The Town Traveller | Page 5

'Clippings,'" she said to herself with an
involuntary grin. "What a fool he is! And why's he staying in bed this
morning? Got his holiday, I suppose. I'd make better use of it than

that."
She came forth presently in such light and easy costume as befitted a
young lady of much leisure on a hot morning of June. Meaning to pass
an hour or two in quarrelling with Mrs. Bubb she had arrayed herself
thus early with more care than usual, that her colours and perfumes
might throw contempt upon the draggle-tailed landlady, whom, by the
by, she had known since her childhood. On the landing, where she
paused for a moment, she hummed an air, with the foreseen result that
Mr. Gammon called out to her.
"Polly!"
She vouchsafed no answer.
"Miss Sparkes!"
"Well?"
"Will you come with me to see my bow-wows this fine day?"
"No, Mr. Gammon, I certainly will not!"
"Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might say yes."
The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the
laugh that came after would have softened any repartee, with its
undernote of good humour and harmless gaiety. Biting her lips to
preserve the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs. Sunshine
through a landing window illumined the dust floating thickly about the
staircase and heated the familiar blend of lodging-house smells--the
closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the dry rot of
wall-paper, plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of clogged carpets
trodden thin, the ever-rising vapours from a sluttish kitchen. As Moggie
happened to be wiping down the front steps the door stood open,
affording a glimpse of trams and omnibuses, cabs and carts, with
pedestrians bobbing past in endless variety--the life of Kennington
Road--all dust and sweat under a glaring summer sun. To Miss Sparkes
a cheery and inviting spectacle--for the whole day was before her, to
lounge or ramble until the hour which summoned her to the agreeable
business of selling programmes at a fashionable theatre. The
employment was precarious; even with luck in the way of tips it meant
nothing very brilliant; but something had happened lately which made
Polly indifferent to this view of the matter. She had a secret, and
enjoyed it all the more because it enabled her to excite not envy alone,
but dark suspicions in the people who observed her.

Mrs. Bubb, for instance--who so far presumed upon old acquaintance
as to ask blunt questions, and offer homely advice--plainly thought she
was going astray. It amused Polly to encourage this misconception, and
to take offence on every opportunity. As she went down into the
kitchen she fingered a gold watch-chain that hung from her blouse to a
little pocket at her waist. Mrs. Bubb would spy it at once, and in course
of the quarrel about this morning's hot water would be sure to allude to
it.
It turned out one of the finest frays Polly had ever enjoyed, and was
still rich in possibilities when, at something past eleven, the kitchen
door suddenly opened and there entered Mr. Gammon.

CHAPTER II
A MISSING UNCLE

He glanced at Mrs. Bubb, at the disorderly remnants of breakfast on the
long deal table, then at Polly, whose face was crimson with the joy of
combat.
"Don't let me interrupt you, ladies. Blaze away! if I may so express
myself. It does a man good to see such energy on a warm morning."
"I've said all I'm a-goin' to say," exclaimed Mrs. Bubb, as she mopped
her forehead with a greasy apron. "I've warned her, that's all, and I
mean her well, little as she deserves it. Now, you, Moggie, don't stand
gahpin' there git them breakfast things washed up, can't you? It'll be tea
time agin before the beds is made. And what's come to you this
morning?"
She addressed Mr. Gammon, who had seated himself on a corner of the
table, as if to watch and listen. He was a short, thick-set man with dark,
wiry hair roughened into innumerable curls, and similar whiskers
ending in a clean razor-line halfway down the cheek. His eyes were
blue and had a wondering innocence, which seemed partly the result of
facetious affectation, as also was the peculiar curve of his lips, ever
ready for joke or laughter. Yet the broad, mobile countenance had lines
of shrewdness and of strength, plain enough whenever it relapsed into

gravity, and the rude shaping of jaw and chin might have warned
anyone disposed to take advantage of the man's good nature. He wore a
suit of coarse tweed, a brown bowler hat, a blue cotton shirt with white
stock and horseshoe pin, rough brown leggings, tan boots, and in his
hand was a dog-whip. This costume signified that Mr.