[CHAPTER V.]
Homeless.
"SHALL I go to Percival to-day or not?" was the question which I asked myself as I looked out—not for first or second time that morning—from the window, dimmed by pattering rain.
The day was one of the worse to be seen, even in London; the sky blotted out by dense smoke; the pavement brown and wet, and the road all mud; the rain pouring down incessantly; and the wind howling dismally in the chimneys. Now and then a foot-passenger hurried past, struggling to prevent his dripping umbrella from being turned inside out by the gale.
Sometimes a cab was driven along the miry road, appearing for a few moments, then disappearing in the misty gloom. I had attempted to hail one which was empty; but the driver took no notice. No cab-stand was near: so if I should sally forth it must be on foot, with a river of mud to ford. I was, however, ashamed of my hesitation: on so dreary a day, my invalid friend would specially welcome a visit; so I took my umbrella and sallied forth.
I knocked at the door of Percival's lodging, which was opened, as usual, by the landlady in her mob cap. She cast uneasy glances at the mud-prints left by my boots on the old oil-cloth in her hall. On the narrow staircase I met the maid of all work carrying down an untasted, and by no means tempting-looking, dinner. Dirty and slip-shod the girl always was; but now she looked sulky also.
"He won't eat nothin'," she said, almost angrily, as she pushed past me. And the odour of the meat which she was taking away, quite accounted for the invalid's want of appetite for his meal.
"Of all dreary, miserable places in the world, a lodging in Fog Street must be the worst," I muttered to myself, as I reached the top of the long narrow staircase.
The sight of the room which I entered by no means altered my opinion. A pane of glass had been smashed in the window; and through the aperture swept the cold wind and the driven rain, the latter making tiny rivulets on the damp carpetless floor.