At this thought Strange chuckled aloud, and helped himself to another slice of ham.
Tolly’s face brightened as he heard the sound, he turned furtively to watch his earthly Providence, and went on with his dusting with redoubled fury.
“Now,” said Strange, when he had finished, “carry all these things into the next room and have a good feed. When did you happen to have your last meal?”
On the point of truth Strange was inexorable; the fellow dared not lie, but he had a sort of bastard pride about him and felt the question keenly. Turning a sickly puce, he stammered,
“I haven’t had nothing yesterday, sir, summow I didn’t feel like it.”
“No? Well, if I were you I’d cultivate the feeling now. Send in the barber on your way to the bath, and hand down that ink bottle from the shelf before you go. Pah! you can’t even fill an ink bottle, your hand shakes so! Upon my word, if I have to sack you I don’t know what you’ll do, you aren’t worth fourpence a week in this condition.”
Tolly gave a dumb shudder and his fang kept time to it.
Five years before, Strange had picked him up out of a sewer, where he went to learn the trade of ratting. Strange liked to learn the ins and outs of anything that had any suggestion of human interest in it.
He had brought the half-dead, mouldy creature to his rooms, and after saving his life, it struck him to keep it, and see what could be done with it. This was the result.
As long as Strange was at home Tolly kept straight, but directly he was out of reach, the miserable absorbing craving took hold of the wretch, and pinched, and pulled, and nipped, as with raging hot irons, at the very soul of him, till at last he swallowed his humanity at a gulp, gave way to the beast, and fled to the gin-shop.