It was a happy day for him when he moved his books and few other belongings from the evil garret where he had lived to modest but cheerful lodgings near Russell Square. He looked for the last time around the room which had been the scene of so many degradations, of so many despairs, of so many torturings of soul. All that was a part of his past life; the greasy wall-paper, the rickety deal furniture, the filth-sodden, ragged carpet, the slimy soot on the window-sill that had crept in from the circumambient chimney-stacks through the ill-fitting window-sash, the narrow, rank bed—all that had been part and parcel of his being. The familiar smell of uncared-for, unclean human lives saturated the house. He shuddered and slammed the door and tore down the stairs. Never again! Never again, so help him God! A short while afterwards he was busy arranging his books in the bright, clean sitting-room of his new lodgings, and a neat maid in white cap, cuffs, and apron brought in afternoon tea, which she disposed in decent fashion on a little table. When she had gone, he stood and looked down upon the dainty array. He realised that henceforward this was his home. He picked up from a plate a little three-cornered watercress sandwich; but instead of eating it, he stared at it, and the tears rolled down his face.
One day, however, towards the end of July, was marked by a black cloud. His day’s work being over he was walking with light step to his lodgings, when he saw in the distance, awaiting him, almost on his doorstep, the sinister forms of Billiter and Vandermeer. His first impulse was to turn and flee; but they had already caught sight of him and were advancing to meet him. He went on.
“Hullo, old friend,” said Billiter, in a beery voice. “So we’ve tracked you down, eh? We called at the old place, and found you had gone and left no address. Thought you would give us the slip, eh?”
He still wore the costume in which he had gone racing with Quixtus; but after constant use it had begun to look shabby. His linen was of the dingiest. His face had grown more bloated. Vandermeer, pinched, foxy, and rusty, thrust his hard felt hat to the back of his head, and, hands on hips, looked threateningly at Huckaby.
“I suppose you know you’ve been playing a low-down game.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” said Huckaby.
“Oh, don’t you,” said Billiter. “Look at you and look at us. Who’s been getting all the fat, and who all the lean? We have something to say to you, old friend, so let’s get indoors and have it out between us.”
He made a move, accompanied by Vandermeer, towards the front door. But Huckaby checked them, stricken with sudden revolt. His past life should not defile the sanctity of his new home. He would not admit them across his threshold.
“No,” said he. “Whatever we’ve got to say to one another can be said here.”
“All right,” said Vandermeer, sulkily. “There’s a quiet pub at the corner.”