Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
Janet a Listener.
Janet went to her lonely room, sad and sinking of heart, to kneel upon a box by the window, gazing out above the house-tops, as if her wishes were far away in the country from which she had so lately returned.
An hour passed like this, and then from below there came the sound of voices in altercation, followed almost directly after by the noise of a struggle. Then, as she stood trembling, there were the panting, hard breathing, and half-stifled ejaculations of those who seemed to be engaged, and then utter silence.
Janet crept back to her box, for the sound of quarrel and fight was no uncommon one in Brownjohn Street, and again she knelt there thinking—thinking always, with her glittering eyes hot and aching. But now came the sounds again, and, startled and nervous, she ran to her door, which she opened, and then stood out upon the landing, for the voices seemed to come from down-stairs, at the street-door, and one of these she recognised as that of D. Wragg, the other belonging to the heavy young man who had of late taken so much interest in the contents of the dealer’s shop.
“Now, look here, Jack Screwby,” Janet heard D. Wragg exclaim; “don’t you make no mistake; trade’s trade, but I ain’t cut my wisdom-teeth for nothing. So look here; if you come to my shop again, and speak to them gals as you did, and hang about here as you’ve hung, and talk about it like you’ve talked, I’ll—well, there; just you look out and you’ll see.”
“Wot’s he allus a hangin’ about for, then,” growled the other voice; “you wouldn’t talk like this sort to him—no I ain’t! I ain’t drunk—so now then! P’raps I’m as good a man as he’s, and got a bit o’ money to go into the fancy with any time I like; and arter the good turns I’ve done you, if you were anything of a man, you’d say, Come and be pardners. I’ve done you no end of good, D. Wragg; and now, as I wants to be good friends, you’re all wrong with a chap as is p’raps ekalls with them as does in dawgs.”
“You air drunk, that’s what you air!” exclaimed D. Wragg, indignantly, “or else you’d never come talking like that there! Pardner, indeed!” he continued, contemptuously; “there, get out!”
Then once more there came the sound of scuffling, evidently caused by D. Wragg supplementing his order with the efforts of his hands, Mr Screwby opposing with all the resistance he could bring to bear.
Before many moments had passed, it was evident that the owner of the mansion had gained the victory over his semi-intoxicated foe; for the scuffle was followed by two or three oaths, a clattering of heavy boots, and then the banging of the side-door; after which Janet stood ready to retreat, as she heard the “stump—stump” of D. Wragg’s lame foot coming along the passage.
“Pardner, indeed!” muttered D. Wragg, “pardner, indeed! He—he—he—he—he!” he sniggered; and then he seemed to stand holding by the bottom of the balustrade to indulge in a few minutes’ sardonic mirth. “He’s as drunk as an owl—a vagabond! Dursn’t tell tales, though, if I did kick him. Let him tell, though, if he likes; who’s afraid?”
Judging from the tones of his voice, though, an unbiassed listener would have been disposed to say that Mr D. Wragg was also rather far gone towards being inebriated; while, as to the fact of being afraid, if he were not in a state of fear—why did he speak so loudly?
The fact was, that after setting down his friends, D. Wragg had driven off with the rickety four-wheeler, whose problem still remained unsolved, to wit, how it had possibly contrived to hold together for another day. But held together it had, even till its return to the owner’s; and D. Wragg had made his way back to Brownjohn Street to finish the day with what he called a “top-off,” at one of the flaming gin-palace bars, where he had encountered Mr John Screwby, who then roused the dealer’s ire by certain references, one and all of which Mr D. Wragg had classed under the comprehensive term of “cheek!”
“Shall I stop him and speak to him?” thought Janet, as she listened to the heavy step; then, after a few moments’ hesitation, “No,” she said, “but I will keep watch.”
That Janet intended to keep her word was evident from the fact that she hurried back to her room, where the window was still half open, and looking out cautiously to make sure who was the man with whom D. Wragg had been in dispute, there, as she had expected, was Mr John Screwby in one of his favourite attitudes—that of leaning with his back up against a lamp-post, staring heavily at the house, and, drunk or sober, full of exuberant action, which manifested itself in nods and shakes of the head and fist. His anger could be heard, too, in low and ominous growls, similar to those emitted by caged wild beasts when their keeper forces them to display their noble proportions by stirring them up with a long pole.
At last, though, Janet had the satisfaction of seeing the brute slouch away, but not without turning once more to shake his fist at the door, as he said a few words which did not reach the listener’s ear, and then he was gone.
The words were loudly enough spoken, but they were drowned by the rattling wheels of a passing cart; the utterance, though, seemed to give Mr John Screwby the greatest satisfaction, promising to his animal heart the gratification of a grudge; for the words were—
“I’ll have it out o’ some on yer for this!”