"That's young Ikey," said the convict. "I can tell him by his lip. Fetch him inside. I've a message for him to carry." Miss Julia had found red wafers; and, after instructing Michael how to use them—to suck them in earnest, as they had got dry awaiting their mission in life—induced him into Mr. Wix's presence. Micky's instinctive hatred of this man was subdued by the recollection of the douceurs he had received from him. But do what he would, he was only equal to a nod, as greeting. He hardly received so much himself.
The convict eyed him sleepily from the window-seat, his usual anchorage at The Pigeons, and said nothing for some seconds. Then he roused himself to say:—"Well, young shaver, what the office for you?—that's the point! Look you now—are you going home?"
"Quite as like as not. That don't commit me to nothing, neither way. Spit it out, guv'nor!"
Mr. Wix was filling a pipe, and did it to his satisfaction before he answered:—"You've to carry a message. A message to Aunt M'riar. Got that? You know Aunt M'riar."
"Knew Aunt M'riar afore ever you did."
Mr. Wix looked through his first puff of smoke, amused. "About right you are, that time!" said he. Not that this was untrue enough to be worth telling as a falsehood. Polly the barmaid had no niece or nephew that he knew of, in the early days. "But you could carry a message to her, if you didn't. Just you tell her old Goody Prichard's gone off her hooks."
"The widder two pair up at Number Seven? What hooks?"
"She's slipped her wind, handed in her chips."
"Mean she's dead? Carn't you say so, mister?"
"Sharp boy! That's what she is. Dead."