Vain Fortune | Page 8

rate his money would
not hold out till the end of the month. He must reduce his expenditure;
but how? Impossible to find a room where he could live more cheaply
than in the one he had got, and it is not easy to dine in London on less
than ninepence. Only the poor can live cheaply. He pressed his hands to
his face. His head seemed like splitting, and his monetary difficulty,
united with his literary difficulties, produced a momentary insanity.
Work that morning was impossible, so he went out to study the
eating-houses of the neighbourhood. He must find one where he could
dine for sixpence. Or he might buy a pound of cooked beef and take it
home with him in a paper bag; but that would seem an almost
intolerable imprisonment in his little room. He could go to a
public-house and dine off a sausage and potato. But at that moment his
attention was caught by black letters on a dun, yellowish ground:
'Lockhart's Cocoa Rooms.' Not having breakfasted, he decided to have
a cup of cocoa and a roll.
It was a large, barn-like place, the walls covered with a coat of
grey-blue paint. Under the window there was a zinc counter, with zinc
urns always steaming, emiting odours of tea, coffee, and cocoa. The
seats were like those which give a garden-like appearance to the tops of
some omnibuses. Each was made to hold two persons, and the table

between them was large enough for four plates and four pairs of hands.
A few hollow-chested men, the pale vagrants of civilisation, drowsed in
the corners. They had been hunted through the night by the policeman,
and had come in for something hot. Hubert noted the worn frock-coats,
and the miserable arms coming out of shirtless sleeves. One looked up
inquiringly, and Hubert thought how slight had become the line that
divided him from the outcast. A serving-maid collected the plates,
knives and forks, when the customers left, and carried them back to the
great zinc counter.
Impressed by his appearance, she brought him what he had ordered and
took the money for it, although the custom of the place was for the
customer to pay for food at the counter and carry it himself to the table
at which he chose to eat. Hubert learnt that there was no set dinner, but
there was a beef-steak pudding at one, price fourpence, a penny
potatoes, a penny bread. So by dining at Lockhart's he would be able to
cut down his daily expense by at least twopence; that would extend the
time to finish his play by nearly a week. And if his appetite were not
keen, he could assuage it with a penny plum pudding; or he could take
a middle course, making his dinner off a sausage and mashed potatoes.
The room was clean, well lighted, and airy; he could read his paper
there, and forget his troubles in the observation of character. He even
made friends. An old wizen creature, who had been a prize-fighter, told
him of his triumphs. If he hadn't broke his hand on somebody's nose
he'd have been champion light-weight of England. 'And to think that I
have come to this,' he added emphatically. 'Even them boys knock me
about now, and 'alf a century ago I could 'ave cleared the bloomin'
place.' There was a merry little waif from the circus who loved to come
and sit with Hubert. She had been a rider, she said, but had broken her
leg on one occasion, and cut her head all open on another, and had
ended by running away with some one who had deserted her. 'So here I
am,' she remarked, with a burst of laughter, 'talking to you. Did you
never hear of Dolly Dayrell?' Hubert confessed that he had not. 'Why,'
she said, 'I thought every one had.'
About eight o'clock in the evening, the table near the stairs was
generally occupied by flower-girls, dressed in dingy clothes, and

brightly feathered hats. They placed their empty baskets on the floor,
and shouted at their companions--men who sold newspapers, boot-laces,
and cheap toys. About nine the boys came in, the boys who used to
push the old prize-fighter about, and Hubert soon began to perceive
how representative they were of all vices--gambling, theft, idleness,
and cruelty were visible in their faces. They were led by a Jew boy who
sold penny jewellery at the corner of Oxford Street, and they generally
made for the tables at the end of the room, for there, unless custom was
slack indeed, they could defeat the vigilance of the serving-maid and
play at nap at their ease. The tray of penny jewellery was placed at the
corner of a table, and