“Why not?”
“Because I say so—that’s enough,
ain’t it?”
“I say—Polly—”
“I’ve told you you’re not to say
‘Polly,’” she interrupted archly.
“You’re awfully good, you know—but
I wish—”
“What? Never mind; tell me next time.
Ta-ta!”
She ran off, and Christopher had no heart to detain
her. For five minutes he hung over the parapet
at Westminster, watching the black flood and asking
what was the use of life. On the whole Mr. Parish
found life decidedly agreeable, and after a night’s
rest, a little worry notwithstanding, he could go
to the City in the great morning procession, one of
myriads exactly like him, and would hopefully dip
his pen in the inkpots of Swettenham Brothers.
Moggie, the general, was just coming from the public-house
with two foaming jugs, one for Mrs. Bubb, the other
for Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseman, her first-floor lodgers.
Miss Sparkes passed her disdainfully, and entered
with the aid of a latch-key. From upstairs sounded
a banjo, preluding; then the sound of Mr. Cheeseman’s
voice chanting a popular refrain:
Come where the booze is cheaper,
Come where the pots ’old more,
Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
Come to the pub next door!
Polly could not resist this invitation. She looked
in at the Cheesemans’ sitting-room and enjoyed
half an hour of friendly gossip before going to bed.
A NONDESCRIPT
Scarcely had quiet fallen upon the house—it
was half an hour after midnight—when at
the front door sounded a discreet but resolute knocking.
Mrs. Bubb, though she had retired to her chamber, was
not yet wholly unpresentable; reluctantly, and with
wonder, she went to answer the untimely visitor.
After a short parley through the gap of the chained
door she ascended several flights and sought to arouse
Mr. Gammon—no easy task.
“What’s up?” shouted her lodger
in a voice of half-remembered conviviality. “House
on fire?”
“I hope not indeed. There wouldn’t
have been much chance for you if it was. It’s
your friend Mr. Greenacre, as says he must see you
for a minute.”
“All right; send him up, please. What the
dickens can he want at this time o’ night!”
Mr. Gammon having promised to see his visitor out
again, with due attention to the house door, the landlady
showed a light whilst Mr. Greenacre mounted the stairs.
The gas-jet in his friend’s bedroom displayed
him as a gaunt, ill-dressed man of about forty, with
a long unwholesome face, lank hair, and prominent
eyes. He began with elaborate apologies, phrased
and uttered with more refinement than his appearance
would have led one to expect. No; he would on
no account be seated. Under the circumstances
he could not dream of staying more than two, or at
most three, minutes. He felt really ashamed of
himself for such a flagrant breach of social custom;
but if his friend would listen patiently for one minute—nay,
for less.
