CHAPTER II.
THE DUSTMAN’S FAMILY.
Nearly three years have passed since the night of the fire at Trinity Hall. It is a cold wintry afternoon, not a clear frost, but raw and foggy. The ice is forming rapidly, and the costermongers are reaping a rich harvest. All the ponds near London are centres of noisy groups of men with carts, of all sizes and sorts, from the large two-horse vehicle down to mere boxes upon wheels drawn by diminutive donkeys. The drivers are striving and quarrelling, and exchanging volleys of abusive language with each other, in their anxiety for priority of place and right of filling their carts. Those next to the water are engaged in breaking the ice with poles, or with iron weights attached to cords. With these they draw the ice to the shore, pulling it up with rakes, and shovelling and lifting it into the carts. When they are filled they drive off to dispose of their loads to confectioners and fishmongers.
Although it is nearly dusk there are still a good many strollers by the banks of the Serpentine looking at the state of the ice, and calculating on the chances of skating. On the other side of the bridge, on the long water, the ice is already strong, and will probably bear after another night’s frost; but the Serpentine itself, from its greater breadth and depth, is still thin in many places, and will require two or three days more frost before it will be safe. The ice is everywhere smooth and black, and it is agreed that if the frost holds there will be capital skating.
Frank Maynard is walking along the side of the Serpentine with his friend Prescott. He has been for two years upon the Continent, and this is his first winter in England since he left college.
“It will be splendid ice for skating if the frost holds, Prescott. I must certainly invest in a pair of new skates. I have some somewhere, but where I have not the remotest idea. You must put by your books, and keep me company, at any rate for a day or two.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Frank. I don’t like breaking in upon my regular work; and, indeed, I don’t care very much for skating. It must be very pleasant for a really good skater, who can wheel about like a bird, and perform all those intricate figures; otherwise, especially the first day or two of the season, it is very fatiguing and straining. If I could put by my books for a month, I would devote myself to it with all my heart, but for one or two days the pleasure does not pay for the pain. Look, Frank! there is something the matter.”
A knot of people were standing together at the edge of the water, apparently watching some small black object upon the ice, but it was already too dusk for the friends, until they came quite close, to see what was the matter. A small dog had run out upon the ice, which was in most places quite strong enough to bear it, but there were many patches, over the powerful springs which well-up in parts of the Serpentine, where the ice had as yet formed a mere skin. On one of these treacherous places the little animal had run, and had at once gone through. All round it the ice was extremely thin, and, as the dog endeavoured to scramble out, it broke under its fore-paws, until a good-sized space of water was cleared, round which the poor little animal kept swimming. Had it continued its efforts only in the line towards the shore, the dog would speedily have broken its way to stronger ice. This, however, it had not sense to do, although the men called and whistled to it, and endeavoured in every way to encourage it to swim towards them. But the poor thing continued swimming round and round in its narrow circle, making occasional efforts to get out, but only falling back again, and giving from time to time a pitiful whimper. Its mistress, a little girl of about ten years old, was crying bitterly.
“This is very painful, Prescott,” Frank Maynard said, after looking on for some time in silence; “the poor little brute’s cries go through me.”
“Come away, Frank,” Prescott said, turning to go. “I don’t know that I ever saw anything more pitiful. Let us get away; it is impossible to do anything for him.”
Frank did not move, but stood looking on irresolutely. At last he said—