The Nether World | Page 5

little slight girl, perhaps thirteen years old; she carried a
jug, and at the bar asked for 'a pint of old six.' The barman, whilst
drawing the ale, called out to a man who had entered immediately after
the child:
'Don't know nobody called Snowdon about 'ere, do you, Mr. Squibbs?'
The individual addressed was very dirty, very sleepy, and seemingly at
odds with mankind. He replied contemptuously with a word which, in
phonetic rendering may perhaps be spelt 'Nay-oo.'
But the little girl was looking eagerly from one man to the other; what

had been said appeared to excite keen interest in her. She forgot all
about the beer-jug that was waiting, and, after a brief but obvious
struggle with timidity, said in an uncertain voice:
'Has somebody been asking for that name, sir?'
'Yes, they have,' the barman answered, in surprise. 'Why?'
My name's Snowdon, sir--Jane Snowdon.'
She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to the
impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of
semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery) eyes
upon her. Neither would have admitted an active interest in so pale and
thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal. Her hair hung loose, and had
no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and seemed to have
been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on her run hither, had
tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were of some kind of clothing
beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but it was evidently of the scantiest
description. The freely exposed neck was very thin, but, like the outline
of her face, spoke less of a feeble habit of body than of the present
pinch of sheer hunger. She did not, indeed, look like one of those
children who are born in disease and starvation, and put to nurse upon
the pavement; her limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight,
she had features that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look
had in it the light of an intelligence generally sought for in vain among
the children of the street. The blush and the way in which she hung her
head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample
sensitiveness.
'Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?' said the barman. 'Well, you're
just three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'r'aps it's a fortune
a-runnin' after you. He was a rum old party as inquired. Never mind;
it's all in a life. There's fortunes lost every week by a good deal less
than three minutes when it's 'orses--eh, Mr. Squibbs?'
Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.
The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.
'Hollo!' cried the barman. 'Where's the money, Jane?--if you don't
mind.'
She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the
counter. Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a
house in Clerkenwell Close, near at hand.

'Father live there?'
She shook her head.
'Mother?'
'I haven't got one, sir.'
'Who is it as you live with, then?'
'Mrs. Peckover, sir.'
'Well, as I was sayin', he was a queer old joker as arsted for the name of
Snowdon. Shouldn't wonder if you see him goin' round.'
And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the girl
listened closely. Then she went thoughtfully--a little sadly--on her way.
In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances onwards
and behind, but no old man in an odd hat and cloak and with white hair
was discoverable. Linger she might not. She reached a house of which
the front-door stood open; it looked black and cavernous within; but
she advanced with the step of familiarity, and went downstairs to a
front-kitchen. Through the half-open door came a strong odour and a
hissing sound, plainly due to the frying of sausages. Before Jane could
enter she was greeted sharply in a voice which was young and that of a
female, but had no other quality of graciousness.
'You've taken your time, my lady! All right! just wait till I've 'ad my tea,
that's all! Me an' you'll settle accounts to-night, see if we don't. Mother
told me as she owed you a lickin', and I'll pay it off, with a little on my
own account too. Only wait till I've 'ad my tea, that's all. What are you
standin' there for, like a fool? Bring that beer 'ere, an' let's see 'ow much
you've drank.'
'I haven't put my lips near it, miss; indeed I haven't,' pleaded the child,
whose face of dread proved both natural timidity and the constant
apprehension of ill-usage.
'Little liar! that's what you always was, an' always will be.--