“I will, sir.”
“And—hallo! Zook, come here. Not a word about all this in the lodging-house;—stay, now I think of it, don’t go to the lodging-house at all. Go to a casual ward where they’ll make you take a good bath. Be sure you give yourself a good scrub. D’ye hear?”
“Yes, sir.” He walked away murmuring, “More ’am and hegg an’ buttered toast to-night! Zook, you’re in luck to-day—in clover, my boy! in clover!”
Meanwhile, Charlie Brooke found himself in the presence of a bright-eyed little old woman, who bade him welcome with the native grace of one who is a born, though not a social, lady, and beautified by Christianity. Her visitor went at once straight to the point.
“Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Samson,” he said, taking the chair to which the old woman pointed, “but, indeed, I feel assured that you will, when I state that the object of my visit is to ask you to aid in the rescue of a friend from drink.”
“No man intrudes on me who comes on such an errand; but how does it happen, sir, that you think I am able to aid you?”
To this Charlie replied by giving her an account of his meeting and conversation with Zook, and followed that up with a full explanation of his recent efforts and a graphic description of Isaac Leather.
The old woman listened attentively, and, as her visitor proceeded, with increasing interest not unmingled with surprise and amusement.
When he had concluded, Mrs Samson rose, and, opening a door leading to another room, held up her finger to impose silence, and softly bade him look in.
He did so. The room was a very small one, scantily furnished, with a low truckle-bed in one corner, and there, on the bed, lay the object of his quest—Isaac Leather! Charlie had just time to see that the thin pale face was not that of a dead, but of a sleeping, man when the old woman gently pulled him back and re-closed the door.