A summer night, and the heat the heat of the dog-days. The tramcars had stopped running long ago; the streets were quite deserted.
Not long since, the clock set high in the tower of St. Giles’ had chimed three-quarters; and now it chimed the hour, and wearily struck “Two.” Then other clocks also awoke to their duties, and, not possessing chimes, repeated the latter information in various keys, from far and near. It was all very sombre; and the smell of the streets very unlovely.
It was Bill’s turn to be up that night; at least, they said it was his turn. As a matter of fact, he had been up three nights running, and at least ten in the last eighteen, for this was no ordinary case, and the credit of the firm was at stake. Not that he held the dignity of being a member, much less a partner, of the firm; but he had worked for it, he would often tell, and with no little pride in his voice—“worked for it thirty-two years, come Lammas; and that wus a very long while.”
To Bill, and the few remaining, or still discoverable, like him, the firm’s credit was his; and the firm should never find its confidence misplaced so long as Bill Withers could walk on his two feet, or aid some suffering creature. Those were his sentiments. Then, of course, this Bill had a soft place in his heart for animals generally, though the softest place of all was unreservedly retained for dogs.
“They wus human; well, a sight better than human, as any one might see humans at times”;—that was the way he put it. “And there warn’t a mossel o’ doubt about it, no matter what nobody said.”
At that, his mates in the yard thought well to let the matter drop.
“That there Bill has his queer hideas abaht most things; better leave him to hisself,” they remarked, with a twist of the mouth, and passed on.
Bill had a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, especially when up at night. He found company in the habit, and was employing his time in this way now.
“Two o’clock. Another half-hour and he’ll have to have the soup, and then a little stim’lant. That wus the orders. Let’s see. To-morrow’s Toosday. That’ll make it three weeks since the master brought un back with him in his motor, all wrapped in blankets. ’Twas that ogg-sigen as saved him at the moment. But here—he’s been fed every two hours, night and day since, any way. Well, well....”
There was a step on the cobbles of the yard. Bill looked round. “Mr. Charles”—as he called him—the head of the firm, was coming.