Part 23 (1/2)

The boy paid no regard to him, but, turning to Aspel, introduced himself as Peter Pax.

”What! the comrade-in-arms of my friend Phil Maylands?” asked Aspel.

”The same, at your service,” replied the small messenger; ”an' if you are the friend he talks to me so much about, as goes by the name of George Aspel, an' is descended in a direct line from the old sea-kings, I'm proud to make your acquaintance.”

Aspel laughed at the consummate self-possession of the boy, and shaking hands with him heartily as a comrade of their common friend Phil, bade him take a seat, which he immediately did on the counter.

”You're surrounded by pleasant company here,” observed Pax, gazing intently at the pelican of the wilderness.

”Well, yes; but it's rather silent company,” said Aspel.

”Did that fellow, now,” continued Pax, pointing to the owl, ”die of surprise?”

”Perhaps he did, but I wasn't present at his death,” returned the other.

”Well, now, I do like this sort o' thing.”

Little Pax said this with such genuine feeling, and looked round him with such obvious interest, that Aspel, with some surprise, asked him why he liked it.

”Why? because from my earliest years I always was fond of animals. No matter what sort they wos, I liked 'em all--birds an' beasts an' fishes, flyers and creepers, an' squeakers and flutterers,” said the boy, clasping both hands over one knee, and rocking himself to and fro on the counter, while he gazed into the owl's face with the air of one whose mind is rambling far away into the remote past.

”Once on a time,” he continued, sadly, ”I dwelt in the country. I was born in the country. I'm a sort o' country gentleman by nature, so to speak, and would have bin revellin' in the country to this day if a perwerse fate hadn't driven me into the town--a very perwerse fate indeed.”

”Indeed?” said Aspel, unable to restrain a laugh at his visitor's old-fas.h.i.+oned ways, ”what sort of fate was it?”

”A perwerse one, didn't I tell you?”

”Yes, but wherein consisted its perversity? How did it act, you know?”

”Ah, its perwersity consisted in drivin' me into town in a market-cart,”

said Pax. ”You must know that my perwerse fate was a uncle. He was a big brute. I don't mean to speak of 'im disrespectfully. I merely give 'im his proper name. He was a market-gardener and kept cows--also a pump. He had a wife and child--a little girl. Ah! a sweet child it was.”

”Indeed,” said Aspel, as the boy relapsed into a silent contemplative gaze at the pelican.

”Yes,” resumed Pax, with a sigh, ”it _was_ a child, that was. Her name was Mariar, but we called 'er Merry. Her father's name--the Brute's, you know--was Blackadder, and a blacker adder don't wriggle its slimy way through filthy slums nowhere--supposin' him to be yet unscragged, for he was uncommon hard on his wife--that's my Aunt Georgie. _Her_ name was Georgianna. I wonder how it is that people _never_ give people their right names! Well, Mr Aspel, you must know I was nuss to baby.

An amytoor nuss I was--got no pay for it, but a considerable allowance o' kicks from the Brute, who wasn't fond o' me, as I'd done 'im a mortal injury, somehow, by being his defunct brother's orphan child. You understand?”

George Aspel having professed a thorough comprehension of these family relations.h.i.+ps, little Pax went on.

”Well then, bein' nuss to Merry, I used to take 'er out long walks in the fields among the flowers, an' I was used to catch b.u.t.terflies and beetles for 'er, an' brought 'em home an' stuck pins through 'em an'

made c'lections; an' oh, I _did_ like to scuttle about the green lanes an' chase the cows, an' roll on the gra.s.s in the suns.h.i.+ne with Merry, an' tear an bu'st my trousers, for w'ich I got spanked by the Brute, but didn't care a rap, because that brought me double allowance o' coddlin'

from Aunt Georgie. One day the Brute drove me into town in the market-cart; set me down in the middle of a street, and drove away, an'

I haven't seen him, nor Aunt Georgie, nor Merry from that day to this.”

”Dear me!” exclaimed George Aspel, rather shocked at this sudden and unexpected termination of the narrative; ”do you mean to say--”

”It strikes me,” interrupted Pax, looking pointedly at the door, ”that you've got another visitor.”