Part 28 (1/2)
”My G.o.d! haven't I got enough trouble without a young wretch like you coming to torment me? For G.o.d's sake go away and leave me alone! I'm telling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza last night.”
”My oath!”
The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down Jones's Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said ”Swelp me Gord! I'm sorry, mum. I didn't know. How was I to know you wasn't havin' me?”
He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head, tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear, and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his attention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole; then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in a very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as though calculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately at the pavement, and said:
”Kin I see him?”
He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who's-afraid kind of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.
He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty--so familiar to his cla.s.s--and then directed his gaze to where the body lay on the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at the coffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie, and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would fit.
The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill came and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his pocket, and laid the palm on Arvie's ice-cold forehead.
”Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as though ashamed of his weakness, he said:
”There wasn't no post mortem, was there?”
”No,” she answered; ”a doctor saw him the day before--there was no post mortem.”
”I thought there wasn't none,” said Bill, ”because a man that's been post mortemed always looks as if he'd been hurt. My father looked right enough at first--just as if he was restin'--but after they'd had him opened he looked as if he'd been hurt. No one else could see it, but I could. How old was Arvie?”
”Eleven.”'
”I'm twelve--goin' on for thirteen. Arvie's father's dead, ain't he?”
”Yes.”
”So's mine. Died at his work, didn't he?”
”Yes.”
”So'd mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!”
”Yes.”
”So'd mine; ain't it rum? You scrub offices an' wash, don't yer?”
”Yes.”
”So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin', don't yer, these times?”
”My G.o.d, yes! G.o.d only knows what I'll do now my poor boy's gone. I generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and when that's done I've got to start my day's work, was.h.i.+ng. And then I find it hard to make both ends meet.”
”So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was brought home?”
”Ah, my G.o.d! Yes. I'll never forget it till my dying day. My poor husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two days before he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”
”My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: 'Yer husband's dead, mum,' he says; 'he dropped off all of a suddint,' and mother said, 'My G.o.d! my G.o.d!' just like that, and went off.”