Peter Quist upset his toothful, and nearly overturned Mrs. Quist also, in his excitement; he sprang up, and backed away into a corner of the room. For some moments he stood there, making curious motions with his hands, as though warding off an attack, and looking at Clara uneasily.
“Say it agin,” he said at last, in a hoarse whisper. “Wot was the name?”
Clara repeated it; and the Captain gradually came out of his corner, and approached her slowly. “Look ’ere, my lass,” he said; “I’ve ’ad a shock over that there name—an’ I’m a bit upset with it. A friend o’ mine sailed under that name—an’ it proved too much for ’im—or summink did. Leastways—’e’s dead. So I don’t want nuffink more to do with no Chaters; I’d sooner ’elp a Smith or Jones than a Chater.”
Gradually, however, the Captain’s uneasiness wore away; he began to take a lively interest in the girl, and in her story; and went out, that very afternoon, to ascertain if it were possible for her to visit the prisoner, and at what hours.
He returned, with the gratifying intelligence that she might go to the prison on the next morning; and poor Clara slept happily enough that night, with that blessed prospect before her. The Captain, too, was in better spirits than he had been for some time past—a letter having reached him through the post, which seemed to promise a definite solution of his difficulties, in regard to finding a circus at last. The only drawback to it seemed to be, that there were no fat ladies attached to it—although, perhaps, in view of Mrs. Quist, this was not altogether a subject for sorrow.
It was with a trembling heart that Clara presented herself next day at the door which the Captain pointed out to her. But everyone with whom she came in contact seemed willing to help her—even anxious to be of service; and she was passed on, from one to the other, until at last she was directed to the room where he was actually waiting.
“You’d better wait a minute, Miss,” said a warder—“there’s someone with him.”
The door opened at the same moment, and a brisk-looking young gentleman came out, thrusting some papers in his pocket as he did so. Seeing a young girl drawn up timidly against the wall, he stopped—hesitated a moment—and then turned towards her.
“You’re young for such a place as this, girl,” he said, sharply but kindly. “Are you going to see Chater?”
“Yes, sir.” She was scarcely able to speak for nervousness.