rose.
“That’s the—the article,” explained Peter.
Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head. It was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded most human affairs.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Postwhistle; “I remember seeing ’er there—leastways, it was an ’er right enough then. What ’ave you done with your clothes?”
“They weren’t mine,” explained Tommy. “They were things what Mrs. Hammond had lent me.”
“Is that your own?” asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silk garibaldi.
“Yes.”
“What went with it?”
“Tights. They were too far gone.”
“What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. ’Ammond’s?”
“It gave me up. Hurt myself.”
“Who were you with last?”
“Martini troupe.”
“And before that?”
“Oh! heaps of ’em.”
“Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?”
“Nobody as I’d care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some of them the other. It depended upon what was wanted.”
“How old are you?”
“I dunno.”
Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.
“Well, there’s the bed upstairs. It’s for you to decide.”
“What I don’t want to do,” explained Peter, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “is to make a fool of myself.”
“That’s always a good rule,” agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, “for those to whom it’s possible.”
“Anyhow,” said Peter, “one night can’t do any harm. To-morrow we can think what’s to be done.”
“To-morrow” had always been Peter’s lucky day. At the mere mention of the magic date his spirits invariably rose. He now turned upon Tommy a countenance from which all hesitation was banished.
“Very well, Tommy,” said Mr. Peter Hope, “you can sleep here to-night. Go with Mrs. Postwhistle, and she’ll show you your room.”
The black eyes shone.
“You’re going to give me a trial?”
“We’ll talk about all that to-morrow.” The black eyes clouded.
“Look here. I tell you straight, it ain’t no good.”
“What do you mean? What isn’t any good?” demanded Peter.
“You’ll want to send me to prison.”
“To prison!”
“Oh, yes. You’ll call it a school, I know. You ain’t the first that’s tried that on. It won’t work.” The bright, black eyes were flashing passionately. “I ain’t done any harm. I’m willing to work. I can keep myself. I always have. What’s it got to do with anybody else?”
Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears. And at sight of them Peter’s common sense went out of the room disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.
“Don’t be silly,” said Peter. “You didn’t understand. Of course I’m going to give you a trial. You’re going to ‘do’ for me. I merely meant that we’d leave the details till to-morrow. Come, housekeepers don’t cry.”
The little wet face looked up.
“You mean it? Honour bright?”
“Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. Then you shall get me my supper.”
The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood up.
“And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?”
“Yes, yes; I think that’s a fair arrangement,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope, considering. “Don’t you, Mrs. Postwhistle?”
“With a frock—or a suit of trousers—thrown in,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle. “It’s generally done.”
“If it’s the custom, certainly,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope. “Sixpence a week and clothes.”
And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat waiting the return of Tommy.
“I rather hope,” said Peter, “it’s a boy. It was the fogs, you know. If only I could have afforded to send him away!”
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. The door opened.
“Ah! that’s better, much better,” said Mr. Peter Hope. “ ’Pon my word, you look quite respectable.”
By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, benefiting both parties, had been arrived at with the long-trained skirt; while an ample shawl arranged with judgment disguised the nakedness that lay below. Peter, a fastidious gentleman, observed with satisfaction that the hands, now clean, had been well cared for.
“Give me that cap,” said Peter. He threw it in the glowing fire. It burned brightly, diffusing strange odours.
“There’s a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage. You can wear that for the present. Take this half-sovereign and get me some cold meat and beer for supper. You’ll find everything else you want in that sideboard or else in the kitchen. Don’t ask me a hundred questions, and don’t make a noise,” and Peter went back to his work.
“Good idea, that half-sovereign,” said Peter. “Shan’t be bothered with ‘Master Tommy’ any more, don’t expect. Starting a nursery at our time of life. Madness.” Peter’s pen scratched and spluttered. Elizabeth kept an eye upon the door.
“Quarter of an hour,” said Peter, looking at his watch. “Told you so.” The article on which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a worrying nature.
“Then why,” said Peter, “why did he refuse that shilling? Artfulness,” concluded Peter, “pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old girl, we’ve got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that half-sovereign.” Peter gave vent to a chuckle that had the effect of alarming Elizabeth.
But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.
“Pingle’s was
