“Miss Sparkes!”
“Well?”
“Will you come with me to see my bow-wows this
fine day?”
“No, Mr. Gammon, I certainly will not!”
“Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might
say yes.”
The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might
be, and the laugh that came after would have softened
any repartee, with its undernote of good humour and
harmless gaiety. Biting her lips to preserve
the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs.
Sunshine through a landing window illumined the dust
floating thickly about the staircase and heated the
familiar blend of lodging-house smells—the
closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the
dry rot of wall-paper, plaster, and old wood, the fustiness
of clogged carpets trodden thin, the ever-rising vapours
from a sluttish kitchen. As Moggie happened to
be wiping down the front steps the door stood open,
affording a glimpse of trams and omnibuses, cabs and
carts, with pedestrians bobbing past in endless variety—the
life of Kennington Road—all dust and sweat
under a glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparkes a
cheery and inviting spectacle—for the whole
day was before her, to lounge or ramble until the
hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of
selling programmes at a fashionable theatre. The
employment was precarious; even with luck in the way
of tips it meant nothing very brilliant; but something
had happened lately which made Polly indifferent to
this view of the matter. She had a secret, and
enjoyed it all the more because it enabled her to excite
not envy alone, but dark suspicions in the people
who observed her.
Mrs. Bubb, for instance—who so far presumed
upon old acquaintance as to ask blunt questions, and
offer homely advice—plainly thought she
was going astray. It amused Polly to encourage
this misconception, and to take offence on every opportunity.
As she went down into the kitchen she fingered a gold
watch-chain that hung from her blouse to a little
pocket at her waist. Mrs. Bubb would spy it at
once, and in course of the quarrel about this morning’s
hot water would be sure to allude to it.
It turned out one of the finest frays Polly had ever
enjoyed, and was still rich in possibilities when,
at something past eleven, the kitchen door suddenly
opened and there entered Mr. Gammon.
A MISSING UNCLE
He glanced at Mrs. Bubb, at the disorderly remnants
of breakfast on the long deal table, then at Polly,
whose face was crimson with the joy of combat.
“Don’t let me interrupt you, ladies.
Blaze away! if I may so express myself. It does
a man good to see such energy on a warm morning.”
“I’ve said all I’m a-goin’
to say,” exclaimed Mrs. Bubb, as she mopped
her forehead with a greasy apron. “I’ve
warned her, that’s all, and I mean her well,
little as she deserves it. Now, you, Moggie,
don’t stand gahpin’ there git them breakfast
things washed up, can’t you? It’ll
be tea time agin before the beds is made. And
what’s come to you this morning?”
