Part 16 (1/2)

”Yes.”

”Well, you are a m.u.f.f. I never get caught that way.”

”Oh, but you're a boy!”

”Yes; when I'm a man I'm going to marry you--do you hear that?”

Florry nodded. ”All right,” she said. ”What did Jimmee say about Lizzie?”

”Oh! he gave me--a--hm--no--he gave me a letter for Lizzie, and I promised to give it to you to give to her, y'know.”

”Where's the letter?--give it to me.”

Eddy pulled out of his pocket the envelope, now soiled and grimy from contact with a peg-top, a bit of native sweetmeat, and the leather pouch of his catapult.

”Here 'tis,” he said; ”you'll give it to Lizzie?”

Florry took the letter carefully. ”It's very dirty,” she said, as she slipped it into her pocket. There was a silence of about a minute, during which time Eddy finished the remainder of his sandwiches.

”Well,” he said, ”I'm off to bowl a little; you girls are no use--can't do anything.”

”Stop a minute, Eddy. Lizzie _is_ a cat. She don't like you neither.

Wouldn't it be fun to give this letter to paw?”

”Urn,” reflected Eddy, ”Lizzie pinched you. I won't have anybody pinching you, y'know. I'm going to marry you when I grow up. Serve Jimmy Sarkies right, too,” he added, suddenly brightening up--”awful sneak. Yes, leave it on your paw's table, and say nothing. I'm off now, only ten minutes left.”

”Look here, Eddy.”

”Oh, bother! what's it now?”

”Only this. I might like to marry some one else, you know, when I grow up. Ta--ta.” She blew a kiss at him, and was gone.

Eddy thrust his hands into his pockets and looked moodily after her.

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. ”It's Billy Bunder,” he said, striking his clenched fist into his open palm--”only wait till I catch him----”

Clang, clang, went the school bell. The recess was over.

CHAPTER VII.

DUNGAREE'S BELT.

Digby Street, so named after a former governor of the presidency, is not more than three miles from the tabernacle. Probably in no part of the world does vice cover itself with so hideous a garb as here. An atmosphere of evil hangs over the dingy houses, packed closely to each other, whose inhabitants follow nameless occupations. When the night comes the street lamps s.h.i.+ne on strange scenes. In the day all is silent as the grave. At the corner of the street is a small house. A faded sign-board, with the words ”Hotel Metropole” in yellow letters on a blue field, explains its character. The landlord is a Pa.r.s.ee, or fire-wors.h.i.+pper, who has added an English word to his Eastern name, and is known to his customers, and to the police, as Kavasji Pain-killer. Mine host stands at the open entrance to his house. A misshapen figure, with dull eyes and bloated features, he reminds one of the strange bird-eating spiders of the forests of the East and West Indies.

As this man gazes aimlessly down the road, he sees a few dim figures flitting in front of him. They move on rapidly for a few yards and stop. Suddenly there is a flash of light above them, and as each street lamp is lit, a small halo is formed in the evil night haze now beginning to envelop the street. It is not yet time, however, for the inhabitants to awaken from their drunken slumbers. It is later on that the lost legion rises.

As the figures disappeared from view the landlord turned slowly and moved into the bar-room, where there was a thick odour of stale liquor and staler tobacco. The room was empty, save for the figure of a man lying asleep at a small marble-topped table, his head resting on his arms. From a smaller room beyond, the door of which was closed, came the sound of voices, and now and then an oath, or a hoa.r.s.e laugh.

Kavasji made a movement as if to approach the door, but changing his mind pa.s.sed behind the bar, and settling himself into a cane chair, dozed off comfortably.