The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

      Marco went down the passage to the front door. The Rat was there, but he was not upon his platform. He was leaning upon an old pair of crutches, and Marco thought he looked wild and strange. He was white, and somehow the lines of his face seemed twisted in a new way. Marco wondered if something had frightened him, or if he felt ill.

      “Rat,” he began, “my father—”

      “I’ve come to tell you about my father,” The Rat broke in without waiting to hear the rest, and his voice was as strange as his pale face. “I don’t know why I’ve come, but I—I just wanted to. He’s dead!”

      “Your father?” Marco stammered. “He’s—”

      “He’s dead,” The Rat answered shakily. “I told you he’d kill himself. He had another fit and he died in it. I knew he would, one of these days. I told him so. He knew he would himself. I stayed with him till he was dead—and then I got a bursting headache and I felt sick—and I thought about you.”

      Marco made a jump at him because he saw he was suddenly shaking as if he were going to fall. He was just in time, and Lazarus, who had been looking on from the back of the passage, came forward. Together they held him up.

      “I’m not going to faint,” he said weakly, “but I felt as if I was. It was a bad fit, and I had to try and hold him. I was all by myself. The people in the other attic thought he was only drunk, and they wouldn’t come in. He’s lying on the floor there, dead.”

      “Come and see my father,” Marco said. “He’ll tell us what do do. Lazarus, help him.”

      “I can get on by myself,” said The Rat. “Do you see my crutches? I did something for a pawnbroker last night, and he gave them to me for pay.”

      But though he tried to speak carelessly, he had plainly been horribly shaken and overwrought. His queer face was yellowish white still, and he was trembling a little.

      Marco led the way into the back sitting-room. In the midst of its shabby gloom and under the dim light Loristan was standing in one of his still, attentive attitudes. He was waiting for them.

      “Father, this is The Rat,” the boy began. The Rat stopped short and rested on his crutches, staring at the tall, reposeful figure with widened eyes.

      “Is that your father?” he said to Marco. And then added, with a jerky half-laugh, “He’s not much like mine, is he?”

      THE LOST PRINCE (Part 2)

      X

      THE RAT—AND SAMAVIA

      What The Rat thought when Loristan began to speak to him, Marco wondered. Suddenly he stood in an unknown world, and it was Loristan who made it so because its poverty and shabbiness had no power to touch him. He looked at the boy with calm and clear eyes, he asked him practical questions gently, and it was plain that he understood many things without asking questions at all. Marco thought that perhaps he had, at some time, seen drunken men die, in his life in strange places. He seemed to know the terribleness of the night through which The Rat had passed. He made him sit down, and he ordered Lazarus to bring him some hot coffee and simple food.

      “Haven’t had a bite since yesterday,” The Rat said, still staring at him. “How did you know I hadn’t?”

      “You have not had time,” Loristan answered.

      Afterward he made him lie down on the sofa.

      “Look at my clothes,” said The Rat.

      “Lie down and sleep,” Loristan replied, putting his hand on his shoulder and gently forcing him toward the sofa. “You will sleep a long time. You must tell me how to find the place where your father died, and I will see that the proper authorities are notified.”

      “What are you doing it for?” The Rat asked, and then he added, “sir.”

      “Because I am a man and you are a boy. And this is a terrible thing,” Loristan answered him.

      He went away without saying more, and The Rat lay on the sofa staring at the wall and thinking about it until he fell asleep. But, before this happened, Marco had quietly left him alone. So, as Loristan had told him he would, he slept deeply and long; in fact, he slept through all the night.

      When he awakened it was morning, and Lazarus was standing by the side of the sofa looking down at him.

      “You will want to make yourself clean,” he said. “It must be done.”

      “Clean!” said The Rat, with his squeaky laugh. “I couldn’t keep clean when I had a room to live in, and now where am I to wash myself?” He sat up and looked about him.

      “Give me my crutches,” he said. “I’ve got to go. They’ve let me sleep here all night. They didn’t turn me into the street. I don’t know why they didn’t. Marco’s father—he’s the right sort. He looks like a swell.”

      “The Master,” said Lazarus, with a rigid manner, “the Master is a great gentleman. He would turn no tired creature into the street. He and his son are poor, but they are of those who give. He desires to see and talk to you again. You are to have bread and coffee with him and the young Master. But it is I who tell you that you cannot sit at table with them until you are clean. Come with me,” and he handed him his crutches. His manner was authoritative, but it was the manner of a soldier; his somewhat stiff and erect movements were those of a soldier, also, and The Rat liked them because they made him feel as if he were in barracks. He did not know what was going to happen, but he got up and followed him on his crutches.

      Lazarus took him to a closet under the stairs where a battered tin bath was already full of hot water, which the old soldier himself had brought in pails. There were soap and coarse, clean towels on a wooden chair, and also there was a much worn but clean suit of clothes.

      “Put these on when you have bathed,” Lazarus ordered, pointing to them. “They belong to the young Master and will be large for you, but they will be better than your own.” And then he went out of the closet and shut the door.

      It was a new experience for The Rat. So long as he remembered, he had washed his face and hands—when he had washed them at all—at an iron tap set in the wall of a back street or court in some slum. His father and himself had long ago sunk into the world where to wash one’s self is not a part of every-day life. They had lived amid dirt and foulness, and when his father had been in a maudlin state, he had sometimes cried and talked of the long-past days when he had shaved every morning and put on a clean shirt.

      To stand even in the most battered of tin baths full of clean hot water and to splash and scrub with a big piece of flannel and plenty of soap was a marvelous thing. The Rat’s tired body responded to the novelty with a curious feeling of freshness and comfort.

      “I dare say swells do this every day,” he muttered. “I’d do it myself if I was a swell. Soldiers have to keep themselves so clean they shine.”

      When, after making the most of his soap and water, he came out of the closet under the stairs, he was as fresh as Marco himself; and, though his clothes had been built for a more stalwart body, his recognition of their cleanliness filled him with pleasure. He wondered if by any effort he could keep himself clean when he went out into the world again and had to sleep in any hole the police did not order him out of.

      He wanted to see Marco again, but he wanted more to see the tall man with the soft dark eyes and that queer look of being a swell in spite of his shabby clothes and the dingy place he lived in. There was something about him which made you keep on looking at him, and wanting to know what he was thinking of, and why you felt as if you’d take orders from him as you’d take orders from your general, if you were a soldier. He looked, somehow, like a soldier, but as if he were something more—as if people had taken orders from him all his life, and always would take orders from him. And yet he had that quiet voice and those fine, easy movements, and he was not a soldier at all, but only a poor man who wrote things for papers which did not pay him well enough to give him and his son a comfortable