My Doggie and I Part 10

"Vell, I ain't had it long enough to 'ave made up my mind on the p'int, but you may call me wot you please, granny, s'long as you don't swear.

I'll answer to Robin, or Bobin, or Dobin, or n.o.bin, or Flogin--no, by the way, I won't answer to Flogin. I don't like that. But why call me Robin?"

"Ah!" sighed the old woman, "because I once had a dear little son so named. He died when he was about your age, and your kindly ways are so like his that--"

"Hallo, granny!" interrupted Slidder, standing up with a look of intense surprise, "are you took bad?"

"No. Why?"

"'Cause you said suthin' about _my ways_ that looks suspicious."

"Did I, Robin? I didn't mean to. But as I was saying, I'd like to call you Robin because it reminds me of my little darling who is now in heaven. Ah! Robin was so gentle, and loving, and tender, and true, and kind. He _was_ a good boy!"

A wheezing, which culminated in another feeble sneeze, here silenced the poor old thing.

For some minutes after that Slidder devoted himself to vigorous stirring of the gruel, and to repressed laughter, which latter made him very red in the face, and caused his shoulders to heave convulsively. At last he sought relief in occasional mutterings.

"On'y think!" he said, quoting Mrs Willis's words, in a scarcely audible whisper, "`so gentle, an' lovin', an' tender, an' true, an'

kind'--an' sitch a good boy too--an' _my_ kindly ways is like _his_, are they? Well, well, Mrs W, it's quite clear that a loo-natic asylum must be your native 'ome arter this."

"What are you muttering about, Robin?"

"Nuffin' partikler, granny. On'y suthin' about your futur' prospec's.

The gruel's ready, I think. Will you 'ave it now, or vait till you get it?"

"There--even in your little touches of humour you're so like him!" said the old woman, with a mingled smile and sneeze, as she slowly rose to a sitting posture, making a cone of the bedclothes with her knees, on which she laid her thin hands.

"Come now, old 'ooman," said Slidder seriously, "if you go on jokin'

like that you'll make me larf and spill your gruel--p'raps let it fall bash on the floor. There! Don't let it tumble off your knees, now; I'd adwise you to lower 'em for the time bein'. Here's the spoon; it ain't as bright as I could wish, but you can't expect much of pewter; an' the napkin--that's your sort; an' the bit of bread--which it isn't too much for a 'ealthy happet.i.te. Now then, granny, go in and win!"

"_So_ like," murmured the old woman, as she gazed in Slidder's face.

"And it is so good of you to give up your play and come to look after a helpless old creature like me."

"Yes, it _is_ wery good of me," a.s.sented the boy, with an air of profound gravity; "I was used to sleep under a damp archway or in a wet cask, _now_ I slumbers in a 'ouse by a fire, under a blankit. Vunce on a time I got wittles any'ow--sometimes didn't get 'em at all; _now_ I 'ave 'em riglar, as well as good, an' 'ot. In wot poets call `the days gone by'--an' nights too, let me tell you--I wos kicked an' cuffed by everybody, an' 'unted to death by bobbies. _Now_ I'm--let alone!

'Eavenly condition--let _alone_! sometimes even complimented with such pleasant greetings as `Go it, Ginger!' or `Does your mother know you're out?' Oh yes, granny! I made great sacrifices, I did, w'en I come 'ere to look arter _you_!"

Mrs Willis smiled, sneezed, and began her gruel. Slidder, who looked at her with deep interest, was called away by a knock at the door.

Opening it he beheld a tall footman, with a parcel in his hand.

"Does a Mrs Willis live here?" he asked.

"No," replied Slidder; "a Mrs Willis don't live here, but _the_ Mrs Willis--the on'y one vurth speakin' of--does."

"Ah!" replied the man, with a smile--for he was an amiable footman--"and I suppose you are young Slidder?"

"I am _Mister_ Slidder, sir! And I would 'ave you remember," said the urchin, with dignity, "that every Englishman's 'ouse is his castle, and that neither imperence nor flunkies 'as a right to enter."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the man, with affected surprise, "then I'm afraid this castle can't be a strong one, or it ain't well guarded, for `Imperence' got into it somehow when _you_ entered."

"Good, good!" returned the boy, with the air of a connoisseur; "that's worthy of the East End. You should 'ave bin one of us.--Now then, old six-foot! wot's your business?"

"To deliver this parcel."

"'And it over, then."

"But I am also to see Mrs Willis, and ask how she is."

"Walk in, then, an' wipe your feet. We ain't got a door-mat to-day.

It's a-comin', like Christmas; but you may use the boards in the meantime."

The footman turned out to be a pleasant, gossipy man, and soon won the hearts of old Mrs Willis and her young guardian. He had been sent, he said, by a Dr McTougall with a parcel containing wine, tea, sugar, rice, and a few other articles of food, and with a message that the doctor would call and see Mrs Willis that afternoon.

"Deary me, that's very kind," said the old woman; "but I wonder why he sent such things to me, and who told him I was in want of 'em?"

"It was a young gentleman who rescued most of the doctor's family from a fire last night. His name, I believe, is Mellon--"

"Wot! Doctor John Mellon?" exclaimed Slidder, with widening eyes.

"Whether he's John or doctor I cannot tell. All I know is that he's _Mister_ Mellon, and he's bin rather knocked up by--But, bless me, I forgot: I was to say nothing about the--the fire till Dr McTougall had seen you. How stoopid of me; but things _will_ slip out!"

He stopped abruptly, and placed his brown paper parcel on the bed.

"Now, I say, look here, Mister Six-foot or wotever's your name," said Slidder, with intense eagerness. "It's of no use your tyin' up the mouth o' the bag now. The cat's got out an' can't be got in again by no manner o' means. Just make a clean breast of it, an' tell it all out like a man,--there's a good feller! If you don't, I'll tell Dr McTougall that you gave me an' the old lady a full, true, an' partikler account o' the whole affair, from the fust bustin' out o' the flames, an' the calling o' the _ingines_, to the last crash o' the fallin' roof, and the roastin' alive of the 'ousehold cat. I will, as sure as you're a six-foot flunkey!"

Thus adjured and threatened, the gossipy footman made a clean breast of it. He told them how that I had acted like a hero at the fire, and then, after giving, in minute detail, an account of all that the reader already knows, he went on to say that the whole family, except Dr McTougall, was laid up with colds; that the governess was in a high fever; that the maid-servants, having been rescued on the shoulders of firemen from the attics, were completely broken down in their nerves; and that I had received an injury to my right leg, which, although I had said nothing about it on the night of the fire, had become so much worse in the morning that I could scarcely walk across the room. In these circ.u.mstances, he added, Dr McTougall had agreed to visit my poor people for me until I should recover.

"You see," continued the footman, "I only heard a little of their conversation. Dr McTougall was saying when I come into the room: `Well, Mr Mellon,' he said, `you must of necessity remain where you are, and you could not, let me tell you, be in better quarters. I will look after your patients till you are able to go about again--which won't be long, I hope--and I'll make a particular note of your old woman, and send her some wine and things immediately.' I suppose he meant you, ma'am," added the footman, "but having to leave the room again owing to some of the children howling for jam and pudding, I heard no more."

Having thus delivered himself of his tale and parcel, the tall footman took his leave with many expressions of good-will.

"Now, granny," remarked young Slidder, as he untied the parcel, and spread its contents on the small deal table, "I've got a wague suspicion that the 'ouse w'ich 'as gone to hashes is the wery 'ouse in w'ich Dr Mellon put his little dog last night. 'Cause why? Ain't it the same identical street, an' the same side o' the street, and about the same part o' the street? An' didn't both him and me forgit to ask the name o' the people o' the 'ouse, or to look at the number--so took up was we with partin' from Punch? Wot more nat'ral than for him to go round on 'is way back to look at the 'ouse--supposin' he was too late to call?

Then, didn't that six-footer say a terrier dog _was_ reskooed from the lower premises? To be sure there's many a terrier dog in London, but then didn't he likewise say that the gov'ness o' the family is a pretty gal? Wot more likely than that she's _my_ young lady? All that, you see, granny, is what the magistrates would call presumptuous evidence.

But I'll go and inquire for myself this wery evenin' w'en you're all settled an comf'rable, an' w'en I've got Mrs Jones to look arter you."

That evening, accordingly, when Robin Slidder--as I shall now call him-- was away making his inquiries, Dr McTougall called on Mrs Willis. She was very weak and low at the time. The memory of her lost Edie had been heavy upon her, and she felt strangely disinclined to talk. The kindly doctor did not disturb her more than was sufficient to fully investigate her case.

When about to depart he took Mrs Jones into the pa.s.sage.

"Now, my good woman," he said, "I hope you will see the instructions you heard me give to Mrs Willis carried out. She is very low, but with good food and careful nursing may do well. Can you give her much of your time?"

"La, sir! yes. I'm a lone woman, sir, with nothin' to do but take care of myself; an' I'm that fond of Mrs Willis--she's like my own mother."

"Very good. And what of this boy who has come to live with her? D'you think he is steady--to be depended on?"

"Indeed I do, sir!" replied Mrs Jones, with much earnestness. "Though he did come from nowheres in partiklar, an' don't b'long to n.o.body, he's a good boy, is little Slidder, and a better nurse you'll not find in all the hospitals."

"I wish I had found him at home. Will you give him this card, and tell him to call on me to-morrow morning between eight and nine? Let him ask particularly for me--Dr McTougall. I'm not in my own house, but in a friend's at present; I was burnt out of my house last night."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Mrs Jones with a shocked expression.