Part 12 (1/2)

”Keeping a shop!” repeated Aspel in surprise.

”Ay, keeping a shop--this shop,” returned Mr Blurt; ”you once told me you were versed in natural history; here is a field for you: a natural-historical shop, if I may say so.”

”But, my dear sir, I know nothing whatever about the business, or about stuffing birds--and--and fishes.” He looked round him in dismay. ”But you are jesting!”

Mr Blurt declared that he was very far from jesting, and then went on to explain the circ.u.mstances of the case. It is probable that George Aspel would have at once rejected his proposal if it had merely had reference to his own advantage, and that he would have preferred to apply for labour at the docks, as being more suitable work for a sea-king's descendant; but the appeal to aid his friend in an emergency went home to him, and he agreed to undertake the work temporarily, with an expression of face that is common to men when forced to swallow bitter pills.

Thus George Aspel was regularly, though suddenly, installed. When evening approached Mrs Murridge lighted the gas, and the new shopman set to work with energy to examine the stock and look over the books, in the hope of thereby obtaining at least a faint perception of the nature of the business in which he was embarked.

While thus engaged a woman entered hastily and demanded her pheasant.

”Your pheasant, my good woman?”

”Yes, the one I left here to-day wi' the broken heye. I don't want to 'ave it mended; changed my mind. Will you please give it me back, sir?”

”I must call the gentleman to whom you gave it,” said Aspel, rather sharply, for he perceived the woman had been drinking.

”Oh! you've no need, for there's the book he put my name down in, an'

there's the bird a-standin' on the shelf just under the _howl_.”

Aspel turned up the book referred to, and found the page recently opened by Mr Blurt. He had no difficulty in coming to a decision, for there was but one entry on the page.

”This is it, I suppose,” he said. ”`A woman--I should say an idiot-- left a pheasant, _minus_'--”

”No more a hidyot than yourself, young man, nor a minus neither,” cried the woman, swelling with indignation, and red in the face.

Just then a lady entered the shop, and approached the counter hurriedly.

”Oh!” she exclaimed, almost in a shriek of astonishment, ”Mr Aspel!”

”Mr Aspel, indeed,” cried the woman, with ineffable scorn,--”Mr Impudence, more like. Give me my bird, I say!”

The lady raised her veil, and displayed the amazed face of Miss Lillycrop.

”I came to inquire for my old friend--I'm _so_ grieved; I was not aware--Mr Aspel--”

”Give me my bird, I say!” demanded the virago.

”Step this way, madam,” said Aspel, driven almost to distraction as he opened the door of the back shop. ”Mrs Murridge, show this lady up to Mr Blurt's room.--Now then, woman, take your--your--brute, and be off.”

He thrust the one-eyed pheasant into the customer's bosom with such vigour that, fearing a personal a.s.sault, she retreated to the door.

There she came to a full stop, turned about, raised her right hand savagely, exclaimed ”You're another!” let her fingers go off with the force of a pea-cracker, and, stumbling into the street, went her devious way.

CHAPTER TEN.

A MYSTERY CLEARED UP.

When night had fairly hung its sable curtains over the great city, Mr Blurt descended to the shop.