Matthew Space, compositor, waited until the owner of the office came down, when, friendless as he was, Septimus Hardon was glad to turn even to this rough old waif of the streets in his helplessness.
“Why, I wouldn’t do that, sir,” said the old man, after listening for some time in silence; “you may want it to-morrow.”
“But I want money to-day,” cried Septimus fiercely. “Will you give me money? will the world outside? will anybody here in this city of wealth trust me the money to bury my child? Would you have me go to the parish?” He stopped, and the animation that had flashed into his face began to fade again, to leave it dull and despairing.
“Why, as to the first, sir,” said the old man, “I would, upon my soul, if I had it,—I would indeed; but as to the people outside—” and he began to shake his head grimly. “Poor men have no friends, sir—as a rule, you know—as a rule.”
“None!” said Septimus bitterly; “none!”
“But it would be a pity,” said the old man; “such a new, well-cut letter too; and you’ll get next to nothing for it. Gave ’most half-a-crown a pound for it, I dessay?”
Septimus nodded.
“Thought so, sir, and—well, if you must, sir, I’ll help you all the same, and gladly—only too gladly; but I don’t like to see it pawned or sold. You helped me, sir, when it was harder with me than ever it was in my life before, sir; and damme, sir, I’ll sell my shirt, sir, to help you, if it will do any good. In the morning, then, sir, I’ll be here with a barrow.”
“A barrow?” said Septimus.
“Yes; you know, type’s heavy stuff.”