Part 11 (1/2)

As the lad ate his wonderful breakfast, in which nearly half a pot of marmalade and enough b.u.t.ter for three ordinary people figured, Stafford read the papers attentively, to give his guest a fair chance at the food and to overcome his self-consciousness. He got an occasional glance at the trencherman, however, as he changed the sheets, stepped across the room to get a cigarette, or poked the small fire--for, late September as it was, a sudden cold week of rain had come and gone, leaving the air raw; and a fire was welcome.

At last, when he realized that the activities of the table were decreasing, he put down his paper. ”Is it all right?” he asked. ”Is the coffee hot?”

”I ain't never 'ad a meal like that, y'r gryce, not never any time,”

the boy answered, with a new sort of fire in his eyes.

”Was there enough?”

”I've left some,” answered his guest, looking at the jar of marmalade and half a slice of toast. ”I likes the coffee hot--tykes y'r longer to drink it,” he added.

Ian Stafford chuckled. He was getting more than the worth of his money.

He had nibbled at his own breakfast, with the perturbations of a crossing from Flus.h.i.+ng still in his system, and its equilibrium not fully restored; and yet, with the waste of his own meal and the neglect of his own appet.i.te, he had given a great and happy half-hour to a waif of humanity.

As he looked at the boy he wondered how many thousands there were like him within rifle-shot from where he sat, and he thought each of them would thank whatever G.o.ds they knew for such a neglected meal. The words from the scare-column of the paper he held smote his sight:

”War Inevitable--Transvaal Bristling with Guns and Loaded to the Nozzle with War Stores--Milner and Kruger No Nearer a Settlement--Sullen and Contemptuous Treatment of British Outlander.” ... And so on.

And if war came, if England must do this ugly thing, fulfil her bitter and terrible task, then what about such as this young outlander here, this outcast from home and goodly toil and civilized conditions, this sickly froth of the muddy and dolorous stream of lower England? So much withdrawn from the sources of the possible relief, so much less with which to deal with their miseries--perhaps hundreds of millions, mopped up by the parched and unproductive soil of battle and disease and loss.

He glanced at the paper again. ”Britons Hold Your Own,” was the heading of the chief article. ”Yes, we must hold our own,” he said, aloud, with a sigh. ”If it comes, we must see it through; but the breakfasts will be fewer. It works down one way or another--it all works down to this poor little devil and his kind.”

”Now, what's your name?” he asked.

”Jigger,” was the reply.

”What else?”

”Nothin', y'r gryce.”

”Jigger--what?”

”It's the only nyme I got,” was the reply.

”What's your father's or your mother's name?”

”I ain't got none. I only got a sister.”

”What's her name?”

”Lou,” he answered. ”That's her real name. But she got a fancy name yistiddy. She was took on at the opera yistiddy, to sing with a hunderd uvver girls on the styge. She's Lulu Luckingham now.”

”Oh--Luckingham!” said Stafford, with a smile, for this was a name of his own family, and of much account in circles he frequented. ”And who gave her that name? Who were her G.o.dfathers and G.o.dmothers?”

”I dunno, y'r gryce. There wasn't no religion in it. They said she'd have to be called somefink, and so they called her that. Lou was always plenty for 'er till she went there yistiddy.”

”What did she do before yesterday?”

”Sold flowers w'en she could get 'em to sell. 'Twas when she couldn't sell her flowers that she piped up sort of dead wild--for she 'adn't 'ad nothin' to eat, an' she was fair crusty. It was then a gentleman, 'e 'eard 'er singin' hot, an' he says, 'That's good enough for a start,' 'e says, 'an' you come wiv me,' he says. 'Not much,' Lou says, 'not if I knows it. I seed your kind frequent.' But 'e stuck to it, an'

says, 'It's stryght, an' a lydy will come for you to-morrer, if you'll be 'ere on this spot, or tell me w'ere you can be found.' An' Lou says, says she, 'You buy my flowers, so's I kin git me bread-baskit full, an'

then I'll think it over.' An' he bought 'er flowers, an' give 'er five bob. An' Lou paid rent for both of us wiv that, an' 'ad brekfist; an'