“It’s—it’s very bad,” said Uncle Isaac. “But why not go t’ yer rich relations?”
Butson frowned. “Never mind them,” he said. “I’d rather try an’ tap your small property. What am I to do? I’m at the end of me tether, an’ I’ve tried everything.”
“Ah—Enterprise is what you want,” Uncle Isaac said, being at a loss what else to recommend. “Enterprise. I’ve recommended Enterprise before, with wonderful results—wonderful. An’—an’ ’ow about marryin’? There’s the lan’lady at the Mariner’s Arms. She was alwis very friendly, an’ that’s a life as ought to suit ye.”
“G-r-r-r!” Mr. Butson turned his head with a growl and took to walking again, Uncle Isaac by his side. “She’d want to make a potman of me, an’—an’—well that ain’t much catch, any’ow. If you won’t lend me a bob, stand me a feed o’ some sort. Ain’t ’ad yer tea, ’ave ye?”
Plainly something must be sacrificed to Butson, and it struck Uncle Isaac that the cheapest article would be some of Nan May’s bacon. So he said, “Well, I was thinkin’ o’ poppin’ round to my niece’s to tea. I’m sure she’d make ye very welcome.”
“Awright. Same niece as give us tea over in the Forest that time?”
“Yus. She’s round in ’arbour Lane.”
The lamplighter scuffled past into the thickening dusk, leaving his sparse trail of light-spots along the dock wall. The two men came through streets where little sitting-rooms, lighted as yet by fires alone, cheered Butson with promise of the meal to come; and when at last he stood in Nan May’s shop, now no place of empty boxes, but ranged close with bacon, cheese, candles, sausages, brawn, spiced beef, many eggs and a multitude of sundries, there was some shadow of the old strut and sulky swagger, hanging oddly about the broken-up Butson of these later days.
Uncle Isaac did it with an air, for an air was an inexpensive embellishment that won him consideration. “Good-evenin’, Nan. I’ve took the liberty (which I’m sure you’ll call it a pleasure) to introduce a of friend to tea which we well remember with ’appier circumstances. Mr. Butson is come to see you.”
Duller eyes than Nan May’s would have seen Butson’s fallen condition at a glance, and it afflicted her to know that while fortune had favoured her it had stricken him so sorely. She led them in, offering Butson a cordiality in some sort exaggerated by her anxiety not to seem to see his poor clothes, nor to treat him a whit the worse for his ill-luck. As for Mr. Butson, he found a good fire and a clean hearth, with an armchair beside it, in a better room than he had seen for long. Old Mr. May’s photograph hung over the mantelpiece, and below it was the sole remaining butterfly trophy, a small glass case, set when the old man was young. The ragged books that were Bessy’s solace stood on a sideboard top, and Bessy herself, disturbed in reading, was putting one of them carefully in its place. The kettle sang on the hob. And when Johnny came from work he was astonished to find a tea-party of great animation.