And after peering cautiously, Mr Weech went his way.
CHAPTER XX
DICKY completed his round, and pushed his unladen trolley Grinder-ward with a fuller sense of responsibility than ever. For he carried money. A publican had paid him four and threepence, and he had taken two and tenpence elsewhere. He had left his proud signature, pencilled large and black, on two receipts, and he stopped in a dozen doorways to count the money over again, and make sure that all was right. Between the halts he added four and three to two and ten mentally, and proved his sum correct by subtracting each in turn from seven and a penny. And at last he stood his trolley on end by the bank of saucepans, and entered the shop.
‘Walker’s is paid, an’ Wilkins is paid,’ said Dicky, putting down the money. ‘Two an’ ten an’ four an’ three’s seven an’ a penny.’
Mr Grinder looked steadily and sourly at Dicky, and counted. He pitched the odd penny into the till and shook the rest of the coins in his closed hand, still staring moodily in the boy’s face. ‘It’s three an’ six a week you come ‘ere at,’ he said.
‘Yus sir,’ Dicky replied, since Grinder seemed to expect an answer. The supreme moment when he should take his first wages had been the week’s beacon to him, reddening and brightening as Saturday night grew nearer.
‘Three an’ six a week an’ yer tea.’
Dicky wondered.
‘So as if I found out anythink about—say Brass Roastin’-jacks for instance—I could give ye yer three an’ six an’ start y’ auf, unless I did somethin’ wuss.’
Dicky was all incomprehension; but something made him feel a little sick.
‘But s’posin’ I didn’t find out anythink about—say Seven-pun’ Jars o’ Pickles—an’ s’pose I wasn’t disposed to suspect anythink in regard to—say Doormats; then I could either give ye a week s notice or pay y’ a week’s money an’ clear y’ out on the spot, without no more trouble.’
Mr Grinder paused, and still looked at Dicky with calm dislike. Then he added, as though in answer to himself, ‘Yus.’ …
He dropped the money slowly from his right hand to his left. Dicky’s mouth was dry, and the drawers and pickle-jars swam before him at each side of Grinder’s head. What did it mean?
”Ere y’ are,’ cried Mr Grinder, with sudden energy, thrusting his hand across the counter. ‘Two three-and-sixes is seven shillin’s, an’ you can git yer tea at ‘ome with yer dirty little sister. Git out o’ my shop!’
Dicky’s hand closed mechanically on the money, and after a second’s pause, he found broken speech. ‘W—w—wot for, sir?’ he asked, huskily. ‘I ain’t done nothink!’
‘No, an’ you sha’n’t do nothink, that’s more. Out ye go! If I see ye near the place agin I’ll ‘ave ye locked up!’
Dicky slunk to the door. He felt the sobs coming, but he turned at the threshold and said with tremulous lips:—‘Woncher gimme a chance, sir? S’elp me, I done me best. I—’
Mr Grinder made a short rush from the back of the shop, and Dicky gave up and fled.
It was all over. There could never be a shop with ‘R. Perrott’ painted over it, now; there would be no parlour with stuff-bottomed chairs and a piano for Em to play. He was cut off from the trolley for ever. Dicky was thirteen, and at that age the children of the Jago were past childish tears; but tears he could not smother, even till he might find a hiding-place: they burst out shamefully in the open street.
He took dark turnings, and hid his head in doorways. It was very bitter. At last, when the sobs grew fewer, he remembered the money gripped in his wet fist. It was a consolation. Seven shillings was a vast sum in Dicky’s eyes; until that day he had never handled so much in his life. It would have been handsome recompense, he thought, for any trouble in the world but this. He must take it home, of course; it might avail to buy sympathy of his father and mother. But then, to think he might have had as much every fortnight of his life, a good tea every day, and the proud responsibility, and the trolley! At this his lips came awry again, his eyes sought his sleeve, and he turned to another doorway.
His glance fell on the white apron, now smudged and greased in good earnest. It made him feel worse; so he untied it and stuffed it away under his jacket. He wondered vaguely what had occurred to irritate Mr Grinder, and why he talked of pickles and doormats; but the sorrow of it all afflicted him to the extinction of such minor speculation. And in this misery he dragged his reluctant feet toward the Old Jago.
CHAPTER XXI
HE handed his father the seven shillings, and received a furious belting for losing his situation. He cried quietly, but it was not because of the strap. All he feared now was to meet Father Sturt. He had rather fifty beltings than Father Sturt’s reproaches; and, having disgraced himself with Mr Grinder in some mysterious way which it was beyond his capacity to understand, what but reproaches could he expect from the vicar? The whole world was against him. As for himself, he was hopeless: plainly he must have some incomprehensible defect of nature, since he offended, do as he might, and could neither understand nor redeem his fault. He wondered if it had been so with little Neddy Wright, who had found the world too ruthless for him at ten; and had tied a brick to his neck, as he had seen done with needless dogs, and let himself timidly down into the canal at Haggerstone Bridge.
So he shuffled through Jago Row, when a hand came on his shoulder and a hoarse voice said:—‘Wot’s the matter, Dicky?’
He turned, and saw the mild, coarse face of Pigeony Poll, the jaw whereof was labouring on something tough and sticky. Poll pulled from her pocket a glutinous paper, clinging about a cohesive lump of broken toffee—the one luxury of her moneyed times. ”Ave a bit,’ she said. ‘Wot’s the matter?’
But Dicky thrust the hand away and fled, for he feared another burst of tears. His eyes were bad enough as it was, and he longed to hide himself in some hole.
He turned into New Jago Street. Hither it was that Jerry Gullen had betaken himself with his family and the Canary, after the great eviction. Dicky slackened his pace, loitered at Jerry’s doorway, and presently found himself in the common passage. It was long since he had had a private interview with Jerry Gullen’s canary: for, indeed, he was thirteen—he was no longer a child, in fact!—and it was not well that he should indulge in such foolish weakness. Nevertheless he went as far as the back door. There stood the old donkey, mangy and infirm as ever, but apparently no nearer the end. The wood of the fence was bitten in places, but it was not as yet gnawed to the general whiteness and roundness of that in Canary’s old abode. Canary, indeed, was fortunate to-day, for at the sound of Dicky’s step he lifted his nose from a small heap of straw, dust, and mouldy hay, swept into a corner. Dicky stepped into the yard, and put his hand on Canary’s neck; presently he glanced guiltily at the windows above. Nobody was looking. And in five minutes Dicky, aged as he was, had told Canary his troubles, while new tears wetted the ragged crest and dropped into the dusty straw.
Now his grief lost some of its edge. Ashamed as he was, he had a shapeless, unapprehended notion that Canary was the sole creature alive that could understand and feel with him. And Canary poked his nose under the old jacket and sniffed in sympathy, as the broken lining tickled him. Dicky’s intellectuals began to arrange themselves. Plainly, Mr Weech’s philosophy was right after all. He was of the Jago, and he must prey on the outer world, as all the Jago did; not stray foolishly