Page 229 missing from scan.
many months since he had seen Patty, she had never been long absent from his thoughts even in his busy college life. He had, however, refrained from seeking the Pellet family in the new home to which they had removed on the sudden accession of wealth consequent on his stepfather’s death, until his industry and perseverance had brought forth fruit of which he might be justly proud.
On the day after the receipt of Sir Francis Redgrave’s letter, Harry had taken up his temporary abode in one of the hotels in the neighbourhood of the Strand, and set out at once to find Jared’s new residence at Highgate. He was disappointed, however, in his hope of seeing Patty, and there was something like constraint in the manner in which Mrs Jared informed him of her absence.
He made a second visit early the next day, but with no better success; and on coming away shaped his course towards the scene of so many adventures. First, he had a look at the old Duplex Street house, and then went on, intending to call on the little Frenchman and Janet, who, as the former had resolved, had left the naturalist’s house as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from the effects of his accident.
Finding that he would be within a short distance of Brownjohn Street, he altered his route in a degree so as to stroll through the well-remembered locality, and pay a visit, en passant, to the shop of the naturalist, should he still find it in the occupation of its old tenant.
As Harry Clayton entered the close neighbourhood of Decadia, he could scarcely fancy but that he had left London a week since—the aspect of the district seemed the same.
There was the squalid teeming place as of old, rejoicing in all its minglings of animated nature; the children tumbled still in the gutters; the gin-palaces drove thriving trades; costermongers’ barrows were piled with shellfish; and the slatternly women and hulking soft-handed men, hung about or sat on the doorsteps.
But Brownjohn Street was not quite the same, for there was a brightness about D. Wragg’s house, evidently due to paint; and upon approaching more closely, Harry found that D. Wragg seemed to be fuller of “natur’” than ever.
He was in the shop as Harry entered the doorway, and his face brightened with genuine pleasure as he recognised his visitor, and he commenced jigging and working about at a tremendous rate; but the next minute he had spread the newspaper he was reading upon the counter, and began to smooth it over a few times, and make it perfectly straight.
“You’re just in time, sir,” he said. “Only look here,” and he tapped the paper over and over again. “Isn’t it a game? Five years’ penal. Came out after his twelvemonth for your job, and then got in for it again. I always said he must come to it. ‘Don’t you make no mistake, Jack Screwby,’ I says, ‘you’ll be dropped on hotter yet some day; mark my words if you won’t.’ For, you see, as soon as he was out, he used to come worrying and cheeking me again. ‘It’ll come to you, my lad, see if it won’t.’ And now there it all is down in black and white: ‘Violent assault and ’tempt to murder.’ Lots o’ that sort o’ thing about here, bless you! And I could take you out here of an evening, and point you out half a hundred o’ birds o’ that sort as want the same kind o’ salt put on their tails. But there! Jack Screwby’s gone, and we shan’t see no more of him for five years certain.”