He had a battle royal, as he expected, with the landlady on the subject of his little patient. At first she would listen to nothing, and threatened to turn both out by force. But Reginald, with an eloquence which only extremities can inspire, reasoned with her, coaxed her, flattered her, bribed her with promises, and finally got far enough on the right side of her to obtain leave for the boy to occupy Durfy’s bed until some other lodger should want it. But she must have a shilling down, or off they must go.
It was a desperate alternative,—to quit his little charge in his distress, or to see him turned out to die in the street. Reginald, however, had little difficulty in making his choice.
“Are you comfortable?” said he to the boy, leaning over him and soothing the coarse pillow.
“Yes, gov’nor—all right—that there ache will be gone soon, and see if I don’t pick up some browns afore evening.”
“Do you think you can get on if I leave you a bit? I think I know where I can earn a little, and I’ll be back before night, never fear.”
“Maybe you’ll find me up and about when you comes,” said the boy; “mayhap the old gal would give me a job sweeping or somethink.”
“You must not think of it,” said Reginald, almost sternly. “Mind, I trust you to be quiet till I come. How I wish I had some food!”
With heavy heart he departed, appealing to the woman, for pity’s sake, not to let harm come to the boy in his absence.
Where should he go? what should he do? Half a crown would make him feel the richest man in Liverpool, and yet how hard, how cruelly hard, it is to find a half-crown when you most want it!
He forgot all his pride, all his sensitiveness, all his own weariness—everything but the sick boy, and left no stone unturned to procure even a copper. He even begged, when nothing else succeeded.