CHAPTER VIII
GOING HOME
In Deptford the seven months had almost gone by; Dickie had worked much, learned much, and earned much. Mr. Beale, a figure of cleanly habit and increasing steadiness, seemed like a plant growing quickly towards the sun of respectability, or a lighthouse rising bright and important out of a swirling sea—of dogs.
For the dog-trade prospered exceedingly, and Mr. Beale had grown knowing in thorough-breeds and the prize bench, had learned all about distemper and doggy fits, and when you should give an ailing dog sal-volatile and when you should merely give it less to eat. And the money in the bank grew till it, so to speak, burst the bank-book, and had to be allowed to overflow into a vast sea called Consols.
The dogs also grew, in numbers as well as in size, and the neighbours, who had borne a good deal very patiently, began, as Mr. Beale said, to "pass remarks."
"It ain't so much the little uns they jib at," said Mr. Beale, taking his pipe out of his mouth and stretching his legs in the back-yard,
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