Chapter XXXIX.
Away.
So Clare went once more into the street, where Abdiel was again
watching for him, and stood on the pavement, not knowing which way to
turn. The big policeman had told him that no one there would give him
work after what had happened; and now, therefore, he was only waiting
for a direction to present itself. In a moment it occurred to him
that, having come in at one end of the town, he had better go out at
the other. He followed the suggestion, and Abdiel followed him--his
head hanging and his tail also, for the joy of recovering his master
had used up all the remnant of wag there was in his clock. He had no
more frolic or scamper in him now than when Clare first saw him. How
the poor thing had subsisted during the last few days, it were hard to
tell. It was much that he had escaped death from ill-usage. Meanest of
wretches are the boys or men that turn like grim death upon the
helpless. Except they change their way, helplessness will overtake
them like a thief, and they will look for some one to deliver them and
find none. Traitors to those whom it is their duty to protect, they
will one day find themselves in yet more pitiful plight than ever were
they. But I fear they will not believe it before their fate has them
by the throat.
Clare saw that the dog was famished. He stopped at a butcher's and
bought him a scrap of meat for a penny. Then he had elevenpence with
which to begin the world afresh, and was not hungry.
Out on the highway they went, in a perfect English summer day, with
all the world before them. It was not an oyster for Clare to open with
sword, pen, or _sesame_; but he might find a place on the outside of
it for all that, and a way over it into a better--one that he _could_
open and get at the heart of. The sun shone as on the day of the
earthquake--deep in Clare's dimmest memorial cavern;--shone as if he
knew, come what might, that all was well; that if he shone his heart
out and went dark, nothing would go wrong; while, for the present,
everything depended on his shining his glorious best.
"Come along, Abdiel," said Clare; "we're going to see what comes
next. At the worst, you know what hunger is, doggie, and that a good
deal of it can be borne pretty well--though I'm not fond of it any
more than you, doggie! We'll not beg till we're downright forced, and
we won't steal. When that's the next thing, we'll just sit down, wag
our tails, and die.--There!"
He gave him the last piece of his meat, and they trudged on for some
time without speaking.
The sun was very hot, for it was past noon an hour or two, when they
came to a public-house, with a pump before it, and a trough. Clare
grew very thirsty when he saw the pump, and imagined the rush of a
thick sparkling curve from its spout. But its handle was locked with a
chain, to keep men and women from having water instead of beer. He
went with longing to the trough, but the water in it was so unclean
that, thirsty as he was, he could not look on it even as a last
resource. He walked into the house.
"Please, ma'am," he said to the woman at the bar, "would you allow me
to pump myself a little water to drink?"
"You think I've got nothing to do but serve tramps with water!" she
answered, throwing back her head till her nostrils were at right
angles with the horizon.
"I'm not a tramp, ma'am," said Clare.
"Show me your money, then, for a pot of beer, like other honest folk."
"I'm afraid I told you wrong, ma'am," returned Clare. "I'm afraid I
_am_ a tramp after all; only _I_'m looking for work, and most tramps
ain't, I fancy."
"They all _say_ they are," answered the woman. "That's your story, and
that's theirs!"
"I've got elevenpence, ma'am; and could, I dare say, buy a pot of
beer, though I don't know the price of one; but I don't see where I'm
going to get any more money, and what we have must serve Abdiel and me
till we do."
"What right have _you_ to a dog, when you ain't fit to pay your penny
for a half-pint o' beer?"
"Don't be hard on the young 'un, mis'ess; he don't look a bad sort!"
said a man who stood by with a pewter pot in his hand.
Clare wondered why he had his cord-trousers pulled up a few inches and
tied under his knees with a string, which made little bags of them
there. He had to think for a mile after they left the public-house
before he discovered that it was to keep them from tightening on his
knees when he stooped, and so incommoding him at his work.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm not a bad sort. I didn't know it was
any harm to ask for water. It ain't begging, is it, sir?"
"Not as I knows on," replied the man. "Here, take the lot!"
He offered Clare his nearly emptied pewter.
"No, thank you, sir," answered Clara "I am thirsty--but not so thirsty
as to take your drink from you. I can get on to the next pump. Perhaps
that won't be chained up like a bull!"
"Here, mis'ess!" cried the man. "This is a mate as knows a neighbour
when he sees him. I'll stand him a half-pint. There's yer money!"
Without a word the woman flung the man's penny in the till, and drew
Clare a half-pint of porter. Clare took it eagerly, turned to the man,
said, "I thank you, sir, and wish your good health," and drained the
pewter mug. He had never before tasted beer, or indeed any drink
stronger than tea, and he did not like it. But he thanked his
benefactor again, and went back to the trough.
"Dogs don't drink beer," he said to himself. "They know better!" and
lifting Abdiel he held him over the trough. Abdiel was not so
fastidious as his master, and lapped eagerly. Then they pursued their
uncertain way.
Ready to do anything, he thought the shabbiness of his clothes would
be a greater bar to indoor than to outdoor work, and applied therefore
at every farm they came to. But he did not look so able as he was, and
boys were not much wanted. He never pitied himself, and never
entreated: to beg for work was beggary, and to beggary he would not
descend until driven by approaching death. But now and then some
tender-hearted woman, oftener one of ripe years, struck with his
look--its endurance, perhaps, or its weariness mingled with
hope--would perceive the necessity of the boy, and offer him the food
he did not ask--nor like him the less that, never doubting what came
to one was for both, he gave the first share of it to Abdiel.
