On the miserable bed lay a gray-headed old man of gigantic stature, with nothing on him but a ragged shirt and a pair of patched, filthy trousers. At the side of the bed, with a bottle of gin on the rickety table between them, sat two hideous leering, painted monsters, wearing the dress of women. The smell of opium was in the room, as well as the smell of spirits. At Turlington’s appearance, the old man rose on the bed and welcomed him with greedy eyes and outstretched hand.
“Money, master!” he called out hoarsely. “A crown piece in advance, for the sake of old times!”
Turlington turned to the women without answering, purse in hand.
“His clothes are at the pawnbroker’s, of course. How much?”
“Thirty shillings.”
“Bring them here, and be quick about it. You will find it worth your while when you come back.”
The women took the pawnbroker’s tickets from the pockets of the man’s trousers and hurried out.
Turlington closed the door, and seated himself by the bedside. He laid his hand familiarly on the giant’s mighty shoulder, looked him full in the face, and said, in a whisper,
“Thomas Wildfang!”
The man started, and drew his huge hairy hand across his eyes, as if in doubt whether he was waking or sleeping. “It’s better than ten years, master, since you called me by my name. If I am Thomas Wildfang, what are you?”