Chapter X: Phil Has a Trying Day

PHIL'S new home was little more agreeable than the old one had been. Moll had gone eastward, and established herself in a miserable tenement in Shoreditch.

Phil was constantly in the streets following his "business," for Moll was anxious to reap as much benefit as possible from his misfortune. At first, she used to accompany him into the streets, for she had some fear lest Phil should attempt to run away from her. But she soon found that the boy would gain more by his begging if left to himself. So she would repair to a public-house close by, or would watch him from a distance, thus managing to make Phil feel that she was never far off, and he could not get away from her if he would.

But after a while, she grew tired of keeping constant watch over the boy, and would send him out alone, threatening him with severe punishment if he did not return at the time she named, and still more cruel treatment if he did not bring her as much money as she expected.

Phil was often to be seen in the City, hanging about the entrances to Liverpool Street and Broad Street stations. In all weathers he was sent out, and it was a hard life he led. There came to be a very sad look in his blue eyes, and a glance at the little maimed form might well make the most cautious forego prudence and drop a copper into his hand. As a rule, Phil met with many who were soft-hearted enough to give to him. But there were days when the police seemed especially on the alert, or when every one appeared in too great a hurry to pay heed to him, for the busy crowds who pass along the City streets are not easily arrested by a call for alms. And when his pockets were light, Phil went back to his mother in fear and trembling.

Several weeks passed ere Phil found his way to the hospital. He had not forgotten his purpose.

He thought of it daily, and longed to see Sister Kathleen again, but fear of his mother, who always questioned him closely as to his doings, for some time withheld him from making the attempt.

At last, when summer had come, Phil had the opportunity for which he had been waiting.

One morning, his mother roughly told him that he had better take himself off till nightfall, as she was going out for the day and would lock up her room.

"And mind that you make good use of the time," she added, "for I shall want a nice supper when I come back, and you must bring the money for it."

Phil needed no second bidding to be off. The freedom thus accorded was as welcome to him as a holiday to a schoolboy. Hastening out, he lost no time in getting away from Shoreditch. It was a bright June day. Even in the City, the heat was not great, and when, leaving the more crowded thoroughfares, Phil found his way on to the Thames Embankment, a fresh breeze met him as he went westwards.

Instinctively, he had turned in the right direction for the hospital. But he wandered on a long, long way without feeling sure that he was getting any nearer to it. What a big, big place London seemed to the little crippled-lad, dragging himself wearily along the pavements! Sometimes he paused to beg of the passers-by or to rest for a while on a doorstep, but though he grew hot and tired and faint for want of food, he was still bent on reaching the hospital.

Asking his way and following as well as he could the confusing directions given to him, Phil at last arrived at his destination, and found himself before the main entrance to the hospital. Trembling from fatigue and fear, he ascended the steps with difficulty, and entered the large hall.

"Now then, what do you want, pray?"

The question, put in deep, severe tones by a tall, broad-shouldered, soldierly-looking man in official livery, made little Phil fairly shake from head to foot. He had never seen this porter before, and the august mien and authoritative air of the dignitary looking down on him from his superior height, with stern disapproval in his glance, took from Phil all courage.

"Please, sir," he could only gasp, "can I see Sister Kathleen?"

"No, you can't," was the abrupt reply. "Sister Kathleen's not here. She has been ill, and has gone away for a change. Now then, be off with you. We don't want any beggars hanging about."

Phil went without a word. The porter's harsh manner so frightened him that he did not dare to put another question, nor even thought of asking to see one of the nurses in whose charge he had been.

He was bitterly disappointed. For weeks, the only ray of light in his sad young life had come from the hope of seeing Sister Kathleen again, and now that hope was destroyed; for it seemed to him as he passed out of the hospital gates that he should never see either Sister Kathleen or his Aunt Lizzie any more.

He made his way to the Strand, which was familiar ground to him, and there began to beg. The child's face was so sorrowful, and his voice had such a plaintive ring, that many a one looked on him with pity and gave him money.

Presently, Phil ventured to exchange one of his pennies for a roll of bread. After looking cautiously around, to see that no policeman was near, he crept into a sheltered doorway and sat down to rest and take his meal. He had not been there many minutes when a girl passed by, carrying a basket filled with little nosegays. As he glanced at her, Phil started up with a cry of delight.

"Fan, Fan!" he cried.

The girl looked round astonished, but she was no less pleased than Phil when she saw who had called her.

"Why, Phil, it's never you!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, it's me," he said breathlessly. "And oh, Fan, I've been to the hospital to see Sister Kathleen, and she isn't there; she's gone away."

"Is she? Why, how's that?" asked Fan.

"The man said she had been ill," replied Phil.

"Dear me!" said Fan. "Well, do you know, Phil, I've seen Sister Kathleen. Many a time I've looked about the streets for you, hoping I might see you to tell you, but neither you nor your mother were ever to be seen anywhere."

"We live a long way from here," said Phil. "But where did you see Sister Kathleen?"

"Why, she came to see you, of course; don't you know she said she would? I happened to be in the alley that evening, and when I saw her coming along so neat and nice in her long cloak and black bonnet, I knew who she was at once. So, when I heard her asking for you, I went forward and told her that you and your mother had gone away, and nobody knew where you were living. She looked so sorry. I saw tears come into her eyes, Phil. And then she said that if I should find out where you were living, she'd be ever so much obliged to me if I'd let her know."

"Did she?" said Phil, looking pleased.

"Yes, she said just that in so many words. Where are you living, Phil?"

"17 St. Bride's Lane, Shoreditch," said Phil. "But you won't be able to tell her, Fan. She's gone away from the hospital."

"Won't she never come back no more?" asked Fan.

Phil shook his head. "I don't know," he said.

"P'raps she will," said Fan; "anyhow, I'll ask some day when I'm passing the hospital. Don't say anything to your mother about it, Phil."

"Oh no!" said Phil, surprised that Fan should think it necessary to say this, since he had no confidences with his mother. He remembered now that it was getting late, and his mother would be very angry if he kept her waiting for supper.

"I must go home," he said, taking hold of his crutch and wearily raising himself from the doorstep. "Come a little way with me, Fan."

Fan agreed, and walked with him to the bottom of Fleet Street, where they parted, and Phil went on alone. By this time he was very tired, and it was all he could do to keep moving on till St. Bride's Lane was gained. It was almost dark when at length he reached home. He went up-stairs to Moll's room with dread, expecting that she would punish him for coming so late. But to his surprise the door was still locked, and his mother was nowhere to be seen. Somewhat relieved, Phil sat down on the landing to await her return. So worn out was he that he had not sat there long ere he fell asleep.

He was roused by some one falling over him in the dark, and then beginning to scold him violently for being where he was. It was not his mother, however, but the woman who lived in the next room.

"Waiting for your mother, are you?" she said, as Phil, recovering from his bewilderment, explained why he was there. "Then you'll have to wait, it strikes me. Your mother won't be home to-night, nor for many nights to come, I fancy."

"Why not?" asked Phil sleepily. "Where is she?"

"Where is she? Why, in gaol, to be sure. She's been taken up for receiving stolen goods from a servant gal."

"Will they keep her there?" asked Phil, too heavy with sleep to comprehend exactly what had happened, but glad to learn that he need not expect his mother immediately.

"Little fear; for it's as clear as daylight that she knew the things were stolen. She'll be tried in a few days, and if they don't give her six months, I'm much mistaken."

So saying, the woman passed on into her room.

And Phil, curling himself up, was soon asleep again.

He woke the next morning with aching head and limbs, and a general sense of weariness and sickness. He picked himself up from his hard couch, and made his way down-stairs and into the street. The hour was early, and the morning air as fresh as it ever was in that narrow street, but it failed to revive Phil.

He dragged himself along wearily till he came to a coffee stall, where some workmen were having breakfast. Phil bought a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter. But whilst he drank the coffee eagerly, he found to his surprise that he could not get on with the bread and butter. He was fain to give the greater part of it to a half-starved cur, which, judging him perhaps as uncared for as itself, made friendly advances to him.

Phil had not forgotten the news of his mother which he had heard on the previous night, but it had made such a confused impression on his mind that he almost fancied it was a dream. But he soon learned that it was true, for when he returned to the house, he found the neighbours talking about his mother's arrest. And one and another told him that he need not expect to see her for some time to come. One of the women asked him how he would get along without his mother.

Phil made no reply, but he thought he could get along very well, if only his head would not ache so badly and he did not feel so weak and queer.

The door of his mother's room was still locked, and Phil tried in vain to push it open. But the woman who lived in the next room called her husband to his help, and the man succeeded in forcing back the lock.

When it was known that the door was open, all the inhabitants of the house flocked into the room, eager to look at Moll's belongings. Later in the day came a policeman, who searched every hole and corner of Moll's room, and took possession of certain things he found there. But no one paid much attention to Phil, who hung about, feeling sick and wretched.

When at last the neighbours' curiosity was satisfied, and Moll's room deserted, Phil, conscious of a weary longing for rest, lay down on the bed. And there, alone and uncared for, he remained all day, dozing most of the time, but waking at intervals to a sense of pain and thirst and general discomfort.