“Yes, Cabbage Street, in Hackney. I forget the number. I say, Fred, suppose we take a stroll this evening and try to find him out. It’ll do you good, a walk.”
I gladly consented. We gave Mrs Nash due notice that we should not be home to supper, and might possibly be out after ten, and then sallied forth. Hackney was a good four miles from Beadle Square, and by the time we had discovered Cabbage Street it was almost time to be returning. But having come so far we were resolved we would at least make an effort to find out our old schoolfellow. But the fates were against us. Cabbage Street was a new street of small houses, about a third of a mile long. Even if we had known the number it would have taken some time to discover the house; but without that information it was simply impossible. We did try. Jack took the left of the street and began knocking at the odd numbers, starting from 229; while I attacked the even numbers on the right side. But as far as we went no one knew of a Flanagan, and we had to give it up.
It was half-past nine when we finally abandoned the search and turned our faces Citywards once more.
“Horrid sell,” said Jack. “We shall have to find out where his brother’s office is from the Directory, and get at him that way.”
We walked back hard. Mrs Nash’s temper was never to be relied on, and it was ten to one she might lock us out for the night.
Luckily Jack was up to all the short cuts, and he piloted me through more than one queer-looking slum on the way.
At last we were getting near our journey’s end, and the prospect of a “lock-out” from our lodgings was looming unpleasantly near, when Jack took me by the arm and turned up a dark narrow passage.
“I’m nearly certain it’s got a way out at the other end,” he said, “and if so it will take us right close to the square.”
I followed him, trusting he was right, and inwardly marvelling at his knowledge of the ins and outs of the great city.
But what a fearful “skeery”-looking hole that passage was!