“Then why did she send you here?”
“Please, sir, because the gentleman wot keeps this shop is a friend o’ missis, an’ always gives ’er change w’en she wants it. He stuffs her birds for her too, for nothink, an’ once he stuffed a tom-cat for ’er, w’ich she was uncommon fond of, but he couldn’t make much of a job of it, ’cause it died through a kittle o’ boilin’ water tumblin’ on its back, which took off most of the ’air.”
While the child was speaking Mr Blurt drew a handful of silver from his pocket, and counted out ten shillings.
“There,” he said, putting the money into the child’s hand, “and tell Miss Lillycrop, with my compliments—Mr Enoch Blurt’s compliments—that my brother has been very ill, but is a little—a very little—better; and see, there is a sixpence for yourself.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” exclaimed the child, opening her eyes with such a look of surprised joy that Mr Blurt felt comforted in his difficulties, and resolved to face them like a man, do his duty, and take the consequences.
He was a good deal relieved, however, to find that no one else came into the shop during the remainder of that day. As he sat and watched the never-ceasing stream of people pass the windows, almost without casting a glance at the ornithological specimens that stood rampant there, he required no further evidence that the business had already gone to that figurative state of destruction styled “the dogs.” The only human beings in London who took the smallest notice of him or his premises were the street boys, some of whom occasionally flattened their noses on a pane of glass, and returned looks of, if possible, exaggerated surprise at the owl, while others put their heads inside the door, yelled in derision, and went placidly away. Dogs also favoured him with a passing glance, and one or two, with sporting tendencies, seemed about to point at the game inside, but thought better of it, and went off.
At intervals the patient man called Mrs Murridge to mind the shop, while he went up-stairs. Sometimes he found the invalid dozing, sometimes fretting at the thoughts of the confusion about his letters.
“If they all went astray one could understand it,” he would say, passing his hand wearily over his brow, “because that would show that one cause went on producing one result, but sometimes letters come right, at other times they don’t come at all.”
“But how d’you find out about those that don’t come at all?” asked his brother.
“By writing to know why letters have not been replied to, and getting answers to say that they have been replied to,” said the invalid. “It’s very perplexing, Enoch, and I’ve lost a deal of money by it. I wouldn’t mind so much if I was well, but—”