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Fighting the Flames

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Six.</h3> <h4>What Drink will do.</h4> Time passed on, as time is wont to do, and Christmas came again. The snow was deep in London streets and thick on the roofs and chimneys. It curled over the eaves of the houses in heavy white folds ready to fall and smother the unwary passengers. It capped the railings everywhere with little white knobs, and rounded off the corners of things so, that wherever the eye alighted, the same impressions were invariably conveyed to it, namely, whiteness and rotundity. Corinthian capitals were rendered, if possible, more ornate than ever by snow; equestrian statues were laden with it so heavily, that the horses appeared to stagger beneath their trappings and the riders, having white tips to their noses, white lumps on their heads and shoulders, and white patches on their cheek-bones and chins, looked ineffably ridiculous, and miserably cold. Everything, in fact, was covered and blocked up with snow, and Londoners felt as if they had muffled drums in their ears. It was morning. The sky was clear, the air still, and the smoke of chimneys perpendicular. Poulterers’ shops were in their holiday attire; toy-shops were in the ascendant, and all other shops were gayer than usual. So were the people who thronged the streets and beat their hands and stamped their feet—for it was unusually cold. Street boys were particularly lively, and chaff was flying as thickly as snow-flakes had fallen the night before. Even the roughs—who forsook their dens, and, with shovels and brooms on their shoulders, paraded the streets, intent on clearing door-steps with or without the leave of inhabitants—seemed to be less gruff than usual, and some of them even went the length of cutting jokes with the cabmen and the boys. Perhaps their spirits were elevated by the proud consciousness of being for once in the way of earning an honest penny! “I say, Ned,” observed one of these roughs (a lively one), who was very rough indeed, to a companion, who was rougher still and gloomy, “look at that there gal cleanin’ of her steps with a fire-shovel! Ain’t that economy gone mad? Hallo, young ’ooman, what’s the use o’ trying to do it with a teaspoon, when there’s Ned and me ready to do it with our shovels for next to nothin’?” The servant-girl declined the assistance thus liberally offered, so the two men moved slowly on, looking from side to side as they went, in expectation of employment, while a small boy, in a man’s hat, who walked behind them, nodded to the girl, and said she was a “sensible thrifty gal,” and that she might be sure there was “some feller unknown who would bless the day he was born after he’d got her.” Fifty yards farther on, a stout, red-faced, elderly gentleman was observed to look out at the street door and frown at things in general. “Have your door-steps cleaned, sir?” asked the lively rough, taking the shovel off his shoulder. The elderly gentleman being angry, on private and unknown grounds (perhaps bad digestion), vouchsafed no reply, but looked up at the sky and then over the way. “Do it cheap, sir,” said the lively rough. “No!” said the elderly gentleman, with a sort of snapping look, as he turned his gaze up the street and then down it. “Snow’s wery deep on the steps, sir,” said the rough. “D’you suppose I’m an ass?” exclaimed the elderly gentleman, in a sudden burst. “Well, sir,” said the lively rough, in the grave tone and manner of one who has had a difficult question in philosophy put to him, “well, sir, I don’t know about that.” His large mouth expanded gradually from ear to ear after this reply. The elderly gentleman’s face became scarlet and his nose purple, and retreating two paces, he slammed the door violently in the rough’s face. “Ah, it all comes of over-feedin’, poor feller,” said the lively man, shouldering his shovel and resuming his walk beside his gloomy comrade, who neither smiled nor frowned at these pleasantries. “A warm old g’n’l’m’n!” remarked the boy in the man’s hat as he passed. The lively man nodded and winked. “Might eat his wittles raw an’ cook ’em inside a’most!” continued the boy; “would advise him to keep out of ’yde Park, though, for fear he’d git too near the powder-magazine!” At this point the gloomy rough—who did not appear, however, to be a genuine rough, but a pretty good imitation of one, made of material that had once seen better days—stopped, and said to his comrade that he was tired of that sort of work, and would bid him good-day. Without waiting for an answer he walked away, and his companion, without vouchsafing a reply, looked after him with a sneer. “A rum cove!” he remarked to the small boy in the man’s hat, as he continued his progress. “Rayther,” replied the boy. With this interchange of sentiment these casual acquaintances parted, to meet probably no more! Meanwhile the gloomy rough, whom the lively one had called Ned, walked with rapid steps along several streets, as though he had a distinct purpose in view. He turned at last into a narrow, quiet street, and going up to the door of a shabby-genteel house, applied the knocker with considerable vigour. “Now then, go along with you; we don’t want your services here; we clear off our own snow, we do. Imprence! to knock, too, as if he was a gentleman!” This was uttered by a servant-girl who had thrust her head out of a second-floor window to take an observation of the visitor before going down to open the door. “Is he at home, Betsy dear?” inquired the gloomy man, looking up with a leer which proved that he could be the reverse of gloomy when he chose. “Oh, it’s you, is it? I don’t think he wants to see you; indeed, I’m sure of it,” said the girl. “Yes he does, dear; at all events I want to see him; and, Betsy, say it’s pressing business, and not beggin’.” Betsy disappeared, and soon after, reappearing at the door, admitted the man, whom she ushered into a small apartment, which was redolent of tobacco, and in which sat a young man slippered and dressing-gowned, taking breakfast. “How are you, doctor?” said the visitor, in a tone that did not accord with his soiled and ragged garments, as he laid down his hat and shovel, and flung himself into a chair. “None the better for seeing you, Hooper,” replied the doctor sternly. “Well, well!” exclaimed Ned, “what a world we live in, to be sure! It was ‘Hail fellow! well met,’ when I was well off; now,” (he scowled here) “my old familiars give me the cold shoulder because I’m poor.” “You know that you are unjust,” said the doctor, leaning back in his chair, and speaking less sternly though not less firmly; “you know, Ned, that I have helped you with advice and with money to the utmost extent of my means, and you know that it was a long, long time before I ceased to call you one of my friends; but I do not choose to be annoyed by a man who has deliberately cast himself to the dogs, whose companions are the lowest wretches in London, and whose appearance is dirty and disgusting as well as disreputable.” “I can’t help it,” pleaded Hooper; “I can get no work.” “I don’t wonder at that,” replied the doctor; every friend you ever had has got you work of one kind or another during the last few years, and you have drunk yourself out of it every time. Do you imagine that your friends will continue to care for a man who cares not for himself? Ned did not reply, but hung his head in moody silence. “Now,” continued the doctor, “my time is a little more valuable than yours; state what you have got to say, and then be off. Stay,” he added, in a softened tone, “have you breakfasted?” “No,” answered Ned, with a hungry glance at the table. “Well, then, as you did not come to beg, you may draw in your chair and go to work.” Ned at once availed himself of this permission, and his spirits revived wonderfully as he progressed with the meal, during which he stated the cause of his visit. “The fact is,” said he, “that I want your assistance, doctor—” “I told you already,” interrupted the other, “that I have assisted you to the utmost extent of my means.” “My good fellow, not so sharp, pray,” said Ned, helping himself to another roll, the first having vanished like a morning cloud; “I don’t want money—ah: that is to say, I do want money, but I don’t want yours. No; I came here to ask you to help me to get a body.” “A body. What do you mean?” “Why, what I say; surely you’ve cut up enough of ’em to know ’em by name; a dead body, doctor,—a subject.” The doctor smiled. “That’s a strange request, Ned. You’re not going to turn to my profession as a last resort, I hope?” “No, not exactly; but a friend of mine wants a body—that’s all, and offers to pay me a good round sum if I get one for him.” “Is your friend a medical man?” asked the doctor. “N–no, he’s not. In fact, he has more to do with spirits than bodies; but he wants one of the latter—and I said I’d try to get him one—so, if you can help me, do so, like a good fellow. My friend is particular, however; he wants a man one, above six feet, thin and sallow, and with long black hair.” “You don’t suppose I keep a stock of assorted subjects on hand, do you?” said the doctor. “I fear it won’t be easy to get what you want. Do you know what your friend intends to do with it?” “Not I, and I don’t care,” said Ned, pouring out another cup of coffee. “What does a body cost?” “Between two and three pounds,” replied the doctor. “Dear me, so cheap,” said Ned, with a look of surprise; “then that knocks on the head a little plan I had. I thought of offering myself for sale at Guy’s or one of the hospitals, and drinking myself to death with the money, leaving my address, so that they might know where to find me; but it’s not worth while to do it for so little; in fact, I don’t believe I could accomplish it on three pounds’ worth of dissipation.” “Don’t jest about your besetting sin,” said the doctor gravely; “it’s bad enough without that.” “Bad enough,” exclaimed Ned, with a sudden flash of ferocity; “ay, bad enough in all conscience, and the worst of it is, that it makes me ready to jest about anything—in heaven, earth, or hell. Oh, drink! accursed drink!” He started up and clutched the hair of his head with both hands for a moment; but the feeling passed away, and he sat down again and resumed breakfast, while he said in a graver tone than he had yet used— “Excuse me, doctor; I’m subject to these bursts now and then. Well, what say you about the body? My friend offers me twenty pounds, if I get the right kind. That would be seventeen pounds of profit on the transaction. It’s worth an effort. It might put me in the way of making one more stand.” Ned said this sadly, for he had made so many stands in time past, and failed to retain his position, that hope was at dead low-water of a very neap-tide now. “I don’t like the look of the thing,” said the doctor. “There’s too much secrecy about it for me. Why don’t your friend speak out like a man; state what he wants it for, and get it in the regular way?” “It mayn’t be a secret, for all I know,” said Ned Hooper, as he concluded his repast. “I did not take the trouble to ask him; because I didn’t care. You might help me in this, doctor.” “Well, I’ll put you in the way of getting what you want,” said the doctor, after a few moments reflection; “but you must manage it yourself. I’ll not act personally in such an affair; and let me advise you to make sure that you are not getting into a scrape before you take any steps in the matter. Meanwhile, I must wish you good-day. Call here again to-night, at six.” The doctor rose as he spoke, and accompanied Ned to the door. He left a coin of some sort in his palm, when he shook hands. “Thankee,” said Ned. “If you had come to beg, you should not have got it,” said the doctor. “God help him!” he added as he shut the door; “it is an awful sight to see an old companion fall so low.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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