The white curtains had now no sordid secrets to keep—and when the landlord called for the rent Mr. Beale was able to ask him to step in—into a comfortable room with a horsehair sofa and a big, worn easy-chair, a carpet, four old mahogany chairs, and a table with a clean blue-and-red checked cloth on it. There was a bright clock on the mantelpiece, and vases with chrysanthemums in them, and there were red woollen curtains as well as the white lace ones.
"You're as snug as snug in here," said the landlord.
"Not so dusty," said Beale, shining from soap; "'ave a look at my dawgs?"
He succeeded in selling the landlord a pup for ten shillings and came back to Dickie sitting by the pleasant firelight.
"It's all very smart," he said, "but don't you never feel the fidgets in your legs? I've kep' steady, and keep steady I will. But in the spring—when the weather gets a bit open—what d'you say to shutting up the little 'ouse and taking the road for a bit? Gentlemen do it even," he added wistfully. "Walking towers they call 'em."
"I'd like it," said Dickie, "but what about the dogs?"
"Oh! Amelia'd do for them a fair treat, all but Fan and Fly, as 'ud go along of us. I dunno what it is," he said, "makes me 'anker so after the road. I was always like it from a boy. Couldn't get me to school, so they couldn't—allus after birds' nests or rabbits or the like. Not but what I liked it well enough where I was bred. I didn't tell you, did I, we passed close longside our old 'ome that time we slep' among the furze bushes? I don't s'pose my father's alive now. But 'e was a game old chap—shouldn't wonder but what he'd stuck it out."
"Let's go and see him some day," said Dickie.
"I dunno," said Beale; "you see, I was allus a great hanxiety to 'im. And besides, I shouldn't like to find 'im gone. Best not know nothing. That's what I say."
But he sighed as he said it, and he filled his pipe in a thoughtful silence.