Part 29 (2/2)

”Nonsense!” said Denzil. ”What about Jessie--I mean Miss Dymond? There's a combination for you. She always reminds me of Grace Darling. How _is_ she, Tom?”

”She's dead!” snapped Tom.

”What?” Denzil turned as white as a Christmas ghost.

”It was in the papers,” said Tom; ”all about her and the lifeboat.”

”Oh, you mean Grace Darling,” said Denzil, visibly relieved. ”I meant Miss Dymond.”

”You needn't be so interested in her,” said Tom surlily. ”She don't appreciate it. Ah, the shower is over. I must be going.”

”No, stay a little longer, Tom,” pleaded Peter.

”I see a lot about you in the papers, but very little of your dear old phiz now. I can't spare the time to go and hear you. But I really must give myself a treat. When's your next show?”

”Oh, I am always giving shows,” said Tom, smiling a little. ”But my next big performance is on the twenty-first of January, when that picture of poor Mr. Constant is to be unveiled at the Bow Break o' Day Club. They have written to Gladstone and other big pots to come down. I do hope the old man accepts. A non-political gathering like this is the only occasion we could both speak at, and I have never been on the same platform with Gladstone.”

He forgot his depression and ill-temper in the prospect, and spoke with more animation.

”No, I should hope not, Tom,” said Peter. ”What with his Fads about the Bible being a Rock, and Monarchy being the right thing, he is a most dangerous man to lead the Radicals. He never lays his axe to the root of anything--except oak trees.”

”Mr. Cantycot!” It was Mrs. Crowl's voice that broke in upon the tirade.

”There's a _gentleman_ to see you.” The astonishment Mrs. Crowl put into the ”gentleman” was delightful. It was almost as good as a week's rent to her to give vent to her feelings. The controversial couple had moved away from the window when Tom entered, and had not noticed the immediate advent of another visitor who had spent his time profitably in listening to Mrs. Crowl before asking to see the presumable object of his visit.

”Ask him up if it's a friend of yours, Cantercot,” said Peter. It was Wimp. Denzil was rather dubious as to the friends.h.i.+p, but he preferred to take Wimp diluted. ”Mortlake's upstairs,” he said; ”will you come up and see him?”

Wimp had intended a duologue, but he made no objection, so he, too, stumbled through the nine brats to Mrs. Crowl's bedroom. It was a queer quartette. Wimp had hardly expected to find anybody at the house on Boxing Day, but he did not care to waste a day. Was not Grodman, too, on the track? How lucky it was that Denzil had made the first overtures, so that he could approach him without exciting suspicion.

Mortlake scowled when he saw the detective. He objected to the police--on principle. But Crowl had no idea who the visitor was, even when told his name. He was rather pleased to meet one of Denzil's high-cla.s.s friends, and welcomed him warmly. Probably he was some famous editor, which would account for his name stirring vague recollections. He summoned the eldest brat and sent him for beer (people would have their Fads), and not without trepidation called down to ”Mother” for gla.s.ses. ”Mother”

observed at night (in the same apartment) that the beer money might have paid the week's school fees for half the family.

”We were just talking of poor Mr. Constant's portrait, Mr. Wimp,” said the unconscious Crowl; ”they're going to unveil it, Mortlake tells me, on the twenty-first of next month at the Bow Break o' Day Club.”

”Ah,” said Wimp, elate at being spared the trouble of manoeuvring the conversation; ”mysterious affair that, Mr. Crowl.”

”No; it's the right thing,” said Peter. ”There ought to be some memorial of the man in the district where he worked and where he died, poor chap.”

The cobbler brushed away a tear.

”Yes, it's only right,” echoed Mortlake, a whit eagerly. ”He was a n.o.ble fellow, a true philanthropist--the only thoroughly unselfish worker I've ever met.”

”He was that,” said Peter; ”and it's a rare pattern is unselfishness.

Poor fellow, poor fellow. He preached the Useful, too. I've never met his like. Ah, I wish there was a heaven for him to go to!” He blew his nose violently with a red pocket-handkerchief.

”Well, he's there, if there _is_,” said Tom.

”I hope he is,” added Wimp, fervently; ”but I shouldn't like to go there the way he did.”

”You were the last person to see him, Tom, weren't you?” said Denzil.

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