Part 4 (2/2)

”Oh, let me get them out, father! _Do!_ I'll be ever so gentle.” And Bob suited the action to the word by raising himself on his knees to a level with Gull's face, and thrusting a screw of his old jacket into the corner of the suffering eye.

The operation ended in merry laughter, and the boys never knew that the s.m.u.ts were really tears forced to the surface by an overburdened heart.

”Father was just _real_ funny,” that evening, as Bob whispered to Tom, when half the blanket covered them, later on--”just _real_ funny, wasn't he?”

And Tom answered sleepily, but happily, ”Yes, jolly.”

Meanwhile, the tired bread-winner sat alone by the fire, with all the fun faded from his face as he wondered ”how long bad times lasted with most folks?” It was not until, with the childlike simplicity that was part of his nature, he had knelt and repeated the short and perfect prayer with which his little lads had made him so familiar, that any look of comfort or hope returned to his care-lined face.

A little anxiety, but a very pressing one just now, came with the thought that the four dear little feet, which had been treading the world for the past weeks chilled and barefooted, would very probably have to curl up piteously on the cold pavement for some time longer.

To get two pairs of small boots, and hope for money to pay for them by-and-by, never entered Gull's head. He had always paid his way without owing any man anything, as his father had before him.

Poor father! and poor little twins!

Yet wishes are sometimes carried quickly to their fulfilment; for a divine Lord changes them into prayers as they go upward.

The following evening, just at the hour when his boys were again straining their ears for the first sound of his footsteps, Gull was standing against one of the lamp posts outside Waterloo Station. He was peering anxiously into the face of every pa.s.senger who entered the station, every traveller who drove up from the busy streets, every business man who hurried in from the City.

Gull's lips were hard set. His eyes had a strained, anxious look; his expression was that of a warrior who was fighting a battle against heavy odds.

All day long there had been an inward struggle. Hour by hour the fight had been prolonged. Would honesty win the day? Was Gull leaning upon a strength mightier than his own?

He kept one hand buried in his pocket, always fingering there a _something_ which was the cause of all this mental disturbance. His other hand b.u.t.toned and unb.u.t.toned his overcoat with nervous restlessness.

And as he watched, two gentlemen came towards him under the gas lamps.

They were walking arm-in-arm, and talking earnestly about shares and stocks, and all those mysterious and fascinating things, that a certain Mr. Weller said ”always went up and down in the city.”

When Gull saw them he started forward, and looked searchingly into the face of the elder of the two. Then he followed them closely into the station--shuffling along lamely but resolutely.

Twice he put out his hand to touch this gentleman's sleeves, but something stronger than his will seemed to hold him back.

At the platform gate the ticket collector spoke to him.

”What! are you going by the 6.5, Gull?”

”No,” he answered; ”but I'm bound to have a word with yon gent before he goes.”

”If it's a tip you're after, you're on the wrong tack, mate. I know yon gentleman too well.” But he let Gull through the gate.

Mr. Kingsley, the elder traveller, was settling himself in a first-cla.s.s carriage, and leisurely enjoying the delightful employment of lighting his first cigar after a long day's work, when Gull opened the door and looked in.

”Beg pardon, sir,” he began, ”but did I carry a box for you this morning to the South Eastern, sir?”

Mr. Kingsley looked him well over before he answered, with a twinkle of amus.e.m.e.nt in his little bright eyes--

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