Part 47 (1/2)

”Now must I give her a blow, or must I not?” thought Pickles to himself.

”It do seem 'ard. There's naught, a'most, I wouldn't do for pore Cinderella; but w'en I have to plant a dart in the breast of that 'ere most beauteous crittur, I feels as it's bitter 'ard. W'y, she 'ud make me a most captiwatin' wife some day. Now, Pickles, my boy, wot have you got in the back o' your 'ead? Is it in love you be--an' you not fourteen years of age? Oh, fie, Pickles! What would yer mother s'y ef she knew?”

Pickles slapped his hand with a mighty thump against his boyish breast.

”That's the w'y to treat nonsense,” he said aloud. ”Be'ave o' yerself, Pickles--fie for shame, Pickles! That 'ere beauteous maid is to be wors.h.i.+pped from afar--jest like a star. I do declare I'm turnin'

po-ettical!”

”Pickles!” called Connie at this moment. ”Stop!”

”Pickles be 'ere,” replied the youth, drawing up before Connie and making a low bow.

”Giles is worse, Pickles,” said Connie, ”an' wot's to be done?”

Pickles's round face grew grave.

”Is 'e wery bad?” he asked.

”So bad that he'll soon go up to G.o.d,” said Connie. Her eyes filled with tears; they rolled down her cheeks.

”Bright as dimants they be,” thought the boy as he watched her.

”Precious tears! I could poetise 'bout them.”

”Pickles,” said Connie again, ”I have made Giles a promise. He sha'n't die without seeing Sue. I'm sartin sure, Pickles, that you could take me to Sue now--I'm convinced 'bout it--and I want you to do it.”

”Why do you think that?” asked Pickles.

”'Cos I do,” said Connie. ”'Cos of the way you've looked and the way you've spoken. Oh, dear Pickles, take me to her now; let me bring her back to little Giles to-night!”

Once again that terribly mournful expression, so foreign to Pickles's freckled face, flitted across it.

”There!” he said, giving himself a thump. ”W'en I could I wouldn't, and now w'en I would I can't. I don't know where she be. She's lost--same as you were lost--w'ile back. She's disappeared, and none of us know nothink about her.”

”Oh! is she really lost? How terrible that is!” said Connie.

”Yus, she's lost. P'r'aps there's one as could find her. Connie, I 'ate beyond all things on 'arth to fright yer or say an unkind thing to yer; but to me, Connie, you're a star that s.h.i.+nes afar. Yer'll fergive the imperence of my poetry, but it's drawn from me by your beauty.”

”Don't talk nonsense now, Pickles,” said Connie. ”Things are too serious. We must find Sue--I must keep my promise.”

”Can you bear a bit o' pine?” said Pickles suddenly.

”Pain?” said Connie. ”I've had a good deal lately. Yes, I think--I think I can bear it.”

”Mind yer,” said Pickles, ”it's this w'y. I know w'y Sue left yer, and I know w'y she ain't come back. It's true she 'aven't give herself hup yet, although she guv me to understand as she were 'bout to go to prison.”

”To prison?” said Connie, springing forward and putting her hand on Pickles's shoulder. ”Sue--the most honest gel in all the world--go to prison?”

”Oh yes,” said Pickles, ”yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes into a p.a.w.nshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the solemn truth, Connie.”

Connie's face was very white.

”I don't believe it,” she said.