Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes. Fenn George Manville

the man stood looking after her; but as she mounted them he followed softly, and listened till he heard her rustle along the passage, when he slipped through the cellar and caught sight of her from the rusty grating as she crossed the court, when he once more went back to the dark arch and looked about him.

      All at once his keen eye caught sight of something upon the floor – a newly-burned scrap of match, and snatching it up, he held it to his cheek to try and detect whether it was dry or damp. It seemed to be dry, so after once more going to the door, and from thence to the stairs, to make out whether he was sure to be free from interruption, he returned hastily, drew forth a tin match-box, lit a scrap of wax-candle from his pocket, and then shading the light with his cap and carefully examining the floor, he picked up three more tiny pieces of half-burned match, lying here and there amongst the blackened dirt and sawdust. These scraps he carefully placed in his pocket along with the piece of candle, and then hurried out, with his lips drawn away from his teeth, and his face wearing a diabolically savage aspect. But the next moment he gave his head a shake, and stole softly up the stairs muttering:

      “It must have been arter the dawg.”

      Mr William Jarker walked out into the court with his boots on now, and his hands very far down in his pockets, and then made his way into the Lane, where he paused in doubt as to whether he should go to the right or to the left; but as in the latter direction there was a policeman, Mr Jarker betook himself to the right, and made his way into the Strand, now nearly empty, while church-spire and chimney-pot stood out clear in the unsmoked morning air. But the street-sweepers were busy, the butchers’ carts from westward came rattling along, bound for Newgate-market; watercress-girls tramped by from Farringdon, making up their dark-green bunches as they walked; while every now and then a red newspaper-cart dashed by with its universal budget for the various railway termini. London was waking again, the great heart was beating fast, and the streams of life beginning to ebb and flow through the street-veins of the City.

      But all this affected Mr Jarker very little, he only seemed interested at times during his walk, being apparently in a very contemplative mood. Once he half-stopped as a tall, dark, fierce-eyed woman walked hastily by in company with a slightly-formed girl; but they noticed him not, and were soon out of sight, while Mr Jarker continued his walk, with eyes directed at the ground, as if he thought that being an early bird he must get the first peck at the worms – worms that might take the form of some valuable waif. However, not meeting with any reward from the earth he turned his eyes heavenward, where he could see no waifs, but an occasional stray in the shape of a pigeon, darting across the clear strip of atmosphere above his head, or settling upon the housetop, and so much did these gentle birds attract his notice, that he would now and then stop, and inserting a couple of tolerably clean, soft, unworked fingers in his mouth, whistle to them.

      For the pigeons are many in London, and at early morn single birds may be seen darting in swift flight like airy messengers; flocks may be seen in circle round their home, or cooing in company upon the tower of some lofty church – one of the many hidden amidst the labyrinths of bricks and mortar – cooing softly sweet notes, heard plainly now, but soon to be drowned in the roar of the busy streams of life ebbing and flowing through the streets; now but a gentle hum as of a honey-seeking bee, but soon increasing in intensity as the bees swarm.

      There was no help for it this time, for suddenly turning a corner, Mr Jarker come upon a sergeant and a dozen policemen walking with measured step, on their way to relieve those who had been on duty through the night.

      “I’m gallussed!” muttered Mr Jarker, trying to look unconcerned, and slouching on; and it was observable that though Mr Jarker looked straight before him and whistled, the policemen, one and all, looked very hard at Mr Jarker, as if they knew him and felt hurt at his pride; while one man was even seen to wink to himself, and smile a very peculiar, hard smile – the kind of smile only seen upon policemen’s faces, and one that means so much that its interpretation would be a task of difficulty.

      “I’m gallussed!” muttered Mr Jarker again, when he was well past the men in uniform, and then, apparently satisfied with the length of his morning walk, he took a short cut to make his way back to Bennett’s-rents, while, upon thus once more having his thoughts directed homeward, he again muttered – “It must have been arter the dawg.”

      Volume One – Chapter Four.

      With the Dragon’s Teeth

      In the gloomiest part of that gloomy street called Carey, and in the darkest corner of his printing-office, sat Septimus Hardon. The dragon’s teeth and their appurtenances lay around, but all thickly covered with that strange black dust peculiar to the region; the dust compounded of who can tell what, as it rests on every ledge, and settles thickly upon every article in room or workshop, office or chamber. Business had not prospered with Septimus, though his place looked business-like, save for the animation that a few moving figures would have lent to it, while for position it was all that could be desired. But the star of Septimus Hardon was not in the ascendant. With the knowledge full upon him that he must work to keep the wife and child he had taken to his breast upon leaving Somesham, he had adopted the trade which seemed most congenial from the little knowledge that he possessed; but as the years passed on, leaving him poorer, and with increased expenses, he grew hopeless, helpless, and, if it were possible, less fitted than ever for fighting his way amidst the busy throngs of the great city. At times, almost in despair, he would go forth into the streets of the busy hive and canvass for work; but he always carried with him an atmosphere of his own, so quiet, strange, and retiring a manner, that his very appearance invited either pity or rebuff, and often and often, when tired out, he would return to his wife for the comfort that she, grown more sickly than ever, could ill afford to give.

      But Septimus seldom complained, and there was always a pleasant smile for Lucy Grey, now grown a blooming girl, the mainstay of the family for cheerfulness, and the constant attendant of her invalid mother; and, in spite of her years, almost taking the place of parent to the two children, the fruit of Septimus Hardon’s marriage.

      And now, after long years of straggling, Septimus sat thinking of the state of his affairs, of the rent he had to make up, and the silence of his father in spite of the many humble appeals that he had made to him for help. Mattering and calculating, with a piece of paper and a pencil, he suddenly stopped short, for he saw that he was not alone, and shuffling off his high stool he hurried towards the new-comer, in the hope that some solicitor had sent orders for some large amount of work, or that, better still, an estimate was wanted for a new magazine.

      “Any chance of a job, sir?” said the new-comer, who might have been Septimus Hardon twenty years older, and more shabby. There was ‘old compositor’ oozing out of him at every corner, and the corners in his person were many; he smelt of stale tobacco-smoke, and he was taking almost his last pinch of snuff out of a dirty piece of paper, with his long, lithe, active fingers as Septimus Hardon approached him. A shabby black frock-coat was buttoned tightly to his chin; his shiny black trousers had the gloss of age thick upon them; Wellington boots were upon his feet that rivalled his tall hat for dilapidations; old, sallow, dirty, and wild-looking, he was not the man a master would have employed unless from some latent idea that he suited the district. “Any chance of a job, sir?”

      Septimus Hardon shook his head and sighed, which was, to say the least of it, unbusiness-like.

      The old man echoed the sigh, leaned one hand upon the case of type at his elbow, and began to finger the letters, bringing up the bright unused types from the bottom of the boxes. He then sighed again, took in at one glance the fittings of the office, and ended by fixing his eyes upon the owner.

      “Might do a deal of work with all this, sir.”

      Septimus Hardon nodded drearily, and sighed again, instead of promptly ordering the man off his premises.

      “Yes; should be glad of an hour’s work or so, sir. Seems hard here in this world of ours that when a man’s ready and willing to work he can’t get it to do, sir; don’t it?”

      Septimus nodded, and looked hard at the man, thinking how his was after all the worse lot.

      “I’m faint, sir,” continued the old printer, “and hungry, and hard up;” and then he looked down at his clothes