Susan looked at her small admirer with surprise, and then burst into a hearty laugh.
“You’re a queer boy, Gillie.”
To an unsophisticated country girl like Susan Quick, the London street-boy must indeed have seemed a remarkable being. He was not indeed an absolute “Arab,” being the son of an honest hardworking mother, but being also the son of a drunken, ill-doing father, he had, in the course of an extensive experience of bringing his paternal parent home from gin-palaces and low theatres, imbibed a good deal of the superficial part of the “waif” character, and, but for the powerful and benign influence of his mother, might have long ago entered the ranks of our criminal population. As it was, he had acquired a knowledge of “the world” of London—its thoughts, feelings, and manners—which rendered him in Susan’s eyes a perfect miracle of intelligence; and she listened to his drolleries and precocious wisdom with open-mouthed admiration. Of course the urchin was quite aware of this, and plumed himself not a little on his powers of attraction.
“Yes,” continued Gillie, without remarking on Susan’s observation that he was a “queer boy,” for he esteemed that a compliment “the Count is the only man among ’em who hasn’t falled in love with nothink or nobody. But tell me, Susan, is your fair buzzum free from the—the tender—you know what?”
“Oh! yes,” laughed the maid, “quite free.”
“Ah!” said Gillie, with a sigh of satisfaction, “then there’s hope for me.”
“Of course there is plenty of hope,” said Susan, laughing still more heartily as she looked at the thing in blue and buttons which thus addressed her.
“But now, tell me, where are they talking of going to-day?”
“To the Jardang,” replied Gillie. “It was putt off to please the young ladies t’other day, and now it’s putt on to please the Professor. It seems to me that the Professor has got well to wind’ard of ’em all—as the Cappen would say; he can twirl the whole bilin’ of ’em round his little finger with his outlandish talk, which I believe is more than half nonsense. Hows’ever, he’s goin’ to take ’em all to the Jardang, to lunch there, an’ make some more obserwations and measurements of the ice. Why he takes so much trouble about sitch a trifle, beats my understandin’. If the ice is six feet, or six hundred feet thick, what then? If it moves, or if it don’t move, wot’s the odds, so long as yer ’appy? If it won’t move, w’y don’t they send for a company of London bobbies and make ’em tell it to ‘move on,’ it couldn’t refuse, you know, for nothin’ can resist that. Hows’ever, they are all goin’ to foller the lead of the Professor again to-day—them that was with ’em last time—not the Count though, for I heard him say (much to the distress apperiently of his darter) that he was goin’ on business to Marteeny, over the Tait Nwar, though what that is I don’t know—a mountain, I suppose. They’re all keen for goin’ over things in this country, an’ some of ’em goes under altogether in the doin’ of it. If I ain’t mistaken, that pleasant fate awaits Lord what’s-’is-name an’ Mr Lumbard, for I heard the Cappen sayin’, just afore I come to see you, that he was goin’ to take his Lordship to the main truck of Mount Blang by way of the signal halliards, in preference to the regular road.”
“Are the young ladies going?” asked Susan.