“Only if—”
“Yes, yes,” whispered Thisbe. “Mind, I depend upon you.”
“If Tom Porter’s a living soul,” he replied, “it’s done. But you do mean it?”
“I mean it,” said Thisbe King. “Now go.”
“One moment, my lass,” he said. “I’ve been very humble, and humble I am; but when this trouble’s over and smooth water comes, will you?”
Thisbe did not answer for a few moments, and then it was in a softened voice.
“Tom Porter,” she said, “there’s one upstairs half dead with misery, and her darling child suffering more than words can tell. My poor heart’s full of them; don’t ask me now.”
Tom Porter gave his lips a smart slap and hurried down the street, while Thisbe closed the window and went back to her chair, to rock herself to and fro again, with her hands busily rolling and unrolling her apron.
“I’ve done it,” she said; “but it all rests on him. It’s his own doing.”
Then, after a pause: