“Is this the right road to Saltwich?” said Bristow, addressing Peace, whom he evidently did not at first recognise.
“You’ll have to turn round to the right when you reach the finger-post at the end,” returned Peace.
The man started.
“Good luck to you, mate!” he ejaculated. “Why hang it all, if it isn’t Charles Peace.”
“You are right, and pray, in the name of all that’s wonderful, what brings you to this part of the world, John Bristow?” enquired our hero.
“One place is the same as another to me now,” returned his companion. “It matters little where I go or what I do. Everything goes wrong with me—has been going wrong ever since I last saw you. It appears likely to go wrong for the remainder of my life.”
“Why, mercy on me! you are so strangely altered,” said Peace, “that positively I hardly knew you. What has brought you to this? You look twenty years older.”
“Do I?” he exclaimed, with one of the jerks or nods which were habitual to him. “Do I? Well, I suppose I do. Anyway, I feel more than twenty years older. I’ve had a bad time of it—have been in the infirmary—and am next door to starving, that’s how I am.”
“And have you left the old shop?”
“Left it? Lord, love ye, long—long ago! Haven’t had any regular employment for ever so long. They gave me the sack soon after you left Bradford. I get a job when I can, and that’s not very often. I’m on the tramp now to see and find something to do, and haven’t a blessed mag about me.”