The Complete Novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      “Oh, go to hell!” said Silas, and kicked open his own unlatched door. A big, frowsy woman with a shock of dyed hair and some remains of a florid beauty, now long over-ripe, looked out from the sitting-room door.

      “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said she.

      “Who did you think it was? The Dook of Wellington?”

      “I thought it was a mad bullock maybe got strayin’ down the lane, and buttin’ down our door.”

      “Funny, ain’t you?”

      “Maybe I am, but I hain’t got much to be funny about. Not a shilling in the ’ouse, nor so much as a pint o’ beer, and these damned children of yours for ever upsettin’ me.”

      “What have they been a-doin’ of?” asked Silas with a scowl. When this worthy pair could get no change out of each other, they usually united their forces against the children. He had entered the sitting-room and flung himself down in the wooden armchair.

      “They’ve been seein’ Number One again.”

      “How d’ye know that?”

      “I ‘eard ’im say somethin’ to ‘er about it. ‘Mother was there’, ‘e says. Then afterwards ‘e ‘ad one ‘o them sleepy fits.”

      “It’s in the family.”

      “Yes, it is,” retorted the woman. “If you ‘adn’t sleepy fits you’d get some work to do, like other men.”

      “Oh, shut it, woman! What I mean is, that my brother Tom gets them fits, and this lad o’ mine is said to be the livin’ image of his uncle. So he had a trance, had he? What did you do?”

      The woman gave an evil grin.

      “I did what you did.”

      “What, the sealin’-wax again?”

      “Not much of it. Just enough to wake ’im. It’s the only way to break ’im of it.”

      Silas shrugged his shoulders.

      “‘Ave a care, my lass! There is talk of the p’lice, and if they see those burns, you and I may be in the dock together.”

      “Silas Linden, you are a fool! Can’t a parent c’rect ‘is own child?”

      “Yes, but it ain’t your own child, and stepmothers has a bad name, see? There’s that Jew woman next door. She saw you when you took the clothes’ rope to little Margery last washin’-day. She spoke to me about it and again today about the food.”

      “What’s the matter with the food? The greedy little bastards! They had a ‘unch of bread each when I ‘ad my dinner. A bit of real starvin’ would do them no ‘arm, and I would ‘ave less sauce.”

      “What, has Willie sauced you?”

      “Yes, when ‘e woke up.”

      “After you’d dropped the hot sealin’-wax on him?”

      “Well, I did it for ‘is good, didn’t I? It was to cure ’im of a bad ‘abit.”

      “Wot did he say?”

      “Cursed me good and proper, ‘e did. All about his mother — wot ‘is mother would do to me. I’m dam’ well sick of ‘is mother!”

      “Don’t say too much about Amy. She was a good woman.”

      “So you say now, Silas Linden, but by all accounts you ‘ad a queer way of showin’ it when she was alive.”

      “Hold your jaw, woman! I’ve had enough to vex me today without you startin’ your tantrums. You’re jealous of the grave. That’s wot’s the matter with you.”

      “And her brats can insult me as they like — me that ‘as cared for you these five years.”

      “No, I didn’t say that. If he insulted you, it’s up to me to deal with him. Where’s that strap? Go, fetch him in!”

      The woman came across and kissed him.

      “I’ve only you, Silas.”

      “Oh hell! don’t muck me about. I’m not in the mood. Go and fetch Willie in. You can bring Margery also. It takes the sauce out of her also, for I think she feels it more than he does.”

      The woman left the room but was back, in a moment.

      “‘E’s off again!” said she. “It fair gets on my nerves to see him. Come ’ere, Silas! ‘Ave a look!”

      They went together into the back kitchen. A small fire was smouldering in the grate. Beside it, huddled up in a chair, sat a fair-haired boy of ten. His delicate face was upturned to the ceiling. His eyes were half-closed, and only the whites visible. There was a look of great peace upon his thin, spiritual features. In the corner a poor little cowed mite of a girl, a year or two younger, was gazing with sad, frightened eyes at her brother.

      “Looks awful, don’t ‘e?” said the woman. “Don’t seem to belong to this world. I wish to God ‘e’d make a move for the other. ‘E don’t do much good ’ere.”

      “Here, wake up!” cried Silas. “None of your foxin’! Wake up! D’ye hear?” He shook him roughly by the shoulder, but the boy still slumbered on. The backs of his hands, which lay upon his lap, were covered with bright scarlet blotches.

      “My word, you’ve dropped enough hot wax on him. D’you mean to tell me, Sarah, it took all that to wake him?”

      “Maybe I dropped one or two extra for luck. ‘E does aggravate me so that I can ‘ardly ‘old myself. But you wouldn’t believe ‘ow little ‘e can feel when ‘e’s like that. You can ‘owl in ‘is ear.— It’s all lost on ’im. See ’ere!”

      She caught the lad by the hair and shook him violently. He groaned and shivered. Then he sank back into his serene trance.

      “Say!” cried Silas, stroking his stubbled chin as he looked thoughtfully at his son, “I think there is money in this if it is handled to rights. Wot about a turn on the halls, eh? ‘The Boy Wonder or How is it Done?’ There’s a name for the bills. Then folk know his uncle’s name, so they will be able to take him on trust.”

      “I thought you was going into the business yourself.”

      “That’s a wash-out,” snarled Silas. “Don’t you talk of it. It’s finished.”

      “Been caught out already?”

      “I tell you not to talk about it, Woman!” the man shouted. “I’m just in the mood to give you the hidin’ of your life, so don’t you get my goat’ or you’ll be sorry.” He stepped across and pinched the boy’s arm with all his force. “By Cripes, he’s a wonder! Let us see how far it will go.”

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