Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Strange Visit and its Results.
Edward Frog, bird-fancier, pugilist, etcetera, (and the etcetera represents an unknown quantity), has changed somewhat like the rest, for a few years have thinned the short-cropped though once curly locks above his knotted forehead, besides sprinkling them with grey. But in other respects he has not fallen off—nay he has rather improved, owing to the peculiar system of diet and discipline and regularity of life to which, during these years, he has been subjected.
When Ned returned from what we may style his outing, he went straight to the old court with something like a feeling of anxiety in his heart, but found the old home deserted and the old door, which still bore deep marks of his knuckle, on the upper panels and his boots on the lower, was padlocked. He inquired for Mrs Frog, but was told she had left the place long ago,—and no one knew where she had gone.
With a heavy heart Ned turned from the door and sauntered away, friendless and homeless. He thought of making further inquiries about his family, but at the corner of the street smelt the old shop that had swallowed up so much of his earnings.
“If I’d on’y put it all in the savin’s bank,” he said bitterly, stopping in front of the gin-palace, “I’d ’ave bin well off to-day.”
An old comrade turned the corner at that moment.
“What! Ned Frog!” he cried, seizing his hand and shaking it with genuine goodwill. “Well, this is good luck. Come along, old boy!”
It was pleasant to the desolate man to be thus recognised. He went along like an ox to the slaughter, though, unlike the ox, he knew well what he was going to.