“Jacob can find his own room, father,” replied Mary, “without my showing him; he knows the kitchen, and there is but one other below.”
I took my candle, wished them good night, and went to my bed, which, although very homely, was at all events comfortable.
Chapter Twenty Four.
The warmth of my gratitude proved by a very cold test—The road to fortune may sometimes lead over a bridge of ice—Mine lay under it—Amor Vincet everything but my obstinacy, which young Tom and the old Dominie in the sequel will prove to their cost.
For many days the frost continued, until at last the river was frozen over, and all communication by it was stopped. Stapleton’s money ran short, our fare became very indifferent, and Mary declared that we must all go begging with the market gardeners if it lasted much longer.
“I must go and call upon Mr Turnbull, and ax him to help us,” said Stapleton, one day, pulling his last shilling out and laying it on the table. “I’m cleaned out; but he’s a good gentleman, and will lend me a trifle.” In the afternoon Stapleton returned, and I saw by his looks that he had been successful. “Jacob,” said he, “Mr Turnbull desires that you will breakfast with him to-morrow morning, as he wishes to see you.”
I set off accordingly at daylight the next morning, and was in good time for breakfast. Mr Turnbull was as kind as ever, and began telling me long stories about the ice in the northern regions.
“By-the-by, I hear there is an ox to be roasted whole, Jacob, a little above London Bridge; suppose we go and see the fun.”