Spurling blinked at him, and swallowed once or twice, hesitating. Then he said, "It's a pleasant meeting that they'll have, with two of us absent."
Granger was sorting out old letters, dated years back—things which brought memories. He did not pay any attention; perhaps he had not heard.
"It's a pleasant meeting that they'll have, I say, with two of us absent," Spurling repeated.
"What meeting? I don't understand."
"Why, the meeting you promised them on Christmas Eve—the one you were so pressing about."
Granger raised up his head and looked at him. "Don't you be so certain of that," he said; "we may not be absent—we may be caught by Eyelids and brought back."
Spurling cursed him under his breath.
Granger went on sorting out his papers, burning them or putting them aside. Some were from his mother; one was from his father, faded with age; and some were from girls whose very names had passed from his remembrance. Presently he stopped, and turning round again, with a different look in his eyes, handed a page to his companion, saying, "Read that."
Spurling laughed harshly and took it. It was in his own handwriting. "None of your softness," he said. "I've got long past sentiment."
Granger watched him as he scanned its contents, and saw his face grow solemn. It had been written seven years back, before they had left England, when both their sympathies were fresher, before their souls had grown tarnished. It read: "John, I've just seen the unemployed, about four battalions of 'em or from two to three thousand men—unemployed, half-clothed, half-fed, and half-men. God! that such a sight could be in this world, and here in London; our London, wealthy London, the city of luxury and at our own doors. Four battalions of men in real want; not a want such as you and I know when we run short of our damned tobacco, but a want when the belly is sick and empty and has no prospect of being filled—a want of necessities. Four battalions of men in want, and how many children and women does that represent? God's hooligans, God's scamps, and God's wrecks! 'His wrecks,' how can I write such words. How pitiable are their physical conditions, their privation and distress of body! But what of their souls, the starvation of their minds? Why, I doubt if they could subscribe a respectable soul among the whole four battalions.