Grace’s mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had caught her father’s eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, “Pa’s drunk as usual, Mam. Ain’t it sick’ning? Fat lot o’ good me prayin’!”
But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about his heart. It wasn’t because he had saved a man from Justice; he was happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the world from whom he could have asked help.—— Grace might call him a drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be something better as well, or else Peter wouldn’t have talked like that.
So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace. It wasn’t exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion—and that was how he felt.
“Darn our narbor’ood,
Darn our narbor’ood,
Darn the plaice where I’m a-livin’ nar,
Why, the gentry in our street
In the cisterns wash their feet,
In the narbor’ood where I’m a-livin’ nar.”
Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat’s Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more work.