“Don’t let it occur again,” said the sub-editor.
The Babe stood first on one leg and then on the other, but nothing seemed to come of it. “Well,” said the Babe, “I just looked in, that’s all. Nothing I can do for you?”
“Nothing,” thanked him the sub-editor.
“Good morning,” said the Babe.
“Good morning,” said the sub-editor.
The childlike face of the Babe wore a chastened expression as it slowly descended the stairs. Most of the members of the Autolycus Club looked in about once a day to see if they could do anything for Tommy. Some of them had luck. Only the day before, Porson—a heavy, most uninteresting man—had been sent down all the way to Plaistow to inquire after the wounded hand of a machine-boy. Young Alexander, whose poetry some people could not even understand, had been commissioned to search London for a second-hand edition of Maitland’s Architecture. Since a fortnight nearly now, when he had been sent out to drive away an organ that would not go, Johnny had been given nothing.
Johnny turned the corner into Fleet Street feeling bitter with his lot. A boy carrying a parcel stumbled against him.
“Beg yer pardon—” the small boy looked up into Johnny’s face, “miss,” added the small boy, dodging the blow and disappearing into the crowd.
The Babe, by reason of his childlike face, was accustomed to insults of this character, but to-day it especially irritated him. Why at twenty-two could he not grow even a moustache? Why was he only five feet five and a half? Why had Fate cursed him with a pink-and-white complexion, so that the members of his own club had nicknamed him “the Babe,” while street-boys as they passed pleaded with him for a kiss? Why was his very voice, a flute-like alto, more suitable—Suddenly an idea sprang to life within his brain. The idea grew. Passing a barber’s shop, Johnny went in.
“’Air cut, sir?” remarked the barber, fitting a sheet round Johnny’s neck.