumphant fulfilment of an old prophecy which she had been in the habit of making for some time past; namely, that Matty Merryon would certainly set the house on fire if she did not take care!

The energy with which Miss Tippet sprang to the floor and exclaimed "There!" caused Emma Ward to open her eyes to the utmost possible extent, and exclaim, "Where?"

Without waiting for a reply she too bounded out of bed like an indiarubber ball, and seeing (for there was always a night-light in the room) that Miss Tippet's face was as white as her night-dress, she attempted to shriek, but failed, owing to a lump of some kind that had got somehow into her throat, and which refused to be swallowed on any terms.

The repetition of the cry, "Fire! fire!" outside, induced both ladies at once to become insane. Miss Tippet, with a touch of method even in her madness, seized the counterpane, wrapped it round her, and rushed out of the room and downstairs. Emma followed her example with a blanket, and also fled, just as Matty Merryon, who slept in an attic room above, tumbled down her wooden staircase and burst into the room by another door, uttering a wild exclamation that was choked in the bud partly by terror, partly by smoke. Attempting in vain to wrap herself in a bolster, Matty followed her mistress. All three had utterly forgotten the existence of Miss Deemas. That strong-minded lady being, as we have hinted, a sound sleeper, was not awakened by the commotion in the street. In fact, she was above such weaknesses. Becoming aware of a crackling sound and a sensation of smoke, she smiled sweetly in her slumbers, and, turning gently on her other side, with a sigh, dreamed ardently of fried ham and eggs—her usual breakfast.

While these events were occurring the cry of fire had reached the ears of one of London's guardians; our friend Samuel Forest. That stout-hearted man was seated at the time rapping the sides of his sentry-box with his head, in a useless struggle with sleep. He had just succumbed, and was snoring out his allegiance to the great conqueror, when the policeman on the beat dashed open his door and shouted "Fire!"

Sam was a calm, self-possessed man. He was no more flurried by this sudden, unexpected, and fierce shout of "Fire," than he would have been if the policeman had in a mild voice made a statement of water. But, although self-possessed and cool, Sam was not slow. With one energetic effort he tripped up and floored the conqueror with one hand, as it were, while he put on his black helmet with the other, and in three minutes more the fire-escape was seen coming up the lane like a rampant monster of the antediluvian period.

It was received by the crowd with frantic cheers, because they had just become aware that a lady was asleep in one of the upper rooms, which were by that time unapproachable, owing to the lower part of the staircase having caught fire.

The fact was made known with a sudden look of horror by Miss Tippet, who, with Emma Ward, had been rescued from the first-floor window by a gallant policeman. This man, having procured a ladder, entered the house at considerable personal risk, and carried the ladies out in safety, one after the other; an event, we may remark in passing, which is not of rare occurrence at London fires, where the police are noted for their efficient services and for the daring of some of the members of the force, many of whom have received medals and other rewards for acts of personal daring in attempting to save life before the firemen had arrived on the ground.

Having put Miss Tippet and Emma in a place of security, the policeman was about to make a desperate attempt to reach the upper floor by rushing through the flames, when the escape came up and rendered it unnecessary.

Dozens of tongues and hundreds of voices directed Sam Forest to the right window. He pointed his escape towards it, but so vigorous was the uninvited assistance lent by the crowd that the head of the machine went crashing through it and dashed the frame into the middle of the room.

To say that Miss Deemas was horror-struck by such an awakening would be to use a mild expression. Her strong mind was not strong enough to prevent her strong body from trembling like an aspen leaf, as she lay for a few moments unable to cry or move. Suddenly she believed that she was dreaming, and that the instrument which had burst through her window was a nightmare or a guillotine, and she made dreadful efforts to pinch herself awake without success. Next moment a man's head, looking very grim in the light of a bull's-eye lamp, appeared at the top of the guillotine. So far this was in keeping with her idea; but when the head leapt into the room, followed by its relative body, and made a rush at her, Miss Deemas cast courage and philosophy to the dogs, gave herself over to abject fear, uttered a piercing shriek, dipped her head under the bedclothes, and, drawing her knees up to her mouth, clasped her hands over them in agony.

"Come, ma'am, don't take on so; no time to lose; floor's goin' down!" said Sam. He coughed as he said it, for the smoke was getting thicker every moment.

Shriek upon shriek was the only answer vouchsafed by the terrified Eagle. A wild cheer from the mob outside seemed to be a reply of encouragement to her; but it was not so; it was called forth by the sudden appearance of a fire-engine dashing round the corner of the lane.

"Be quiet, my good lady," said Sam Forest in a voice of tenderness; but if his voice was tender his actions were the reverse, for it was now a matter of life or death; so he grasped the Eagle, bedclothes and all, in his arms, and bore her to the window.

It is probable that this act revived in Miss Deemas some reminiscences of her childhood, for she suddenly straightened herself out and struggled violently, after the manner of those sweet little ones who won't be made to sit on nurse's knees. Being a tall, heavy woman, she struggled out of Sam's grasp and fell to the floor; but her victory was short-lived. Another moment and that bold man had her round the waist, in a grasp from which she could not free herself. Sam was considerate, however, and polite even in this extremity. He begged pardon as he wrapped the bedclothes round his victim, and lifting her into the head of the escape, let her go.

No swoop that the Eagle ever made (mentally) down upon base, unworthy, arrogant man, was at all comparable to the descent which she made (physically) on that occasion into the arms of an expectant fireman! She held her breath, also the blankets, tightly, as she went down like a lightning-flash, and felt that she was about to be dashed to pieces, but to her surprise soft cushions received her, and she was immediately borne, by another of these desperate men in helmets, into an adjoining house, and left unhurt in the arms of her sympathetic friend Miss Tippet.

"Oh, my dear, dear Julia!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, shutting the door of the room into which they had been ushered, and assisting her friend to disentangle herself from the bedclothes. "Oh! what a mercy we've not all been roasted alive like beef steaks—or—oh! what a sight you are, my darling! You must have got it coming down that dreadful thing—the what's-'is-name, you know. Shall I ring for water?"

"Tut, nonsense!" exclaimed the Eagle, panting as well from nervous excitement as exhaustion; "you are always so fussy, Emelina. Please assist me to tie this string, Miss Ward."

"Yes, I know I'm fussy, dear Julia!" exclaimed Miss Tippet, bustling nervously about the room; "but I can't help it, and I'm so thankful for—; but it was so bold in these noble fellows to risk their lives to—"

"Noble fellows!" shouted Miss Deemas, with flashing eyes, "d'you call it noble to pull me out of bed, and roll me in a blanket and shoot me down a—a—I don't know what, like a sack of coals? Noble fellows, indeed! Brutes!"

Here Miss Deemas clasped her hands above her head in a passion of conflicting feelings, and, being unable to find words for utterance, burst into a flood of tears, dropped into a chair, and covered her face with both hands.

"Dear, dear, darling Julia!" said Miss Tippet soothingly.

"Don't speak to me!" sobbed the Eagle passionately, and stamping her foot; "I can't bear to think of it."

"But you know, dear," persevered her friend, "they could not help being—being—what d'you call it?—energetic, you know, for it was not rough. We should all have been roasted to death but for them, and I feel very, very grateful to them. I shall respect that policeman as long as I live."

"Ah, sure an' he is a dacent boy now," said Matty Merryon, who entered the room just then; "the way he lifted you an' Miss Emma up an' flung ye over his showlder, as aisy as if ye was two bolsters, was beautiful to look at; indade it was. Shure it remimbered me o' the purty pottery ye was readin' just the other night, as was writ by O'Dood or O'Hood—"

"Hood," suggested Miss Tippet.

"P'r'aps it was," said Matty; "he'd be none the worse of an O before his name anyhow. But the pottery begood with—'Take her up tinderly, lift her with care,' if I don't misremimber."

"Will you hold your tongue!" cried the Eagle, looking up suddenly and drying her eyes.

"Surely, miss," said Matty, with a toss of her head; "anything to plaize ye."

It is due to Matty to say that, while the policeman was descending the ladder with her mistress, she had faithfully remained to comfort and encourage Emma; and after Emma was rescued she had quietly descended the ladder without assistance, having previously found time to clothe herself in something a little more ample and appropriate than a bolster.

But where was David Boone all this time? Rather say, where was he not? Everywhere by turns, and nowhere long, was David to be seen, in the frenzy of his excitement. Conscience-smitten, for what he had done, or rather intended to do, he ran wildly about, making the most desperate efforts to extinguish the fire.

No one knows what he can do till he is tried. That is a proverb (at least if it is not it ought to be) which embraces much deep truth. The way in which David Boone set personal danger at defiance, and seemed to regard suffocation by smoke or roasting by fire as terminations of life worth courting, was astounding, and rendered his friends and neighbours dumb with amazement.

David was now on the staircase among the firemen, fighting his way up through fire and smoke, for the purpose of saving Miss Tippet, until he was hauled forcibly back by Dale or Baxmore—who were in the thick of it as usual. Anon, down in the basement, knee-deep in water, searching for the bodies of his two shopmen, both of whom were standing comfortably outside, looking on. Presently he was on the leads of the adjoining house, directing, commanding, exhorting, entreating, the firemen there to point their branch at the "blue bedroom." Soon after he was in the street, tearing his hair, shouting that it was all his fault; that he did it, and that it would kill him.

Before the fire was put out, poor Boone's eyelashes and whiskers were singed off; little hair was left on his head, and that little was short and frizzled. His clothes, of course, were completely soaked; in addition to which, they were torn almost to shreds, and some of his skin was in the same condition. At last he had to be forcibly taken in charge, and kept shut up in an adjoining house, from the window of which he watched the destruction of his property and his hopes.

Almost superhuman efforts had been made by the firemen to save the house. Many a house in London had they saved that year, partially or wholly; as, indeed, is the case every year, and many thousands of pounds' worth of property had they rescued; but this case utterly defied them. So well had the plot been laid; so thoroughly had the combustibles been distributed and lubricated with inflammable liquids, that all the engines in the metropolis would have failed to extinguish that fire.

David Boone knew this, and he groaned in spirit. The firemen knew it not, and they worked like heroes.

There was a shout at last among the firemen to "look out!" It was feared one of the partition walls was coming down, so each man beat a hasty retreat. They swarmed out at the door like bees, and were all safe when the wall fell—all safe, but one, Joe Corney, who, being a reckless man, took things too leisurely, and was knocked down by the falling bricks.

Moxey and Williams ran back, and carried him out of danger. Then, seeing that he did not recover consciousness, although he breathed, they carried him at once to the hospital. The flames of the burning house sprang up, just then, as if they leaped in triumph over a fallen foe; but the polished surface of poor Joe's helmet seemed to flash back defiance at the flames as they bore him away.

After the partition wall fell, the fire sank, and in the course of a few hours it was extinguished altogether. But nothing whatever was saved, and the firemen had only the satisfaction of knowing that they had done their best, and had preserved the adjoining houses, which would certainly have gone, but for their untiring energy.

By this time, David Boone, besides being mad, was in a raging fever. The tenant of the house to which he had been taken was a friend, as well as a neighbour of his own—a greengrocer, named Mrs Craw, and she turned out to be a good Samaritan, for she insisted on keeping Boone in her house, and nursing him; asserting stoutly, and with a very red face (she almost always asserted things stoutly, and with a red face), that Mister Boone was one of 'er best an' holdest friends, as she wouldn't see 'im go to a hospital on charity—which she despised, so she did—as long as there was a spare bed in her 'ouse, so there was—which it wasn't as long as could be wished, considerin' Mister Boone's height; but that could be put right by knocking out the foot-board, and two cheers, so it could—and as long she had one copper to rub on another; no, though she was to be flayed alive for her hospitality. By which round statement, Mrs Craw was understood to imply a severe rebuke to Mrs Grab—another greengrocer over the way (and a widow)—who had been heard to say, during the progress of the fire, that it served Boone right, and that she wouldn't give him a helping hand in his distress on any account whatever.

Why Mrs Grab was so bitter and Mrs Craw so humane is a matter of uncertainty; but it was generally believed that the former having had a matrimonial eye on Boone, and that Boone having expressed general objections to matrimony—besides having gone of late to Mrs Craw for his vegetables—had something to do with it.

Next day, D. Gorman happened, quite in a casual way of course, to saunter into Poorthing Lane; and it was positively interesting to note— as many people did note—the surprise and consternation with which he received the news of the fire from the people at the end of the lane who first met him, and who knew him well.

"Wery sad, ain't it, sir?" said a sympathetic barber. "He was sitch a droll dog too. He'll be quite a loss to the neighbourhood; won't he, sir?"

"I hope he won't," said Gorman, loud enough to be heard by several persons who lounged about their doors. "I hope to see him start afresh, an' git on better than ever, poor fellow; at least, I'll do all I can to help him."

"Ah! you've helped him already, sir, more than once, I believe; at least so he told me," said the barber, with an approving nod.

"Well, so I have," returned Gorman modestly, "but he may be assured that any trifle he owes me won't be called for just now. In fact, my small loan to him is an old debt, which I might have got any time these last six years, when he was flourishing; so I'm not going to press him now, poor fellow. He's ill, you say?"

"Yes, so I'm told; raither serious too."

"That's very sad; where is he?"

"With Mrs Craw, sir, the greengrocer."

"Ah, I'll go and see him. Good-day."

Gorman passed on, with as much benignity thrown into his countenance as it could contain; and the barber observed, as he re-entered his shop, that, "that man was a better fellow than he looked."

But Gorman's intentions, whatever they might have been, were frustrated at that time; for he found Boone in high fever, and quite delirious. He did not, however, quit the house without putting, as he expressed it, at least one spoke in his wheel; for he conducted himself in such a way towards Mrs Craw, and expressed so much feeling for her friend "and his," that he made quite a favourable impression on that worthy woman. He also left a sovereign, wherewith to purchase any little luxuries for the sick man, that might be conducive to his health and comfort, and went away with the assurance that he would look in to inquire for him as often as he could.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

WILLIE WILLDERS IN DIFFICULTIES.

Mr Thomas Tippet, beaming and perspiring as of old, was standing at his bench, chisel in hand, and Willie Willders was standing with his back to the fire, and his legs pretty wide apart; not because he preferred that degage attitude, but because Chips and Puss were asleep side by side between his feet.

It must not be supposed that although Willie had changed so much since the first day he stood there, an equal change had taken place in Mr Tippet. By no means. He was a little stouter, perhaps, but in all other respects he was the same man. Not a hair greyer, nor a wrinkle more.

The workshop, too, was in exactly the same state, only a little more crowded in consequence of numerous models having been completed and shelved during the last seven years. There was, however something new in the shape of a desk with some half-finished plans upon it; for Willie had gradually introduced a little genuine engineering into the business.

At first, naturally enough, the boy had followed his employer's lead, and, as we have said before, being very ingenious, as well as enthusiastic, had entered with all his heart and head into the absurd schemes of his patron; but as he became older he grew wiser. He applied himself to reading and study at home in the evenings with indomitable perseverance.

The result of his application was twofold. In the first place he discovered that he was very ignorant and that there existed a huge illimitable field of knowledge worth entering on seriously. His early training having been conducted (thanks to his mother) "in the fear of the Lord," he regarded things that are spiritual, and have God and man's duty to Him for their object, as part—the chief part—of that great field of knowledge; not as a separate field which may or may not be entered on according to taste. In the second place, he began to discover that his kind-hearted employer was a monomaniac. In other words, that, although sane enough in all other matters, he was absolutely mad in regard to mechanical discoveries and inventions, and that most of the latter were absolutely nonsensical.

This second discovery induced him to prosecute his studies with all the more energy, in order that he might be prepared for the battle of life, in case his existing connection with Mr Tippet should be dissolved.

His studies naturally took an engineering turn, and, being what is termed a thorough-going fellow, he did not rest until he had dived into mathematics so deep that we do not pretend to follow him, even in the way of description. Architecture, surveying, shipbuilding, and cognate subjects, claimed and obtained his earnest attention; and year after year, on winter nights, did he sit at the side of the fire in the little house at Notting Hill, adding to his stores of knowledge on these subjects; while his meek old mother sat darning socks or patching male attire on the other side of the fire with full as much perseverance and assiduity. One consequence of this was that Willie Willders, having begun as a Jack-of-all trades, pushed on until he became a philosopher-of-all-trades, and of many sciences too, so that it would have been difficult to find his match between Charing Cross and Primrose Hill.

And Willie was not changeable. True to his first love, he clung with all the ardour of youth to fire, fire-engines, and the fire-brigade. He would have become a member of the latter if he could, but that was in the circumstances impossible. He studied the subject, however, and knew its history and its working details from first to last. He did his best to invent new engines and improve on old ones; but in such matters he usually found that his inventions had been invented, and his improvements made and improved upon, long before. Such checks, however, did not abate his ardour one jot. He persevered in his varied courses until he worked himself into a species of business which could exist only in London, which it would be difficult to describe, and which its practitioner styled "poly-artism" with as much boldness as if the word were in Johnson's Dictionary!

Standing on the hearth, as we have said, Willie related to his friend all he knew in regard to the Cattley family, and wound up with an anxious demand what was to be done for them.

Mr Tippet, leaning on his bench and looking into Willie's face with a benignant smile, said—

"Done, my boy? why, help 'em of course."

"Ay, but how?" asked Willie.

"How?" cried Mr Tippet; "why, by giving 'em money. You are aware that I stopped their allowance because Cattley senior went and drank it as soon as he got it, and Cattley junior is able to support himself, and I was not until now aware that the poor daughter was killing herself to support her father; but as I do know it now I'll continue the allowance and increase it, and we shall give it into the daughter's hands, so that the father won't be able to mis-spend it."

Mr Tippet's visage glowed with ardour as he stated this arrangement, but the glow was displaced by a look of anxiety as he observed that Willie shook his head and looked as perplexed as ever.

"If that plan would have availed I would have tried it long ago," said he, with a sad smile, "for my income is a pretty good one, thanks to you, sir—"

"Thanks to your own genius, Willie, for the remarkable and prolific offshoots which you have caused to sprout from this dry old root," said Mr Tippet, interrupting, as he glanced round the room with an air of affection, which showed that he loved the root dearly, despite its age and dryness.

"Not the less thanks to you, sir," said Willie, in the deferential tone which he had assumed involuntarily towards his patron almost from the commencement of their intercourse; "but Z—-a—Miss Cattley positively refuses to accept of money from anyone in charity, as long as she can work."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr Tippet, shaking his head slowly, "pride, simple pride. Not laudable pride, observe. She deceives herself, no doubt, into the belief that it is laudable, but it is not; for, when a girl cannot work without working herself into her grave, it is her duty not to work, and it is the duty as well as the privilege of her friends to support her. Truth is truth, Willie, and we must not shrink from stating it because a few illogical thinkers are apt to misunderstand it, or because there are a number of mean-spirited wretches who would be too glad to say that they could not work without injuring their health if they could, by so doing, persuade their friends to support them. What! are those whom God has visited with weakness of body to be made to toil and moil far beyond their strength in order to prove that they do not belong to the class of deceivers and sycophants? Yet public opinion in regard to this matter of what is called self-respect and proper pride compels many hundreds who urgently require assistance to refuse it, and dooms many of them to a premature grave, while it does not shut the maw of a single one of the other class. Why, sir, Miss Cattley is committing suicide; and, in regard to her father, who is dependent on her, she is committing murder—murder, sir!"

Mr Tippet's eyes flashed with indignation, and he drove the chisel deep down into the bench, as if to give point and force to his sentiment, as well as an illustration of the dreadful idea with which he concluded.

Willie admitted that there was much truth in Mr Tippet's observations, but did not quite agree with him in his sweeping condemnation of Ziza.

"However," continued Mr Tippet, resuming his quiet tone and benignant aspect, "I'll consider the matter. Yes, I'll consider the matter and see what's to be done for 'em."

He leaped from the bench with a quiet chuckle as he said this and began to saw vigorously, while Willie went to his desk in the corner and applied himself to an abstruse calculation, considerably relieved in mind, for he had unbounded belief in the fertility of Mr Tippet's imagination, and he knew well that whatever that old gentleman promised he would certainly fulfil.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE BEST-LAID PLANS.

There were other men besides Mr Tippet who could be true to their promises when it suited them.

D. Gorman was true to his, in so far as they concerned David Boone. He visited that unfortunate invalid so frequently, and brought him so many little "nice things" for the alleviation of his sufferings, and exhibited altogether such nervous anxiety about his recovery, that worthy Mrs Craw was quite overwhelmed, and said, in the fulness of her heart, that she never did see a kinder friend, or one who more flatly gave the lie-direct to his looks, which, she was bound to admit, were not prepossessing.

But, despite his friend's solicitude, and his doctor's prescriptions, and his nurse's kindness, David Boone continued steadily to sink, until at last the doctor gave it as his opinion that he would not recover.

One afternoon, soon after the expression of this opinion, Gorman called on his friend, and was shown as usual into his chamber. It was a wet, cold, stormy afternoon, and the window rattled violently in its frame.

Boone was much better that afternoon. It seemed as if he had just waited for the doctor to pronounce his unfavourable opinion in order to have the satisfaction of contradicting it.

"He's better to-day, sir," said Mrs Craw, in a whisper.

"Better!" exclaimed Gorman with a look of surprise, "I'm glad to hear that—very glad."

He looked as if he were very sorry, but then, as Mrs Craw said, his looks belied him.

"He's asleep now, sir; the doctor said if he slept he was on no account to be waked up, so I'll leave you to sit by him, sir, till he wakes, and, please, be as quiet as you can."

Mrs Craw left the room on tip-toe, and Gorman went to the bedside and looked on the sick man's wasted features with a frown.

"Ha! you're asleep, are you, and not to be waked up—eh? Come, I'll rouse you."

He shook him violently by the shoulder, and Boone awoke with a start and a groan.

"Hope I didn't disturb you, Boone," said his friend in a quiet voice. "I came to inquire for you."

Boone started up in his bed and stared wildly at some object which appeared to be at the foot of the bed. Gorman started too, and turned pale as his eyes followed those of the invalid.

"What is it you see, Boone?"

"There, there!" he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman's arm as if for protection, "look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that man; he—he—wants to kill me!"

"Come, David," said Gorman soothingly, "it's only a fancy—there's nobody there—nobody in the room but me."

"And who are you?" inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while he gazed vacantly at his friend.

"Don't you know me, David?"

"Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It'll be time to take your physic soon."

"Physic!" cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching Gorman's arm. "You won't let him give it me, will you? Oh! say you won't—promise to give it me yourself!"

Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he did so.

Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, "that it wash 'mposh'ble to git a body f'r love or munny, so if 'e wanted one he'd better cut's own throat."

His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side to side and moaned softly.

Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often sat down again without doing anything.