"Wouldn't I just!" returned Dick, with a knowing wink. "I'd have the times of it."
Dick's explanation only increased Gus' difficulties. Could that be what his father meant by being a gentleman? Certainly his father had been in the habit of getting drunk, but he had been most careful to pay every penny they owed. Besides, his father had made him promise never to touch strong drink; so, clearly, getting drunk did not belong to being a gentleman. No; his father had said that a gentleman must be brave, and honest, and truthful. Were there two kinds of gentlemen, Gus wondered, or were Dick's ideas on the subject utterly mistaken?
[CHAPTER VII.]
A CHIVALROUS EXPLOIT.
SALLY DENT'S new lodger, like her former one, was a quiet man. She gave him this character, and the neighbours soon agreed that she was not mistaken in so doing. He moved and spoke so quietly that it was never easy to tell whether or not he was in the house, and he had a way of appearing suddenly with his noiseless, cat-like tread which was startling to nervous people.
He was a man who could lean motionless against the railway fence for half an hour, watching all that went on in the lane, without exchanging a word with any one, and who could listen to a fierce quarrel between neighbours without betraying by the least sign which of the contending parties had his sympathy. Yet when addressed, he was neither surly nor morose, nor did he show any reluctance to speak of his past history. He was a locksmith by trade, he said; had been in the employ of an ironmonger, but had been dismissed on account of the bad times, and now lived by any chance jobs he could get.
He was a man past forty years of age, and he brought a son and a daughter with him to Lavender Terrace. The son was a rough, evil-looking lad of sixteen, and the daughter a delicate little girl of twelve. This man, Lucas by name, would sometimes go off of a morning with his tool-bag over his shoulder, and be absent for several hours; but on other days he would hang about the lane, or busy himself in his room, so that his search for employment was not very vigorously prosecuted. But as he continued to pay regularly the rent of his room, Sally Dent did not concern herself about his habits.
Lucy Lucas was a shy, timid child, with an unnaturally grave expression and sad-looking eyes. She was lame from chronic hip disease, and went out little, for she was frightened of the rough boys who frequented the lane. That her fears were not unfounded was proved one evening about a fortnight after her arrival, when, in her brother's absence, she ventured as far as the public-house to fetch the beer for her father's supper.
Unfortunately there were many boys at Glensford with the cruel instinct of the bully who delights to torment and even torture those who are weak and defenceless. The sight of Lucy limping along, and carrying, with considerable danger of spilling its contents, the well-filled beer-jug, was hailed with delight by a group of these boys, who were hanging about in doubt how to spend the evening.
"Hurrah! Here comes the beer; now we'll have a drink!" they cried, and rushed upon poor little Lucy, crying, "Give us a drink, give us a drink!"