Part 3 (2/2)

”Oughtn't you to be getting home?”

Paul, his hunger appeased, grinned. His idea was to sneak into the scullery just after the public-houses closed, when his mother would be far too much occupied with Mr. b.u.t.ton to worry about him. Chastis.e.m.e.nt would then be postponed till the morning. Artlessly he laid the situation before his friend, who led him on to relate other amenities of his domestic life.

”Well, I'm jiggered!” said Barney Bill. ”She must be a she-devil!”

Paul cordially agreed. He had already imagined the Prince of Darkness in the guise of Mr. b.u.t.ton; Mrs. b.u.t.ton was in every way fit to be the latter's diabolical mate. Encouraged by sympathy and shrewd questions, he sketched in broad detail his short career, glorifying himself as the prize scholar and the erstwhile Grand Llama of Budge Street, and drawing a dismal picture of the factory. Barney Bill listened comprehendingly. Then, smoking a well-blackened clay, he began to utter maledictions on the suffocating life in towns and to extol his own manner of living. Having an appreciative audience, he grew eloquent over his lonely wanderings the length and breadth of the land; over the joy of country things, the sweetness of the fields, the wayside flowers, the vaulted highways in the leafy summer, the quiet, sleepy towns, the fragrant villages, the peace and cleanness of the open air.

The night had fallen, and in the cleared sky the stars shone bright.

Paul, his head against the lintel of the van door, looked up at them, enthralled by the talk of Barney Bill. The vagabond merchant had the slight drawling inflection of the Home Counties, which gave a soothing effect to a naturally soft voice. To Paul it was the pipes of Pan.

”It mightn't suit everybody,” said Barney Bill philosophically. ”Some folks prefer gas to laylock. I don't say that they're wrong. But I likes laylock.”

”What's laylock?” asked Paul.

His friend explained. No lilac bloomed in the blighted Springs of Bludston.

”Does it smell sweet?”

”Yuss. So does the may and the syringa and the new-mown hay and the seaweed. Never smelt any of 'em?”

”No,” sighed Paul, sensuously conscious of new and vague horizons. ”I once smelled summat sweet,” he said dreamily. ”It wur a lady.”

”D'ye mean a woman?”

”No. A lady. Like what yo' read of.”

”I've heard as they do smell good; like violets--some on 'em,” the philosopher remarked.

Drawn magnetically to this spiritual brother, Paul said almost without volition, ”She said I were the son of a prince.”

”Son of a WOT?” cried Barney Bill, sitting up with a jerk that shook a volume or two onto the ground.

Paul repeated the startling word.

”Lor' lumme!” exclaimed the other, ”don't yer know who yer father was?”

Paul told of his disastrous attempts to pierce the mystery of his birth.

”A frying-pan? Did she now? That's a mother for yer.”

Paul disowned her. He disowned her with reprehensible emphasis.

Barney Bill pulled reflectively at his pipe. Then he laid a bony hand on the boy's shoulder. ”Who do you think yer mother was?” he asked gravely. ”A princess?”

”Ay, why not?” said Paul.

”Why not?” echoed Barney Bill. ”Why not? You're a blooming lucky kid. I wish I was a missin' heir. I know what I'd do.”

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