They were passing a public-house; Cheeseman caught his friend by the arm and, in spite of resistance, drew him in.
‘Two threes of gin hot,’ was his order. ‘The old drink, Hood, my boy; the drink that has saved me from despair a thousand times. How many times have you and I kept up each other’s pecker over a three of gin! You don’t look well; you’ve wanted old Cheeseman to cheer you up. Things bad? Why, damn it, of course things are bad; when were they anything else with you and me, eh? Your wife, how is she? Remember me to her, will you? She never took to me, but never mind that. And the little girl? How’s the little girl? Alive and well, please God?’
‘Rather more than a little girl now,’ returned Hood. ‘And doing well, I’m glad to say. She’s a governess; has an excellent place in London.’
‘You don’t say so? I never was so glad to hear anything in my life! Ah, but Hood, you’re leaving me behind, old friend; with the little girl doing so well you can’t call yourself a poor devil; you can’t, upon my soul! I ought to have married; yes, I should ha’ married long ago; it ‘ud a’ been the making of me. It’s the sole speculation, I do believe, that I haven’t tried. Ah, but I’ve got something before me now! What say you to a patent fire-escape that any man can carry round his waist? Upon my soul, I’ve got it! I’m going to London about it as soon as I can get my fare; and that I shall have tomorrow, please God.’
‘What brings you to Hebsworth?’
‘I don’t care much to talk about it in a public place,’ replied Cheeseman, with caution which contrasted comically with his loud tone hitherto. ‘Only a little matter, but—Well, we’ll say nothing about it; I may communicate with you some day. And you? Do you live here?’
Hood gave an account of his position. Under the influence of the glass of spirits, and of the real pleasure it gave him to see one of the very few men he had ever called friend, he had cast aside his cares for the moment. They went forth presently from the bar, and, after a few paces, Cheeseman took his friend by the coat collar and drew him aside, as if to impart a matter of consequence.
‘Two threes of gin!’ he said, with a roll of the eye which gave his face a singularly humorous expression. ‘That’s sixpence. A tanner, Hood, was the last coin I possessed. It was to have purchased dinner, a beefsteak pudding, with cabbage and potatoes; but what o’ that? When you and I meet, we drink to old times; there’s no getting out of that.’
Hood laughed, for once in a really natural way. His usual abstemiousness made the gin potent.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘I confess to feeling hungry myself; I’ve only had a sandwich. Come along; we’ll have dinner together.’
‘You mean it, old friend?’ cried the other, with irrepressible delight.
‘Of course I mean it. You don’t think I’ll let you spend your last coin, and send you off dinnerless? Things are bad, but not quite as bad as that. I’m as hungry as a hunter; where is there an eating-house?’
They found one at a little distance.
‘It must be beefsteak pudding, Hood,’ whispered Cheeseman, as they entered. ‘I’ve set my heart on that. Whatever else you like, but a beefsteak pudding to start with.’
The article was procurable, smoking, juicy. Cheeseman made an incision, then laid down his knife and gloated over his plate.
‘Hood,’ he said, with much solemnity, ‘you’ve done me many a kindness, old friend, but this caps all. I’m bound to you for life and death. I should have wandered about these streets a starving man.’
The other laughed still; he had a fit of laughter on him; he had not laughed so since he was young.
‘Stout-and-mild is my drink, Hood,’ remarked Cheeseman, suggestively. ‘It has body, and I need the support.’
They each had a pint, served in the native pewter. When Cheeseman had taken a deep draught he leaned forward across the table.
‘Hood, I don’t forget it; never you believe that I forget it, however appearances may be against me?’
‘Forget what?—give me the mustard, as soon as you can spare it; ha, ha!’
‘That ten-pound note!’
Hood dropped his knife and fork.
‘What on earth’s up? You look just like you did when I clapped you o’ the shoulder. Your nerves are out of order, old friend.’
‘Why, so they are. I know now what you mean; I couldn’t for the life of me think what you were talking about.’
‘Don’t think I forget it,’ pursued the other, after a mouthful.
‘It’s twelve years last Easter since you lent me that ten-pound note, and it’s been on my conscience ever since. But I shall repay it; never you fear but I’ll repay it. Did I mention a fire-escape that any man can wear round his waist? Hush! wait a month or two. Let me make a note of your address whilst I think of it. This pudding’s hot, but it’s a fault on the right side, and time ‘ll mend it. You wouldn’t mind, I daresay, being my agent for Dunfield—for the fire-escape, you know? I’ll communicate with you, don’t fear.’
A hot meal in the middle of the day was a luxury long unknown to Hood. Now and again the thought of what he was doing flashed across him, but mere bodily solace made his conscience dull. As the meal proceeded he even began to justify himself. Was he never to know an hour’s enjoyment? Was his life to be unbroken hardship? What if he had borrowed a few shillings without leave; somehow difficulties would be got over; why, at the very worst, Emily would gladly lend him a pound. He began to talk of Emily, to praise her, to wax warm in the recounting of her goodness, her affection. What man living had so clever and so loving a daughter!
‘It’s what I said, Hood,’ put in Cheeseman, with a shake of the head. ‘You’ve left me behind. You’ve got into smooth water. The old partnership of ill-luck is broken up. Well, well! I ought to have married. It’s been my one mistake in life.’
‘Why, it’s none too late yet,’ cried Hood, merrily.
‘None too late! Powers defend us! What have I got to marry on?’
‘But the fire-escape?’
‘Yes, yes, to be sure; the fire-escape! Well, we’ll see; wait till things are set going. Perhaps you’re right; perhaps it isn’t too late. And, Hood—’
‘Well?’
‘You couldn’t manage one single half-crown piece, could you? To be sure there’s always an archway to be found, when night comes on, but I can’t pretend to like it. I always try to manage a bed at least once a week—no, no, not if there’s the least difficulty. Times are hard, I know. I’d rather say not another word about it.’
‘Nonsense; take the half-crown and have done with it, Why, you’ve cheered me up many a half-crownsworth; I feel better than I did. Don’t I look it? I feel as if I’d some warmth in my body. What say you, Cheeseman? One half-pint more?’
‘Come, come, old friend; that’s speaking feelingly. You shouldn’t try me in that way, you know. I shouldn’t like to suggest a pint, with a scrap of cheese. Eh? No, no; follow your own counsel, boy; half a pint be it.’
But the suggestion was accepted. Then at length it occurred to Hood that time must be wearing away; he spoke of the obligation he was under to finish his business and return to Dunfield as soon as possible. Cheeseman declared himself the last man to stand in the way of business. They left the eating-house and walked together part of the way to the office of Legge Brothers.