But it was not so. A week later, the postman entered Storr Alley—an unheard-of event—and left a letter. It contained a money order for ten shillings, and read:—
“The editor encloses ten shillings for the letter on Slum Life, contributed by Mr John to the paper of the 23rd. He can take two more on the same subject at the same terms, and suggests that Mr John should deal specially with—” And here the editor gave an outline of the topics on which the public would be most likely to desire information.
With overflowing heart, and giving Raby the credit, he sat down and wrote the two articles.
His first half-sovereign went in a deed of mercy. Little Annie lay dead in her bed the night it arrived. Jeffreys that morning, before he started to work, had watched the little spark of life flicker for the last time and go out. The mother, worn-out by her constant vigils, lay ill beside her dead child. The father, a drunkard, out of work, deserted the place, and the two other children, the baby, and the sister scarcely more than baby, wailed all day for cold and hunger. What could he do but devote the first-fruits of his pen to these companions in distress? The half-sovereign sufficed for the child’s funeral, with a little over for the sick mother. For the rest, he took the baby to his own garret for a night or two, and tended it there as best he could.
The two fresh letters to the paper in due time brought a sovereign; but at the same time a chilling notification to the effect that the editor did not need further contributions, and would let Mr John know if at any future time he required his services.
It was the abrupt closing of one door of promise. Still Jeffreys, with hope big within him, did not sit and fret.
Literary work might yet be had, and meanwhile bodily labour must be endured.
Towards the beginning of December, any one taking up one of the London penny papers might have observed, had he been given to the study of such matters, three advertisements. Here they are in their proper order:—
“Should this meet the eye of John Jeffreys, late private secretary to a gentleman in Cumberland, he is earnestly requested to communicate with his friend and late employer.”
Readers of the agony column were getting tired of this advertisement. It had appeared once a week for the last six months, and was getting stale by this time.