Tells of Plottings and Trials at Home, with Doings and Dangers Abroad.
In a dingy office, in a back street in one of the darkest quarters of the city, whose name we refrain from mentioning, an elderly man sat down one foggy morning, poked the fire, blew his nose, opened his newspaper, and began to read. This man was a part-owner of the Lively Poll. His name was Black. Black is a good wearing colour, and not a bad name, but it is not so suitable a term when applied to a man’s character and surroundings. We cannot indeed, say positively that Mr Black’s character was as black as his name, but we are safe in asserting that it was very dirty grey in tone. Mr Black was essentially a dirty little man. His hands and face were dirty, so dirty that his only clerk (a dirty little boy) held the firm belief that the famous soap which is said to wash black men white, could not cleanse his master. His office was dirty, so were his garments, and so was his mean little spirit, which occupied itself exclusively in scraping together a paltry little income, by means of little ways known only to its owner. Mr Black had a soul, he admitted that; but he had no regard for it, and paid no attention to it whatever. Into whatever corner of his being it had been thrust, he had so covered it over and buried it under heaps of rubbish that it was quite lost to sight and almost to memory. He had a conscience also, but had managed to sear it to such an extent that although still alive, it had almost ceased to feel.
Turning to the shipping news, Mr Black’s eye was arrested by a message from the sea. He read it, and, as he did so, his hands closed on the newspaper convulsively; his eyes opened, so did his mouth, and his face grew deadly pale—that is to say, it became a light greenish grey.
“Anything wrong, sir?” asked the dirty clerk.
“The Lively Poll,” gasped Mr Black, “is at the bottom of the sea!”
“She’s in a lively position, then,” thought the dirty clerk, who cared no more for the Lively Poll than he did for her part-owner; but he only replied, “O dear!” with a solemn look of hypocritical sympathy.
Mr Black seized his hat, rushed out of his office, and paid a sudden visit to his neighbour, Mr Walter Wilkins, senior. That gentleman was in the act of running his eye over his newspaper. He was a wealthy merchant. Turning on his visitor a bland, kindly countenance, he bade him good-morning.
“I do hope—excuse me, my dear sir,” said Mr Black excitedly, “I do hope you will see your way to grant me the accommodation I ventured to ask for yesterday. My business is in such a state that this disaster to the Lively Poll—”
“The Lively Poll!” exclaimed Mr Wilkins, with a start.
“Oh, I beg pardon,” said Mr Black, with a confused look, for his seared conscience became slightly sensitive at that moment. “I suppose you have not yet seen it (he pointed to the paragraph); but, excuse me, I cannot understand how you came to know that your son was on board—pardon me—”