The Dawn of a To-morrow [11]
the fire threw up flame and made a glow in the fog hanging in the black hole of a room.
It was Glad who set the battered kettle on and when it boiled made tea. The other two watched her, being under her spell. She handed out slices of bread and sausage and pudding on bits of paper. Polly fed with tremulous haste; Glad herself with rejoicing and exulting in flavors. Antony Dart ate bread and meat as he had eaten the bread and dripping at the stall--accepting his normal hunger as part of the dream.
Suddenly Glad paused in the midst of a huge bite.
"Mister," she said, "p'raps that cove's waitin' fer yer. Let's 'ave 'im in. I'll go and fetch 'im."
She was getting up, but Dart was on his feet first.
"I must go," he said. "He is expecting me and--"
"Aw," said Glad, "lemme go along o' yer, mister--jest to show there's no ill feelin'."
"Very well," he answered.
It was she who led, and he who followed. At the door she stopped and looked round with a grin.
"Keep up the fire, Polly," she threw back. "Ain't it warm and cheerful? It'll do the cove good to see it."
She led the way down the black, unsafe stairway. She always led.
Outside the fog had thickened again, but she went through it as if she could see her way.
At the entrance to the court the thief was standing, leaning against the wall with fevered, unhopeful waiting in his eyes. He moved miserably when he saw the girl, and she called out to reassure him.
"I ain't up to no 'arm," she said; "I on'y come with the gent."
Antony Dart spoke to him.
"Did you get food?"
The man shook his head.
"I turned faint after you left me, and when I came to I was afraid I might miss you," he answered. "I daren't lose my chance. I bought some bread and stuffed it in my pocket. I've been eating it while I've stood here."
"Come back with us," said Dart. "We are in a place where we have some food."
He spoke mechanically, and was aware that he did so. He was a pawn pushed about upon the board of this day's life.
"Come on," said the girl. "Yer can get enough to last fer three days."
She guided them back through the fog until they entered the murky doorway again. Then she almost ran up the staircase to the room they had left.
When the door opened the thief fell back a pace as before an unex- pected thing. It was the flare of firelight which struck upon his eyes. He passed his hand over them.
"A fire!" he said. "I haven't seen one for a week. Coming out of the blackness it gives a man a start."
Improvident joy gleamed in Glad's eyes.
"We 'll be warm onct," she chuckled, "if we ain't never warm agaen."
She drew her circle about the hearth again. The thief took the place next to her and she handed out food to him--a big slice of meat, bread, a thick slice of pudding.
"Fill yerself up," she said. "Then ye'll feel like yer can talk."
The man tried to eat his food with decorum, some recollection of the habits of better days restraining him, but starved nature was too much for him. His hands shook, his eyes filled, his teeth tore. The rest of the circle tried not to look at him. Glad and Polly occupied themselves with their own food.
Antony Dart gazed at the fire. Here he sat warming himself in a loft with a beggar, a thief, and a helpless thing of the street. He had come out to buy a pistol--its weight still hung in his overcoat pocket-- and he had reached this place of whose existence he had an hour ago not dreamed. Each step which had led him had seemed a simple, inevitable thing, for which he had apparently been responsible, but which he knew--yes, somehow he KNEW--he had of his own volition neither planned nor meant. Yet here he sat --a part of the lives of the beggar, the thief, and the poor thing of the street. What did it mean?
"Tell me," he said to the thief, "how you came here."
By this time the young fellow had fed himself and looked less like a wolf. It was to be seen now that he had blue-gray eyes which were dreamy and young.
"I have always been inventing things," he
It was Glad who set the battered kettle on and when it boiled made tea. The other two watched her, being under her spell. She handed out slices of bread and sausage and pudding on bits of paper. Polly fed with tremulous haste; Glad herself with rejoicing and exulting in flavors. Antony Dart ate bread and meat as he had eaten the bread and dripping at the stall--accepting his normal hunger as part of the dream.
Suddenly Glad paused in the midst of a huge bite.
"Mister," she said, "p'raps that cove's waitin' fer yer. Let's 'ave 'im in. I'll go and fetch 'im."
She was getting up, but Dart was on his feet first.
"I must go," he said. "He is expecting me and--"
"Aw," said Glad, "lemme go along o' yer, mister--jest to show there's no ill feelin'."
"Very well," he answered.
It was she who led, and he who followed. At the door she stopped and looked round with a grin.
"Keep up the fire, Polly," she threw back. "Ain't it warm and cheerful? It'll do the cove good to see it."
She led the way down the black, unsafe stairway. She always led.
Outside the fog had thickened again, but she went through it as if she could see her way.
At the entrance to the court the thief was standing, leaning against the wall with fevered, unhopeful waiting in his eyes. He moved miserably when he saw the girl, and she called out to reassure him.
"I ain't up to no 'arm," she said; "I on'y come with the gent."
Antony Dart spoke to him.
"Did you get food?"
The man shook his head.
"I turned faint after you left me, and when I came to I was afraid I might miss you," he answered. "I daren't lose my chance. I bought some bread and stuffed it in my pocket. I've been eating it while I've stood here."
"Come back with us," said Dart. "We are in a place where we have some food."
He spoke mechanically, and was aware that he did so. He was a pawn pushed about upon the board of this day's life.
"Come on," said the girl. "Yer can get enough to last fer three days."
She guided them back through the fog until they entered the murky doorway again. Then she almost ran up the staircase to the room they had left.
When the door opened the thief fell back a pace as before an unex- pected thing. It was the flare of firelight which struck upon his eyes. He passed his hand over them.
"A fire!" he said. "I haven't seen one for a week. Coming out of the blackness it gives a man a start."
Improvident joy gleamed in Glad's eyes.
"We 'll be warm onct," she chuckled, "if we ain't never warm agaen."
She drew her circle about the hearth again. The thief took the place next to her and she handed out food to him--a big slice of meat, bread, a thick slice of pudding.
"Fill yerself up," she said. "Then ye'll feel like yer can talk."
The man tried to eat his food with decorum, some recollection of the habits of better days restraining him, but starved nature was too much for him. His hands shook, his eyes filled, his teeth tore. The rest of the circle tried not to look at him. Glad and Polly occupied themselves with their own food.
Antony Dart gazed at the fire. Here he sat warming himself in a loft with a beggar, a thief, and a helpless thing of the street. He had come out to buy a pistol--its weight still hung in his overcoat pocket-- and he had reached this place of whose existence he had an hour ago not dreamed. Each step which had led him had seemed a simple, inevitable thing, for which he had apparently been responsible, but which he knew--yes, somehow he KNEW--he had of his own volition neither planned nor meant. Yet here he sat --a part of the lives of the beggar, the thief, and the poor thing of the street. What did it mean?
"Tell me," he said to the thief, "how you came here."
By this time the young fellow had fed himself and looked less like a wolf. It was to be seen now that he had blue-gray eyes which were dreamy and young.
"I have always been inventing things," he