| "The story of our Lives from Year to Year"
All the Year Round | ||
| No. 5. New Series. | Saturday, January 2, 1869. | Price Twopence. |
Wrecked in Port.
A Serial Story by the Author of "Black Sheep."
Chapter VII.A New Friend.
When they stood in the street, with the fresh night wind blowing upon them, the old man stopped, and, peering anxiously into his companion's face, said, abruptly, "Better?"
"Much better, thank you; quite well, in fact. There's no occasion for me to trouble you any more; I"
"What? All gaff—eh? Old Jack Byrne sold—eh? Swallowed his brandy, and want to cut? Is that the caper?"
"I beg your pardon, I don't quite clearly understand you, I'm sorry to say"—for Walter knew by the tone of his voice that the old man was annoyed—"I'm very weak, and rather stupid—I mean to say in—in the ways and the talk of London—and I don't clearly follow what you said to me just now; only you were so kind to me at first, that"
"Provinces!" muttered the old man to himself. "Just like me; treating him to my pavement patter, and thinking he understood it! All right, I think, as far as one can judge; though God knows that's often wrong enough!" Then, aloud, "Kind! nonsense! I'm an odd old skittle, and talk an odd language; but I've seen the ups and downs of life, my lad, and can give you good advice if I can't give anything else. Have you anything to do to-night? Nothing? Sure I'm not keeping you from the opera or any swell party in Park-lane? No! Then come home with me and have a bit o' pickled salmon and a glass of cold gin-and-water, and let's talk matters out."
Before he had concluded his sentence, the old man had slipped Joyce's arm through his own, and was making off at a great rate and also with an extraordinary shamble, in which his shoulder appeared to act as a kind of cutwater, while his legs followed considerably in the rear. Walter held on to him as best he could, and in this fashion they made their way through the back streets, across St. Martin's-lane, and so into Leicester-square. Then, as they arrived in front of a brilliantly lighted establishment, at the door of which cabs laden with fashionably dressed men and gaudily dressed women were continually disgorging their loads, while a never ceasing stream of pedestrians poured in from the street, Jack Byrne came to a sudden halt, and said to his companion, "Now I'm going to enjoy myself!"
Walter Joyce had noticed the style of people pouring in through the turnstiles and paying their admission money at the brilliantly lit boxes; and as he heard these words he unconsciously drew back. You see he was but a country-bred young man, and had not yet been initiated into the classical enjoyments of London Life. Jack Byrne felt the tug at his arm, and looked at him curiously. "What is it?" said he. "You thought I was going in there? I? Oh, my dear young friend, you'll have to learn a great deal yet; but you're on the suspicious lay, and that's a chalk to you! You thought I'd hocussed the brandy I gave you at Bliffkins's; you thought I was going to take you into this devil's crib, did you? Not I, my dear boy; I'd as soon take you in as myself, and that's saying a good deal. No; I told you I was going to enjoy myself—so I am. My enjoyment is in watching that door, and marking those who go through it—not in speculating on what's going on inside, but in waiting for
