II
As he went down the narrow staircase,
covered with its dingy and
threadbare carpet, he found the
house so full of dirty yellow haze
that he realized that the fog must be
of the extraordinary ones which are
remembered in after-years as abnormal
specimens of their kind. He
recalled that there had been one of
the sort three years before, and that
traffic and business had been almost
entirely stopped by it, that accidents
had happened in the streets, and that
people having lost their way had
wandered about turning corners until
they found themselves far from their
intended destinations and obliged to
take refuge in hotels or the houses of
hospitable strangers. Curious incidents
had occurred and odd stories
were told by those who had felt
themselves obliged by circumstances
to go out into the baffling gloom.
He guessed that something of a like
nature had fallen upon the town
again. The gas-light on the landings
and in the melancholy hall
burned feebly--so feebly that one
got but a vague view of the rickety
hat-stand and the shabby overcoats
and head-gear hanging upon it. It
was well for him that he had but
a corner or so to turn before he
reached the pawnshop in whose
window he had seen the pistol he
intended to buy.
When he opened the street-door
he saw that the fog was, upon the
whole, perhaps even heavier and
more obscuring, if possible, than the
one so well remembered. He could
not see anything three feet before
him, he could not see with distinctness
anything two feet ahead. The
sensation of stepping forward was
uncertain and mysterious enough to be
almost appalling. A man not
sufficiently cautious might have fallen
into any open hole in his path. Antony
Dart kept as closely as possible
to the sides of the houses. It would
have been easy to walk off the pavement
into the middle of the street
but for the edges of the curb and the
step downward from its level. Traffic
had almost absolutely ceased, though
in the more important streets link-
boys were making efforts to guide
men or four-wheelers slowly along.
The blind feeling of the thing was
rather awful. Though but few
pedestrians were out, Dart found
himself once or twice brushing against
or coming into forcible contact with
men feeling their way about like
himself.
"One turn to the right," he
repeated mentally, "two to the left,
and the place is at the corner of the
other side of the street."
He managed to reach it at last,
but it had been a slow, and therefore,
long journey. All the gas-jets
the little shop owned were lighted,
but even under their flare the articles
in the window--the one or two
once cheaply gaudy dresses and
shawls and men's garments--hung
in the haze like the dreary, dangling
ghosts of things recently executed.
Among watches and forlorn pieces
of old-fashioned jewelry and odds and
ends, the pistol lay against the folds
of a dirty gauze shawl. There it
was. It would have been annoying
if someone else had been beforehand
and had bought it.
Inside the shop more dangling
spectres hung and the place was
almost dark. It was a shabby pawnshop,
and the man lounging behind
the counter was a shabby man with
an unshaven, unamiable face.
"I want to look at that pistol in
the right-hand corner of your window,"
Antony Dart said.
The pawnbroker uttered a sound
something between a half-laugh and
a grunt. He took the weapon from
the window.
Antony Dart examined it critically.
He must make quite sure of
it. He made no further remark.
He felt he had done with speech.
Being told the price asked for the
purchase, he drew out his purse and
took the money from it. After
making the payment he noted that
he still possessed a five-pound note
and some sovereigns. There passed
through his mind a wonder as to
who would spend it. The most
decent thing, perhaps, would be to
give it away. If it was in his room
--to-morrow--the parish would not
bury him, and it would be safer that
the parish should.
He was thinking of this as he
left the shop and began to cross the
street. Because his mind was wandering
he was less watchful. Suddenly
a rubber-tired hansom, moving
without sound, appeared immediately
in his path--the horse's head
loomed up above his own. He made
the inevitable involuntary whirl aside
to move out of the way, the hansom
passed, and turning again, he went
on. His movement had been too
swift to allow of his realizing the
direction in which his turn had been
made. He was wholly unaware that
when he crossed the street he crossed
backward instead of forward. He
turned a corner literally feeling his
way, went on, turned another, and
after walking the length of the street,
suddenly understood that he was in
a strange place and had lost his
bearings.
This was exactly what had happened
to people on the day of the
memorable fog of three years before.
He had heard them talking of such
experiences, and of the curious and
baffling sensations they gave rise to
in the brain. Now he understood
them. He could not be far from
his lodgings, but he felt like a man
who was blind, and who had been
turned out of the path he knew.
He had not the resource of the people
whose stories he had heard. He
would not stop and address anyone.
There could be no certainty as to
whom he might find himself speaking
to. He would speak to no one.
He would wander about until he
came upon some clew. Even if he
came upon none, the fog would
surely lift a little and become a trifle
less dense in course of time. He
drew up the collar of his overcoat,
pulled his hat down over his eyes
and went on--his hand on the thing
he had thrust into a pocket.
He did not find his clew as he
had hoped, and instead of lifting the
fog grew heavier. He found himself
at last no longer striving for any
end, but rambling along mechanically,
feeling like a man in a dream
--a nightmare. Once he recognized
a weird suggestion in the mystery
about him. To-morrow might
one be wandering about aimlessly in
some such haze. He hoped not.
His lodgings were not far from
the Embankment, and he knew at
last that he was wandering along it,
and had reached one of the bridges.
His mood led him to turn in upon
it, and when he reached an embrasure
to stop near it and lean upon the
parapet looking down. He could
not see the water, the fog was too
dense, but he could hear some faint
splashing against stones. He had
taken no food and was rather faint.
What a strange thing it was to feel
faint for want of food--to stand
alone, cut off from every other
human being--everything done for.
No wonder that sometimes, particularly
on such days as these, there
were plunges made from the parapet
--no wonder. He leaned farther
over and strained his eyes to see
some gleam of water through the
yellowness. But it was not to be
done. He was thinking the inevitable
thing, of course; but such a
plunge would not do for him. The
other thing would destroy all traces.
As he drew back he heard
something fall with the solid tinkling
sound of coin on the flag pavement.
When he had been in the pawnbroker's
shop he had taken the gold
from his purse and thrust it carelessly
into his waistcoat pocket, thinking
that it would be easy to reach when
he chose to give it to one beggar
or another, if he should see some
wretch who would be the better for
it. Some movement he had made
in bending had caused a sovereign to
slip out and it had fallen upon the
stones.
He did not intend to pick it up,
but in the moment in which he
stood looking down at it he heard
close to him a shuffling movement.
What he had thought a bundle of
rags or rubbish covered with sacking
--some tramp's deserted or forgotten
belongings--was stirring. It was
alive, and as he bent to look at it the
sacking divided itself, and a small
head, covered with a shock of brilliant
red hair, thrust itself out, a
shrewd, small face turning to look
up at him slyly with deep-set black
eyes.
It was a human girl creature about
twelve years old.
"Are yer goin' to do it?" she
said in a hoarse, street-strained voice.
"Yer would be a fool if yer did--
with as much as that on yer."
She pointed with a reddened,
chapped, and dirty hand at the
sovereign.
"Pick it up," he said. "You may
have it."
Her wild shuffle forward was an
actual leap. The hand made a
snatching clutch at the coin. She
was evidently afraid that he was
either not in earnest or would
repent. The next second she was on
her feet and ready for flight.
"Stop," he said; "I've got more
to give away."
She hesitated--not believing
him, yet feeling it madness to lose a
chance.
"MORE!" she gasped. Then she
drew nearer to him, and a singular
change came upon her face. It was
a change which made her look oddly
human.
"Gawd, mister!" she said. "Yer
can give away a quid like it was
nothin'--an' yer've got more--an'
yer goin' to do THAT--jes cos yer 'ad
a bit too much lars night an' there's
a fog this mornin'! You take it
straight from me--don't yer do it.
I give yer that tip for the suvrink."
She was, for her years, so ugly and
so ancient, and hardened in voice and
skin and manner that she fascinated
him. Not that a man who has no
To-morrow in view is likely to be
particularly conscious of mental
processes. He was done for, but he stood
and stared at her. What part of the
Power moving the scheme of the
universe stood near and thrust him
on in the path designed he did not
know then--perhaps never did. He
was still holding on to the thing in his
pocket, but he spoke to her again.
"What do you mean?" he asked
glumly.
She sidled nearer, her sharp eyes
on his face.
"I bin watchin' yer," she said.
"I sat down and pulled the sack
over me 'ead to breathe inside it an'
get a bit warm. An' I see yer come.
I knowed wot yer was after, I did.
I watched yer through a 'ole in me
sack. I wasn't goin' to call a copper.
I shouldn't want ter be stopped
meself if I made up me mind. I
seed a gal dragged out las' week an'
it'd a broke yer 'art to see 'er tear 'er
clothes an' scream. Wot business
'ad they preventin' 'er goin' off
quiet? I wouldn't 'a' stopped yer
--but w'en the quid fell, that made
it different."
"I--" he said, feeling the foolishness
of the statement, but making
it, nevertheless, "I am ill."
"Course yer ill. It's yer 'ead.
Come along er me an' get a cup er
cawfee at a stand, an' buck up. If
yer've give me that quid straight--
wish-yer-may-die--I'll go with yer
an' get a cup myself. I ain't 'ad a bite
since yesterday--an' 't wa'n't nothin'
but a slice o' polony sossidge I found
on a dust-'eap. Come on, mister."
She pulled his coat with her
cracked hand. He glanced down at
it mechanically, and saw that some
of the fissures had bled and the
roughened surface was smeared with
the blood. They stood together in
the small space in which the fog
enclosed them--he and she--the
man with no To-morrow and the
girl thing who seemed as old as
himself, with her sharp, small nose
and chin, her sharp eyes and voice
--and yet--perhaps the fogs
enclosing did it--something drew
them together in an uncanny way.
Something made him forget the lost
clew to the lodging-house--
something made him turn and go with
her--a thing led in the dark.
"How can you find your way?"
he said. "I lost mine."
"There ain't no fog can lose me,"
she answered, shuffling along by his
side; " 'sides, it's goin' to lift.
Look at that man comin' to'ards us."
It was true that they could see
through the orange-colored mist the
approaching figure of a man who
was at a yard's distance from them.
Yes, it was lifting slightly--at least
enough to allow of one's making a
guess at the direction in which one
moved.
"Where are you going?" he
asked.
"Apple Blossom Court," she
answered. "The cawfee-stand's in a
street near it--and there's a shop
where I can buy things."
"Apple Blossom Court!" he
ejaculated. "What a name!"
"There ain't no apple-blossoms
there," chuckling; "nor no smell
of 'em. 'T ain't as nice as its nime
is--Apple Blossom Court ain't."
"What do you want to buy? A
pair of shoes?" The shoes her
naked feet were thrust into were
leprous-looking things through which
nearly all her toes protruded. But
she chuckled when he spoke.
"No, I 'm goin' to buy a di'mond
tirarer to go to the opery in," she
said, dragging her old sack closer
round her neck. "I ain't ad a noo
un since I went to the last Drorin'-
room."
It was impudent street chaff, but
there was cheerful spirit in it, and
cheerful spirit has some occult effect
upon morbidity. Antony Dart
did not smile, but he felt a faint
stirring of curiosity, which was, after
all, not a bad thing for a man who
had not felt an interest for a year.
"What is it you are going to
buy?"
"I'm goin' to fill me stummick
fust," with a grin of elation. "Three
thick slices o' bread an' drippin' an'
a mug o' cawfee. An' then I'm
goin' to get sumethin' 'earty to carry
to Polly. She ain't no good, pore
thing!"
"Who is she?"
Stopping a moment to drag up the
heel of her dreadful shoe, she
answered him with an unprejudiced
directness which might have been
appalling if he had been in the mood
to be appalled.
"Ain't eighteen, an' tryin' to earn
'er livin' on the street. She ain't
made for it. Little country thing,
allus frightened to death an' ready
to bust out cryin'. Gents ain't goin'
to stand that. A lot of 'em wants
cheerin' up as much as she does.
Gent as was in liquor last night
knocked 'er down an' give 'er a
black eye. 'T wan't ill feelin', but
he lost his temper, an' give 'er a
knock casual. She can't go out
to-night, an' she's been 'uddled up
all day cryin' for 'er mother."
"Where is her mother?"
"In the country--on a farm.
Polly took a place in a lodgin'-'ouse
an' got in trouble. The biby was
dead, an' when she come out o'
Queen Charlotte's she was took in by
a woman an' kep'. She kicked 'er
out in a week 'cos of her cryin'.
The life didn't suit 'er. I found 'er
cryin' fit to split 'er chist one night
--corner o' Apple Blossom Court--
an' I took care of 'er."
"Where?"
"Me chambers," grinning; "top
loft of a 'ouse in the court. If anyone
else 'd 'ave it I should be turned
out. It's an 'ole, I can tell yer--
but it 's better than sleepin' under
the bridges."
"Take me to see it," said Antony
Dart. "I want to see the girl."
The words spoke themselves. Why
should he care to see either cockloft
or girl? He did not. He wanted
to go back to his lodgings with that
which he had come out to buy.
Yet he said this thing. His
companion looked up at him with an
expression actually relieved.
"Would yer tike up with 'er?"
with eager sharpness, as if confronting
a simple business proposition.
"She's pretty an' clean, an' she
won't drink a drop o' nothin'. If
she was treated kind she'd be
cheerfler. She's got a round fice an'
light 'air an' eyes. 'Er 'air 's curly.
P'raps yer'd like 'er."
"Take me to see her."
"She'd look better to-morrow,"
cautiously, "when the swellin 's gone
down round 'er eye."
Dart started--and it was because
he had for the last five minutes forgotten
something.
"I shall not be here to-morrow,"
he said. His grasp upon the thing
in his pocket had loosened, and he
tightened it.
"I have some more money in my
purse," he said deliberately. "I
meant to give it away before going.
I want to give it to people who need
it very much."
She gave him one of the sly,
squinting glances.
"Deservin' cases?" She put it to
him in brazen mockery.
"I don't care," he answered slowly
and heavily. "I don't care a damn."
Her face changed exactly as he
had seen it change on the bridge
when she had drawn nearer to him.
Its ugly hardness suddenly looked
human. And that she could look
human was fantastic.
" 'Ow much 'ave yer?" she asked.
" 'Ow much is it?"
"About ten pounds."
She stopped and stared at him
with open mouth.
"Gawd!" she broke out; "ten
pounds 'd send Apple Blossom Court
to 'eving. Leastways, it'd take some
of it out o' 'ell."
"Take me to it," he said roughly.
"Take me."
She began to walk quickly, breathing
fast. The fog was lighter, and
it was no longer a blinding thing.
A question occurred to Dart.
"Why don't you ask me to give
the money to you?" he said bluntly.
"Dunno," she answered as bluntly.
But after taking a few steps farther
she spoke again.
"I 'm cheerfler than most of 'em,"
she elaborated. "If yer born cheerfle
yer can stand things. When I
gets a job nussin' women's bibies
they don't cry when I 'andles 'em.
I gets many a bite an' a copper 'cos
o' that. Folks likes yer. I shall
get on better than Polly when I'm
old enough to go on the street."
The organ of whose lagging, sick
pumpings Antony Dart had scarcely
been aware for months gave a sudden
leap in his breast. His blood
actually hastened its pace, and ran
through his veins instead of crawling
--a distinct physical effect of an
actual mental condition. It was
produced upon him by the mere
matter-of-fact ordinariness of her
tone. He had never been a senti-
mental man, and had long ceased to
be a feeling one, but at that moment
something emotional and normal
happened to him.
"You expect to live in that way?"
he said.
"Ain't nothin' else fer me to do.
Wisht I was better lookin'. But
I've got a lot of 'air," clawing her
mop, "an' it's red. One day,"
chuckling, "a gent ses to me--he
ses: `Oh! yer'll do. Yer an ugly
little devil--but ye ARE a devil.' "
She was leading him through a
narrow, filthy back street, and she
stopped, grinning up in his face.
"I say, mister," she wheedled,
"let's stop at the cawfee-stand.
It's up this way."
When he acceded and followed
her, she quickly turned a corner.
They were in another lane thick
with fog, which flared with the
flame of torches stuck in costers'
barrows which stood here and there--
barrows with fried fish upon them,
barrows with second-hand-looking
vegetables and others piled with
more than second-hand-looking garments.
Trade was not driving, but
near one or two of them dirty, ill-
used looking women, a man or so,
and a few children stood. At a
corner which led into a black hole
of a court, a coffee-stand was stationed,
in charge of a burly ruffian in
corduroys.
"Come along," said the girl.
"There it is. It ain't strong, but
it 's 'ot."
She sidled up to the stand, drawing
Dart with her, as if glad of his
protection.
" 'Ello, Barney," she said. " 'Ere 's
a gent warnts a mug o' yer best.
I've 'ad a bit o' luck, an' I wants
one mesself."
"Garn," growled Barney. "You
an' yer luck! Gent may want a
mug, but y'd show yer money fust."
"Strewth! I've got it. Y' aint got
the chinge fer wot I 'ave in me 'and
'ere. 'As 'e, mister?"
"Show it," taunted the man, and
then turning to Dart. "Yer wants
a mug o' cawfee?"
"Yes."
The girl held out her hand
cautiously--the piece of gold lying
upon its palm.
"Look 'ere," she said.
There were two or three men
slouching about the stand. Suddenly
a hand darted from between
two of them who stood nearest, the
sovereign was snatched, a screamed
oath from the girl rent the thick
air, and a forlorn enough scarecrow
of a young fellow sprang away.
The blood leaped in Antony Dart's
veins again and he sprang after him
in a wholly normal passion of
indignation. A thousand years ago--as
it seemed to him--he had been a
good runner. This man was not one,
and want of food had weakened him.
Dart went after him with strides
which astonished himself. Up the
street, into an alley and out of it, a
dozen yards more and into a court,
and the man wheeled with a hoarse,
baffled curse. The place had no
outlet.
"Hell!" was all the creature said.
Dart took him by his greasy collar.
Even the brief rush had left him feeling
like a living thing--which was
a new sensation.
"Give it up," he ordered.
The thief looked at him with a
half-laugh and obeyed, as if he felt
the uselessness of a struggle. He
was not more than twenty-five years
old, and his eyes were cavernous with
want. He had the face of a man
who might have belonged to a better
class. When he had uttered the
exclamation invoking the infernal
regions he had not dropped the
aspirate.
"I 'm as hungry as she is," he
raved.
"Hungry enough to rob a child
beggar?" said Dart.
"Hungry enough to rob a starving
old woman--or a baby," with
a defiant snort. "Wolf hungry--
tiger hungry--hungry enough to
cut throats."
He whirled himself loose and
leaned his body against the wall,
turning his face toward it. Suddenly
he made a choking sound
and began to sob.
"Hell!" he choked. "I 'll give
it up! I 'll give it up!"
What a figure--what a figure, as
he swung against the blackened wall,
his scarecrow clothes hanging on him,
their once decent material making
their pinning together of buttonless
places, their looseness and rents showing
dirty linen, more abject than any
other squalor could have made them.
Antony Dart's blood, still running
warm and well, was doing its normal
work among the brain-cells which
had stirred so evilly through the night.
When he had seized the fellow by
the collar, his hand had left his
pocket. He thrust it into another
pocket and drew out some silver.
"Go and get yourself some food,"
he said. "As much as you can eat.
Then go and wait for me at the place
they call Apple Blossom Court. I
don't know where it is, but I am
going there. I want to hear how
you came to this. Will you come?"
The thief lurched away from the
wall and toward him. He stared up
into his eyes through the fog. The
tears had smeared his cheekbones.
"God!" he said. "Will I come?
Look and see if I'll come." Dart
looked.
"Yes, you 'll come," he answered,
and he gave him the money. "I 'm
going back to the coffee-stand."
The thief stood staring after him
as he went out of the court. Dart
was speaking to himself.
"I don't know why I did it," he
said. "But the thing had to be
done."
In the street he turned into he
came upon the robbed girl, running,
panting, and crying. She uttered a
shout and flung herself upon him,
clutching his coat.
"Gawd!" she sobbed hysterically,
"I thort I'd lost yer! I thort I'd
lost all of it, I did! Strewth! I 'm
glad I've found yer--" and she
stopped, choking with her sobs and
sniffs, rubbing her face in her sack.
"Here is your sovereign," Dart
said, handing it to her.
She dropped the corner of the
sack and looked up with a queer
laugh.
"Did yer find a copper? Did yer
give him in charge?"
"No," answered Dart. "He was
worse off than you. He was starving.
I took this from him; but I gave
him some money and told him to
meet us at Apple Blossom Court."
She stopped short and drew back
a pace to stare up at him.
"Well," she gave forth, "y' ARE a
queer one!"
And yet in the amazement on her
face he perceived a remote dawning
of an understanding of the meaning
of the thing he had done.
He had spoken like a man in a
dream. He felt like a man in a
dream, being led in the thick mist
from place to place. He was led
back to the coffee-stand, where now
Barney, the proprietor, was pouring
out coffee for a hoarse-voiced coster
girl with a draggled feather in
her hat, who greeted their arrival
hilariously.
"Hello, Glad!" she cried out.
"Got yer suvrink back?"
Glad--it seemed to be the creature's
wild name--nodded, but held
close to her companion's side, clutching
his coat.
"Let's go in there an' change it,"
she said, nodding toward a small pork
and ham shop near by. "An' then
yer can take care of it for me."
"What did she call you?" Antony
Dart asked her as they went.
"Glad. Don't know as I ever 'ad
a nime o' me own, but a little cove
as went once to the pantermine told
me about a young lady as was Fairy
Queen an' 'er name was Gladys Beverly
St. John, so I called mesself that.
No one never said it all at onct--
they don't never say nothin' but
Glad. I'm glad enough this mornin',"
chuckling again, " 'avin' the
luck to come up with you, mister.
Never had luck like it 'afore."
They went into the pork and ham
shop and changed the sovereign.
There was cooked food in the windows--
roast pork and boiled ham
and corned beef. She bought slices
of pork and beef, and of suet-pudding
with a few currants sprinkled
through it.
"Will yer 'elp me to carry it?"
she inquired. "I 'll 'ave to get a
few pen'worth o' coal an' wood an'
a screw o' tea an' sugar. My wig,
wot a feed me an' Polly 'll 'ave!"
As they returned to the coffee-
stand she broke more than once into
a hop of glee. Barney had changed
his mind concerning her. A solid
sovereign which must be changed
and a companion whose shabby gentility
was absolute grandeur when
compared with his present surroundings
made a difference.
She received her mug of coffee and
thick slice of bread and dripping with
a grin, and swallowed the hot sweet
liquid down in ecstatic gulps.
"Ain't I in luck?" she said, handing
her mug back when it was empty.
"Gi' me another, Barney."
Antony Dart drank coffee also and
ate bread and dripping. The coffee
was hot and the bread and dripping,
dashed with salt, quite eatable. He
had needed food and felt the better
for it.
"Come on, mister," said Glad,
when their meal was ended. "I want
to get back to Polly, an' there 's coal
and bread and things to buy."
She hurried him along, breaking
her pace with hops at intervals. She
darted into dirty shops and brought
out things screwed up in paper. She
went last into a cellar and returned
carrying a small sack of coal over her
shoulders.
"Bought sack an' all," she said
elatedly. "A sack 's a good thing
to 'ave."
"Let me carry it for you," said
Antony Dart
"Spile yer coat," with her sidelong
upward glance.
"I don't care," he answered. "I
don't care a damn."
The final expletive was totally
unnecessary, but it meant a thing he
did not say. Whatsoever was thrusting
him this way and that, speaking
through his speech, leading him to
do things he had not dreamed of
doing, should have its will with him.
He had been fastened to the skirts of
this beggar imp and he would go on
to the end and do what was to be done
this day. It was part of the dream.
The sack of coal was over his
shoulder when they turned into
Apple Blossom Court. It would
have been a black hole on a sunny
day, and now it was like Hades, lit
grimly by a gas-jet or two, small
and flickering, with the orange haze
about them. Filthy, flagging, murky
doorways, broken steps and broken
windows stuffed with rags, and the
smell of the sewers let loose had
Apple Blossom Court.
Glad, with the wealth of the pork
and ham shop and other riches in
her arms, entered a repellent doorway
in a spirit of great good cheer
and Dart followed her. Past a room
where a drunken woman lay sleeping
with her head on a table, a child
pulling at her dress and crying, up a
stairway with broken balusters and
breaking steps, through a landing,
upstairs again, and up still farther
until they reached the top. Glad
stopped before a door and shook
the handle, crying out:
" 'S only me, Polly. You can
open it." She added to Dart in an
undertone: "She 'as to keep it locked.
No knowin' who'd want to get in.
Polly," shaking the door-handle again,
"Polly 's only me."
The door opened slowly. On the
other side of it stood a girl with a
dimpled round face which was quite
pale; under one of her childishly
vacant blue eyes was a discoloration,
and her curly fair hair was tucked up
on the top of her head in a knot.
As she took in the fact of Antony
Dart's presence her chin began to
quiver.
"I ain't fit to--to see no one,"
she stammered pitifully. "Why did
you, Glad--why did you?"
"Ain't no 'arm in 'IM," said Glad.
" 'E's one o' the friendly ones. 'E
give me a suvrink. Look wot I've
got," hopping about as she showed
her parcels.
"You need not be afraid of me,"
Antony Dart said. He paused a
second, staring at her, and suddenly
added, "Poor little wretch!"
Her look was so scared and uncertain
a thing that he walked away
from her and threw the sack of coal
on the hearth. A small grate with
broken bars hung loosely in the fireplace,
a battered tin kettle tilted
drunkenly near it. A mattress, from
the holes in whose ticking straw
bulged, lay on the floor in a corner,
with some old sacks thrown over it.
Glad had, without doubt, borrowed
her shoulder covering from the
collection. The garret was as cold as
the grave, and almost as dark; the
fog hung in it thickly. There were
crevices enough through which it
could penetrate.
Antony Dart knelt down on the
hearth and drew matches from his
pocket.
"We ought to have brought some
paper," he said.
Glad ran forward.
"Wot a gent ye are!" she cried.
"Y' ain't never goin' to light it?"
"Yes."
She ran back to the rickety table
and collected the scraps of paper
which had held her purchases.
They were small, but useful.
"That wot was round the sausage
an' the puddin's greasy," she
exulted.
Polly hung over the table and
trembled at the sight of meat and
bread. Plainly, she did not
understand what was happening. The
greased paper set light to the wood,
and the wood to the coal. All three
flared and blazed with a sound of
cheerful crackling. The blaze threw
out its glow as finely as if it had been
set alight to warm a better place.
The wonder of a fire is like the
wonder of a soul. This one changed
the murk and gloom to brightness,
and the deadly damp and cold to
warmth. It drew the girl Polly
from the table despite her fears.
She turned involuntarily, made two
steps toward it, and stood gazing
while its light played on her face.
Glad whirled and ran to the hearth.
"Ye've put on a lot," she cried;
"but, oh, my Gawd, don't it warm
yer! Come on, Polly--come on."
She dragged out a wooden stool,
an empty soap-box, and bundled the
sacks into a heap to be sat upon. She
swept the things from the table and
set them in their paper wrappings on
the floor.
"Let's all sit down close to it--
close," she said, "an' get warm an'
eat, an' eat."
She was the leaven which leavened
the lump of their humanity. What
this leaven is--who has found out?
But she--little rat of the gutter--
was formed of it, and her mere pure
animal joy in the temporary animal
comfort of the moment stirred and
uplifted them from their depths.
