“Yes, Bill,” she whispered, and drew on a washed-out shawl.
“And no fiddling, you know; put all the gin in.”
“Yes, Bill,” said the woman, hastily taking the shilling, and descending the creaking stairs to procure her lord’s refreshments; tripe stewed, and gin and beer, being special weaknesses of his when in funds.
“Don’t let her forget to bring some inguns, that’s all,” he muttered as he listened to the retreating steps. He then crushed down the fire with the heel of his heavy boot, and, putting his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, his fingers came in contact with two or three scraps of burnt match, which he took out, looked at thoughtfully, and then burned. “She must have been arter the dawg,” he muttered, and walking to one of the lattice-windows, he opened it and framed himself as he leaned out with his arms resting upon the rotten sill, a splinter of which he picked off to chew. Then he gazed steadfastly across the court at the opposite window, which was hung round with birdcages, whose occupants twittered sweetly, while one, a lark, seemed to fill the court with his joyous song.
This reminded Mr Jarker of his own birds, and, stepping back growling, he looked to see if the little cages hung over his nets all contained water, which they did.
“And a blessed good job for her as they do!” he muttered on finding that his wife had performed this duty. Then walking again towards the front he watched the opposite window, where he could see a pale, sallow face eagerly looking at the birds, while from behind came the sharp sound as of the lash of a whip striking the floor, followed by the shrill yelp of a dog.
Mr Jarker stood thoughtfully watching and listening, as if in doubt upon some particular subject; and as he watched he pulled out that ugly clasp-knife of his that he had opened a short time before in the cellar, and now opening and closing it again, his brow lowered—that is, a trifle more than usual. But he seemed to grow easier in his mind, for he shut the knife with a snap, and thrust it into his pocket; and now he appeared to be moved by that spirit which prompts so many people who can hardly keep themselves to have dumb animals about their homes, probably for the reason that the dumb brutes are faithful, and friends are few—who knows?
“I think I shall have a dawg,” said Mr Jarker to himself, as a louder yelp than usual rang across the court; when he shut the window, and went and stood gazing into the fire once more, till he heard the returning step of his wife, when he roused himself:
“Yes,” said Mr Jarker half-aloud; “I’ll have a bull-pup.”