Accordingly he selected two very shabby and tattered volumes from the “threepenny” tray—one a fragment of Robinson Crusoe, the other Part One of the Pilgrim’s Progress, and with these in his pocket and the eatables in his hands, he returned to his charge as proud as a general who has just relieved a starving garrison.
After the frugal supper the books were triumphantly produced, but Master Love, still mindful of his recent tribulations, regarded them shyly at first, as another possible bait to his own undoing; but presently curiosity, and the sight of a wonderful picture of Giant Despair, overcame his scruples, and he held out his hand eagerly.
It was amusing to watch the critical look on his face as he took a preliminary glance through the pages of the two books. Reginald was half sorry he had not produced them one at a time; but it being too late now to recall either, he awaited with no little excitement the decision of the young connoisseur upon them. Apparently Love found considerable traces of what he would call “jam” in both. The picture of Crusoe coming upon the footprint in the sand, and that of the great battle between Christian and Apollyon, seemed to gather into themselves the final claims of the two rivals, and for a few moments victory trembled in the balance. At last he shut up Robinson Crusoe and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, looking up and laying his finger on the battle scene; “which of them two does for t’other?”
“The one in the armour,” said Reginald.
“Thought so—t’other one’s a flat to fight with that there long flagpole. Soon as ’e’s chucked it away ’e’s a dead ’un. Say, what did they do with ’is dead body? No use a ’idin’ of it. If I was ’im I’d a cut ’is throat, and left the razor in ’is ’and, and they’d a brought it in soosanside. Bless you, coroners’ juries is reg’lar flats at findin’ out them sort of things.”
“Suppose you read what it says,” said Reginald, hardly able to restrain a laugh; “if you like you can read it aloud; I’d like to hear it again myself.”
The boy agreed, and that evening the two queerly assorted friends sat side by side in the dim candle-light, going over the wonderful story of the Pilgrim. Reginald judiciously steered the course through the most thrilling parts of the narrative, carefully avoiding whatever might have seemed to the boy dull or digressive.
Love stopped in his reading frequently to discuss the merits of the story and deliver himself of his opinion as to what he would have done under similar circumstances. He would have made short work with the lions chained by the roadside; he would have taken a bull’s-eye lantern through the dark valley; and as for the river at the end, he couldn’t understand anybody coming to grief there. Why, at Victoria Park last Whit Monday he had swum three-quarters of a mile himself!
In vain Reginald pointed out that Christian had his armour on. The young critic would not allow this as an excuse, and brought up cases of gentlemen of his acquaintance who had swum incredible distances in their clothes and boots.