With returning health there came to Tom no returning resolutions or efforts. The friends who had deserted his sick-bed were ready, as soon as ever he rose from it, with their temptations and baneful influence. One of his first visits after his recovery was to my master with a pair of boots. He looked so pale and feeble that the pawnbroker inquired after his health—a most unusual departure from business on the part of that merchant.
“Hope you’re feeling better,” he said.
“Yes; so much the better for you,” replied Tom with a ghastly smile. “What can you give me for these, they are nearly new?”
“Five shillings?”
“Oh, anything you like; I’ve to pay two pounds to-morrow. What you give me is all I shall have to do it with—I don’t care!”
The pawnbroker counted out the five shillings, and handed them across the counter.
“Good-bye!” said Tom, with another attempt at a smile; “I shall have to change my address to-morrow.”
And with that he turned on his heel. I watched him through the window as he left the shop. He walked straight across the road and went in at the public-house opposite.
And that glimpse was the last sight I had of Tom Drift for many, many months.