But the intellect of a boy cannot feed on dreams, and Arthur Golding, though he continued extremely quiet and retiring in his habits, soon began to fill an appreciable place in the family groups to which he had been introduced. As he had to get up each day at half-past six, and very seldom got to bed before eleven o’clock, he did not see very much of the Rumballs, except at meals, and yet he continued to excite that kindly feeling in the members of the household which had first of all been aroused by his sad condition and interesting looks.
Ned Quirk regarded him indeed with almost paternal feelings, never failing to choose a stray moment of leisure to impart to him excellent advice, and from the first day holding himself responsible for the maintenance of his protégé in the item of wearing apparel. As Ned possessed, to use his own words, “neither chick nor child,” this burden fell light upon him. He took a species of pride in seeing Arthur well dressed on Sunday, and indeed the boy looked remarkably well on such occasions, his handsome features and beautiful hair imparting a certain elegance to his appearance in spite of the humble character of his garments. Ned Quirk never made any remarks about him, at all events not in Arthur’s hearing, but none the less it was plain that he watched his growth with great interest. Who could tell but the boy might one day attain to the dignity of a donkey-cart of his own, and cry out greens in a manner which even Ned might approve of?
Sunday indeed was a blissful day to Arthur, bringing him rest from toil and freedom to indulge in those curious day-dreams which he preferred much to other society, but which were very little compatible, at least in Mrs. Clinkscales’ eyes, with the formation of sound business habits. On Sunday afternoon, when the children were playing in the street, and Mrs. Rumball had sat down for a nap, and Mike and Ned were dozing over their Sunday papers by the fire, Arthur took a delight in sitting alone in the darkened shop, watching by the light which streamed through the round holes in the shutters the movements of the birds in their cages, and the rabbits in their hutches.
There was a strange fascination for him in the voices and all the habits of these poor prisoners. At times he would whistle airs in a very low tone, enticing the birds to break out into song. There were one or two old parrots, which remained in the shop some time, with which he stood on extremely intimate terms; they allowed him to scratch their heads, to put his finger in their beak unhurt, to stroke their feathers, and would learn a variety of peculiar sounds from his lips. And when one of them particularly pleased him by its cleverness he would laugh underneath his breath, for fear of attracting the attention of others, who would have spoilt his pleasure.
But before long he had a human friend in whose company he grew to take even greater delight than in that of the birds. This was Lizzie Clinkscales. Lizzie was strictly forbidden by her mother to enter the shop except with very good reason, and consequently it was nearly a month before Arthur had obtained more than a passing glimpse of the little girl, who once or twice walked out through the shop in all the dignity of her blue frock and velvet hat with a partridge’s feather in it, to make some purchases for her mother, though it was her regular habit to adopt the more retired exit by the house-door in the alley just on the right hand of the shop. Lizzie grew by degrees accustomed to the sight of Arthur, and even appeared to take an interest in him. Every day she went to school somewhere in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, and before long Arthur got into the habit of watching for her as she came back at twelve. Lizzie was a very pretty little girl, and the sight of her pleased Arthur; once or twice he said to himself that she looked like Helen Norman, though in reality she was very different. As he stood in the doorway of the shop he could see her coming ever so far at the end of the street, for her blue dress made her conspicuous. Often she would be holding her slate up in one hand, making out a sum as she walked; or else she would have her slate and her bag slung over one arm and be reading a lesson-book; for Lizzie was preeminently industrious and made excellent use of the opportunities her hard-working mother gave her. If Arthur happened to be away on an errand at such times he would fret and feel annoyed, often running back at a breakneck speed to be in time for the child’s return.
One evening Mrs. Clinkscales had gone out and had left Arthur in sole charge of the business. The boy was sitting in the back of the shop, as far away from the noise and lights of the street as possible, indulging in one of his favourite reveries, when he was aroused by a light step behind him, and, jumping to his feet for fear of being caught thus by his mistress, found that it was Lizzie who had stolen upon him. She had her slate in her hand and came up holding it out to Arthur, who stood in abashed wonder.
“Can you do Rule of Three?” she asked, speaking in a frank, pretty voice, not unmingled, however, with something which expressed her sense of the condescension she was showing in addressing the boy in the shop.
Arthur looked at her in astonishment. He could not understand her, and, even had he done so, his natural shyness would have rendered him incapable of replying.
“Rule of Three, you know,” said Lizzie, drawing herself up slightly. “Those sums with the three terms.”
Arthur shook his head, but still did not speak.
“You can’t? What a pity! I wanted to ask you to show me how to work out this horrid sum. Do just read it over and see.”
The boy took the book passively as it was offered to him. Something like tears were rising to his eyes.
“You can read, can’t you?” said Lizzie, in a slightly offended tone.
“No, miss, I can’t,” stammered poor Arthur, terribly ashamed of himself.
“Can’t read!” echoed Lizzie, in astonishment. “How dreadful! But don’t you mean to learn?”
“I’ve no chance, miss,” replied Arthur, humbly, with his head cast down.
“Would you like to?” asked the child, in a tone of pitying interest.
“Yes, indeed I should,” he replied.
“Well, I tell you what I’ll do,” said Lizzie. “You’re a nice quiet boy, and not so ugly as those we had before, and I don’t seem to hate you like I did them. So I’ll ask ma if she’ll let me teach you to read. Now, shall I?” cried the child, her face glowing with pleasure.
Arthur had to stammer some answer, but could not succeed in uttering any words. Just at that moment a customer came into the shop, and Lizzie darted away into the house.
Arthur was left in a state of bewildered delight, not, however, unmixed with fear, at the prospect of what Lizzie was about to undertake for him. Nor was his apprehension groundless. In about half an hour Mrs. Clinkscales returned and entered the house to change her somewhat noticeable walking apparel for those more serviceable garments in which she was wont to wait in the shop. Arthur waited for her reappearance with trembling; he felt sure that Lizzie would lose no time in putting her request. When Mrs. Hannah again appeared in the shop it was with a ruffled brow and flushed cheeks. Her temper was evidently upset, and, when such was the case, the good lady had the art of making herself very disagreeable indeed. All the rest of the evening she seemed to be doing her best to render Arthur uncomfortable. She set him work to do which was beyond his strength, and abused him in no measured terms because he did not do it; she raked up by-gone subjects of complaint, and then rated him for them as if they had only just occurred; once indeed she did what she had never done before, gave him a sound box on the ears, wholly without cause. Arthur bore all, in his usual manner, uncomplainingly. Child as he was he had no difficulty in judging it all to be the result of Lizzie’s ill-advised suggestion; and since he knew that Lizzie would be grieved at losing her request, he felt it to be his own duty to bear the mother’s wrath submissively. That was his due share.
Arthur had already several times given indications of what in a child of higher birth we might, perhaps, be allowed to call chivalrous feeling; as it is, I suppose we must content ourselves with allowing the poor lad a negative commendation, and say that he was in some degree distinguished from other boys of his position by a certain want of brutality, an absence of vulgar selfishness. Already he displayed a consideration towards the female sex which the vast majority of youngsters brought up in his circumstances have no suspicion of. He liked the society of females, and with them was far more open and unreserved than with men or boys. To Mrs. Rumball he had always behaved with unfailing respect, occasionally with even a timid display of affection; which indeed that good woman was scarcely capable of nicely comprehending, but which nevertheless she felt, and rewarded by affection in return. Even to Mrs. Clinkscales, who certainly possessed very few of the distinctive qualities of the gentler sex, Arthur displayed his innate chivalry — for such indeed it was. But to Lizzie, who was not quite two years older than himself, and whom he had such few chances of observing, he had already erected in his young heart a temple for far-off worship — worship as pure as that of the vestals who guarded the undying flame. We have read of poets who declared themselves to be in love at precarious ages, and it was the kind of love to which they refer, a virgin adoration uninfused with the least breath of passion, that Arthur cherished towards Lizzie. Possibly, he too, was going to grow up a poet; who could tell?
On the following morning he was on the watch to see her starting for school, and when he saw her blue frock appear from the alley and pass into the streets his heart throbbed. She did not look round, but went on in her usual way, reading her book. Arthur experienced an overpowering feeling of gratitude as he gazed after her, gratitude to her for having wished to benefit him. Then a sudden thought flashed into his head. What was to prevent him beginning to learn to read by himself, relying upon the assistance from time to time of Mrs. Rumball or Ned Quirk? He thought he still remembered his letters, at all events he could get them from the first piece of newspaper that came into his hands. And if indeed he did learn to read, what a triumph it would be to steal a moment some day, in defiance of Mrs. Clinkscales’ surveillance, and whisper into Lizzie’s ear the glorious fact of his acquisition! His breast throbbed with something of heroic fire as these thoughts welled in his mind. Taking up an old piece of a paper that lay underneath his feet, he sought eagerly to renew his acquaintance with the letters printed in the largest type. Alas! it was now nearly half a year since he had abruptly quitted the tuition of Mr. Whiffle, he had all but totally forgotten the alphabet. “Never mind,” he said to himself, “I will get Mrs. Rumball to teach me.” And he set to work at his task of chopping up old wood.
The same evening Mrs. Clinkscales was again out, but only for a very short time. It sufficed however for the execution of a purpose which a sharp little brain hidden beneath a mass of rich curls had contrived during the day. Scarcely was Arthur left alone when once more the blue frock stole like a gleam 6f light into the shop. The child held out a little old, much-worn book in her hand.
“Ma’s a cross old thing!” she exclaimed, laughing, and speaking with that mixture of pride and sweetness which was characteristic of her in a peculiar degree. “You mustn’t mind her, you know. She said she wouldn’t let me teach you for the world; and perhaps she’s right, for she’s very particular about the acquaintances I make. But I’ve brought you an old spelling book of mine. The letters are all very large there. You must try and get someone to help you, you know; for it’s very disgraceful not to be able to read, I’m sure. Don’t let me see it for the world; put it underneath your coat somewhere. Now do your best, won’t you?”
Though doubtless all unconscious of the importance of her acts, Lizzie was in reality exercising a vast influence on Arthur Golding, determining perhaps the whole current of his future life. Who can tell what importance is to be attributed to each apparently insignificant event which directs our course in childhood? When Arthur took the little old spelling-book from the child’s hand and hid it hastily under his coat, giving in return a stammered word of thanks and a look which spoke an eloquence of gratitude, he received an impulse the result of which would not cease till his dying day. The following day happened to be Sunday, and Arthur took the earliest opportunity to draw Mrs. Rumball aside, and tell her of his earnest desire to learn to read. Mrs. Rumball was somewhat surprised. As a matter of course, she and her husband had had their own children taught the recondite art, though she certainly could not have satisfactorily informed you why they had gone to the expense; but that any child should of itself conceive a wish to be able to read, nay, be even willing to undergo considerable labour and trouble to this end, that indeed was something which surpassed her limited capacity to understand. The same afternoon, she having acquainted Mike with the astonishing news, a counsel was held round the fire, at which Arthur was cited to appear and to give a good and sufficient reason for the peculiar request he had ventured to prefer. The boy could only urge, in a timid voice, his great desire to know somewhat more than he did, and his hope that some day he might, with the assistance of this advanced learning, aspire to a position in life more exalted than his present one.
“The lad shows a good bit o’ ‘cuteness, arter all, Mike,” urged Ned Quirk, who had from the first listened not unfavourably. “I’m not sewer as there’s so much harm in learnin’ to read an’ write, an’ maybe there’s some little good in it. What d’ye say, Mike?”
“Well, I dunno, Ned. There’s somethink to be said on both sides. I used to sing a hymn as began:
Where Providence has fix’d your station,
It is your duty to remain,
Content to bear with each vexation,
And ‘ope as heaven’ll reward your pain;
or at least somethin’ like that. There is such a thing, you know, Ned, as settin’ oneself above one’s nat’ral claims, and bein’ led astray by the pride of hintellect.”
“You’re right, Mike; but for all that I, for my part, can’t see no harm in readin’ an’ writin’. I tell you what it is, Mike. Don’t you bother yer ‘cad about the matter. I ‘appen to know of a night school in Grafton-street here, where I’ve a notion they don’t pay so very much for their larnin.’ Now if I’ll pay for the lad to go there, will you tackle Hannah Clinkscales, and make her let him horff his work two or three nights a week for a hour or so?”
Ultimately this plan was agreed upon. After much sore argument — in which Mrs. Clinkscales began by stoutly asserting that she would turn Arthur away and procure another lad if he thought of so far forgetting his position as to learn to read and write — she consented very reluctantly, upon the persistence in their request of Mr. and Mrs. Rumball and Ned Quirk united, to let Arthur be free from nine to ten on three nights in the week, deducting, however, sixpence from his wages on this account. Truly the gate of the realms of learning did not open to Arthur Golding at the first blast of the summoning trumpet and let him in to walk henceforth on flowery paths.
It was now the middle of summer, and Arthur had to be up very early each morning. In spite of this it was seldom he did not contrive to snatch a quarter of an hour at his spelling-book before he left his bedroom. Ned Quirk, as we know, occupied the same room, and, in order not to wake him, Arthur would dress with the greatest quietness, take his book from under the pillow — where he always put it before going to bed, in consequence of Ned having once said in joke that learning would work its way into his head as he slept — then throw up the window gently and sit down in the fresh morning breeze.
Whilst Ned’s prodigious snores well-nigh shook the ceiling within, sweeter sounds greeted the boy from without. Just outside his window hung a number of bird-cages, containing several larks, one or two thrushes, a blackbird, and a linnet. The window faced full to the east, and as soon as the earliest rays of the rising sun smote across the wide expanse of tiled roofs and fell upon the encaged birds, they woke one after another from their short slumbers, and each in his own language poured forth his song of greeting to the day. The larks especially sang with an almost frantic rapture, each striving to outdo the other in the elevation of his note and the prolonged energy of his strain, till the whole neighbourhood far around rang with the melodious contest. And when at length they paused, rather from powerlessness to express their wild joy than from weariness at their exertions, the thrushes or the blackbird would intervene with notes deep, rich, and full, piping as if buried in their native groves amid the rustle of young leaves and the flash of dewdrops trembling in the first gleam of morning.
Weary as Arthur often was, and hard as he often found it to tear himself from his bed, he always had his reward in this concert, whilst the air of heaven, gently playing with his fair hair, quickly drove away the pain of weariness and breathed the energy of renovated life throughout his young being. It was well for Arthur that Nature had gifted him with a perception of her beauties; man as yet had done little to raise him from that slough of lower earth in which all but a minute minority of the poor toil and fret and curse away their little lives.
Mike Rumball was not himself possessed to any great extent with the love of sweetness and light, nor was he a likely man to stretch a hand to a generous boy struggling blindly upwards. From the first he had given only a very qualified approval to the night-school scheme, thinking far more of the weekly sixpence which Arthur would lose from his wages than of the intellectual recompense he would acquire, and very shortly one or two little circumstances occurred which appeared to him to confirm his never quite lulled apprehensions and to demonstrate most incontestably that Arthur “was not the lad he ‘ad been sin’ the day as he took to cultivatin’ the pride of hintellect.” It chanced that Mike had let a bedroom in his house to an individual named Tuck, who, during the summer months at least, got his living in a peculiar manner. He was, in short, one of those men you may see any fine morning in Piccadilly designing all manner of figures on the pavement in coloured chalks, and intimating, by a scroll written above the same, that the work was not performed solely out of love for art or a desire of affording pleasure to the public in general, but rather with the ulterior object of acquiring the means of life. Besides his drawings on the flags, he executed at home, or in the streets, similar drawings on pieces of wood and cardboard, some representing fishes, others ships on a stormy sea, others a group of flowers.
By some chance Arthur Golding made the acquaintance of this man, and many an odd moment did he steal to visit him and examine his work. The artist was an idle, drunken, good-for-nothing fellow enough, but now and then he had a few ideas somewhat above the level of his surroundings, and Arthur found unceasing pleasure in his conversation. The result of this connection was that the boy began to possess himself of odd bits of chalk, sometimes begging coloured pieces from his friend, and to make a display of his artistic powers on the walls and floor of his bedroom or on the pavement of the alley that ran by the corner of the shop. He had not to go far for subjects; those birds and animals in the shop, in which he took such an interest, naturally occurred to his mind as models to copy. Accordingly he exhausted his invention in depicting every kind of feathered creature he could conceive, most of them, it must be confessed, bearing but a distant resemblance to those which it falls within the lot of ordinary mortals to behold. Possibly they might have exhibited some likeness to those ideas of the animal world in the existence of which Plato and his disciples put their faith.
By dint of much practice — for in every leisure moment he ran to some quiet spot where he could exercise his chalk unobserved, even his reading suffering severely from this alienation of attention — he would no doubt have soon effected great improvements in the character of his designs, but he was not destined to follow the bent of his genius in unconstrained freedom.
Ned Quirk had first of all observed this strange tendency, but, like a reflective man, he had held his peace and merely observed, probably concluding that there were more things in heaven and earth than his philosophy e’er dreamt of, and that possibly this might be one of those, which therefore it behoved a wise man to consider before delivering a judgment upon. But when before long the chalked floors and walls came to the notice of Mike Rumball, that gentleman was by no means backward in expressing an immediate opinion.
“I told you ‘ow it ‘ud be, Ned Quirk,” he observed, in confidence. “Afore this ’ere lad o’ yourn took to hankerin’ arter schoolin’ and such-like things, he was a good enough lad in his way; but when that kind o’ humbug began I know’d as it was all up with him. It was no good o’ me liftin’ up my voice, like the Prophet Jonah, an’ a declaimin’ agin sich folly, as you know I did. I was like a voice a cryin’ in the wilderness, an’ you paid no ‘eed to me. I tell you what it is, that ’ere lad is goin’ to the bad, Ned, and you can see it as well as I can. When a lad takes to chalkin’ nastiness on walls an’ floors, I knows what it means; it shows a depraved mind. An’ what’s more, I won’t ‘ave it in my ’ouse! We shall ‘ave him thievin’ next, mark my word, an’ then who’ll be to blame? Why we, of course, as let him go on in his evil ways without a warnin’ of him. If I see a chalk-mark arter this blessed day, young Arthur Golding takes his ‘ook out of the ’ouse of Mike Rumball!”
There was no good in disputing such an energetic declaration of opinion as this, and Ned Quirk accordingly warned his protégé quietly of the wrath he had aroused. The result was that the drawing on walls ceased, but by no means the drawing altogether. It had already become a passion with Arthur; he could not throw away his chalks entirely, however severe the penalties with which he was threatened. So he got into the habit of collecting from all possible quarters scraps of paper either white or printed upon, and on these he continued to draw when no eyes observed him, afterwards tearing up and throwing away those drawings which did not please him, whilst those which appeared better done he stowed away carefully on the top of a cupboard in the bedroom, well knowing that no one ever went near to disturb them. About this time, too, Ned Quirk bought him a slate, as he needed it for his sums at school, and this Arthur turned to the service of his talent for designing, only it grieved him terribly whenever he had drawn a bird or animal rather better than usual that he was obliged to rub it out immediately, thus committing what already appeared to his young mind as the worst sin he knew of — the destruction of something that was beautiful in his eyes.
Mike’s resentment did not end with his stern forbiddance of future “chalking,” but, on his divining the source of Arthur’s disease, aimed at a radical cure. In short, he gave to Mr. Tuck an abrupt notice to quit, which the artist, at the end of a week’s time, perforce obeyed.
This was a cruel blow to Arthur, and he felt it severely. After peeping into Tuck’s room once, in the hope of seeing the drawings which were his wonted delight, and on perceiving it bare, swept and garnished for a new tenant, he could not restrain his feelings, and, turning away, wept bitterly. Unfortunately, Mike Rumball had watched him, and, when he saw his distress break out in tears, the man’s short temper was exhausted. In his irritation he gave the boy a sound cuff on the ears, and with angry words sent him off to his work.
Ned Quirk heard of this the same night from Mrs. Rumball, and he was grieved at it. When he retired to bed he found Arthur already in his, and, as he at first thought, asleep. But he soon heard stifled sobs proceeding from beneath the counterpane, and, rough fellow as he was, his heart conceived true sympathy for the boy, though certainly unable to estimate the cause of his suffering. He called to him, and on Arthur at length replying in a broken voice, he took a seat by his bedside and spoke words of comfort.
“Come, come, Arthur lad,” he said, “there’s no call to take on i’ this way, as I knows on. What is it as troubles you, my boy? Mike don’t mean no ‘arm, though maybe he was rayther rough this mornin’. He’d been bothered in his mind, you see, about some money as he’s lost. Come, cheer up.”
Arthur still held his head down, and his body trembled from time to time, though the sobs had stopped.
“I know it’s ‘ard on yer,” pursued honest Ned, “to stop horff yer little ‘musements like, but, you see, Mike don’t like to ‘ev his rooms sp’iled. An’ then he thinks as ‘ow you ain’t quite goin’ on as you should, wastin’ yer time, an’ sich like. It’s all for yer own good, Arthur, I’m sewer. For myself, I don’t give no ‘pinion about this ’ere chalkin’ an’ scratchin’, ‘cos I don’t understand it, yer see, but pr’aps yer won’t be sorry in a few years as you was early broke of the ‘abit. An’ now tell me, lad, ‘ow ye’re gettin’ on with yer schoolin’?”
“Pretty well, I think, thank you, Mr. Quirk,” replied Arthur, somewhat sorrowfully though.
“Why that’s right! An’ can you read them ’ere words o’ three syllabums yet, as you was talkin’ on?”
“Very nearly. I think I shall in a week or two.”
“Why, better still. ‘Ere’s a sixpence for you, Arthur. I’d a unus’al good night to-night wi’ th’ ‘taters, an’ so I can afford it. An’ don’t mind what Mike says, you ‘ear? He’s a good chap, but he ‘as his fancies, like all on us. An’ get on wi’ yer readin’, writin’, an’ ‘rithumtic, lad; stick to ’em. Depend on it, they’ll do you good, some day or other. But leave the chalkin’ an’ scratchin’ till ye’ve got more time to waste, that’s a good lad.”
Verily Ned Quirk had sound notions in his way, and his advice, when his lights were considered, was far from discreditable. But what advice, however excellent, was ever acted upon in this world? Arthur, indeed, persevered with his three R’s, but as to giving up the drawing, as I have already said, it was impossible for him. He had, indeed, an end in view in connection with it, and one far too important to admit of neglect. It was no other than a burning desire, kept close, like so many other hopes and wishes, in the recesses of his own breast, to complete a drawing which he could account worthy of being presented to Lizzie Clinkscales. This was a terribly daring idea, that he well knew; but the thought was so unutterably attractive to him that it was impossible of renunciation.
This was the inward energy which made him persevere in his efforts, spite of all discouragement. He felt that a word of praise from Lizzie would compensate him a thousand times for all the misapprehension of others.
And at length he flattered himself that he had accomplished his task. With the greatest difficulty he had begged from Mrs. Rumball a fair sheet of white paper, only a little crumpled, in which she had brought home something from the grocer’s, and, after straightening this out, and cutting it square to the best of his ability, he had drawn upon it, in coloured chalks, purchased with the sixpence Ned Quirk had given him, the likeness of an old parrot, a particular favourite of his, failing not to give his picture the advantage of all that brilliancy of plumage of which relentless Time had in a great measure deprived the original. For rather more than a week Arthur had employed every leisure moment in completing this picture, first of all studying his model with a careful eye, then stealing upstairs to his bedroom and enriching his drawing with the results of his observation.
Then, after many desperate attempts, when at length he had almost despaired of finding an opportunity to make the offering of his completed work to her for whom it was intended, one day he found himself in the shop alone when Lizzie happened to come through. With fear and trembling he drew out the paper, which he had kept neatly folded in four in the inside pocket of his coat for more than a fortnight, and, totally unable of uttering those appropriate words which he had so long dwelt upon in his mind, he held it out with a timid hand to the girl. Lizzie took it with a look of good-natured surprise, and, on opening it out, burst into an exclamation of pleasure.
“Where did you find it?” she asked, examining the gaudy plumage, the shrewd-looking eyes, the portentous beak of the bird with keen delight.
“I did it myself, miss,” replied Arthur, his eyes moist with pleasure at seeing his work thus appreciated.
“You did it!” exclaimed Lizzie, a trifle contemptuously.
“Yes, indeed I did, Miss Lizzie,” urged the boy, with eagerness. “I drew it myself, and, if you please, I — I did it for you.”
“For me! But did you really do it yourself, and for me?”
“Really, miss. Upon my word I did, and to give to you. I — I should so like you to take it.”
Lizzie laughed that clear, joyous laugh of hers, and, after still viewing the picture for some minutes, folded it up again carefully and put it in a little bag she was carrying.
“There,” she said; “I promise you to keep it. I couldn’t believe you did it at first, you know. I like it very much. And — and — I think I ought to shake hands with you; for after all, you know, it was kind of you to do it for me. There!”
She held out one of her delicate, fairy hands, and Arthur, in trembling wonder, pressed it in his rather dirty palm. Then with a nod and another cheerful, ringing laugh, Lizzie tripped away. Many years after she still kept the picture of the parrot, and looked at it when, perhaps, Arthur himself had forgotten the circumstance entirely.