At length that failed, and when he came to Glensford with his boy, he was trusting for their maintenance to such chance jobs as might come to the hand of a forlorn man, broken-down alike in health and fortune. By the sale of some of his books, he had obtained the sum that he had paid in advance to Sally Dent—the only means by which he could be sure that the money would not find its way across the counter of the large and flourishing public-house which stood at the corner of the green.
Gus knew often what it was to miss a meal in these days; often he went supperless to bed, where he slept soundly in spite of hunger, till his father roused him by stumbling into the room about midnight; for the craving for strong drink was taking a stronger and stronger hold upon the unhappy man. He would at any time go without food that Gus might have the last crust in the cupboard; but as long as he could get the money for it, drink he must have. So the few poor possessions contained in the old trunk found their way one after another to the pawnshop, till almost everything of value was gone.
Much as he suffered, Gus never told himself that he had a bad father. It was such a common thing at Lavender Terrace, and other places where he had lived, for fathers, and even mothers, to drink and neglect their children, that Gus accepted the fact quite philosophically. To have a drunken father was to him only such a calamity as to have a lame father or a blind father would have been. It was a thing that could not be helped, and must be endured. But one truth concerning the matter had been grasped by Gus. His father frequently told him that if he never began to drink, he would never want to drink; and Gus was resolved that he would not begin such an undesirable habit.
One day, when they had been in Sally Dent's house for about a month, and things were at a very low ebb with her lodger, Gus was called by his father to accompany him to another part of London, where an election was about to take place, and there was a chance of employment in circulating bills from house to house. Gus came willingly. He liked nothing better than to be with his father, who, even in his worst hours, never struck or ill-used him.
They had a long and weary walk ere they arrived at the place they sought. The committee rooms were easily found. The house was made conspicuous from a distance by the flags and banners which waved about it, as well as by the crowd of ill-clad, wretched-looking men gathered before the door.
"We come too late, I fear," said Gus' father despondently, as they halted on the outskirts of the crowd. Suddenly his eye caught a placard raised high above the heads of the people. Gus saw a quick change pass over his father's face. It grew ashy white, his eyes gleamed fiercely, his hands were clenched. In terror the boy imagined that a paroxysm of pain had seized his father; but it was not so. His eyes were riveted on the name of the candidate.
"Philip Darnell," he murmured; "that man! What does it mean?" Then eagerly, he grasped the arm of a man who stood near him: "Tell me—whose election is this? I do not understand."
"Whose election? Who is the candidate, do you mean? Why, Philip Darnell. Ah, you had not heard? Sir Robert Leicester has retired, and Philip Darnell has just been nominated."
"That man! I'm glad I know. Serve him! I'd sooner die!"
"Would you? Dying's not so easy, let me tell you," returned the other, eyeing him curiously. "I know he ain't extra, this Philip Darnell, if all folks say of him is true; but what of that? What does it matter to us as long as he pays us our money?"