where Mr. Hunter keeps his animals. What have you got? Alive or dead?”
The Irishmen looked at each other. Claffey’s feet twitched, in spite of himself, they clearly thought he should cut and run. But Jankin said, disconsolate, “So we cannot see their tricks then?”
“Tricks?” the man said. “God blast you, we’re not a circus.”
“Look,” Claffey said, “it seems to me there’s some misunderstanding, sir.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper scribbled over. “The little Scotchman gave this to our giant. It’s his name written down, I believe.”
“Yes,” said the man, staring. “This is a page from the sacred pocket book of Mr. John Hunter.”
“That’s the fella. A twist to his nose, and his shoulders up under his ears, and bristles on his cheeks.”
“Why, you insolent rogue,” the man burst out. “I’ll pull out your kidneys for you.”
Just then they heard a sharp voice from the interior of the house. “Howison, who is it out there?” The Scotchman appeared, wearing a long smock over his coat; on the front of it, exactly where Constantine Claffey had his egg-stain, there was a particle of something ruddy and gelatinous.
“Bunch of paddy thatch-gallows,” Howison replied. “I’ll boot ’em, sir.”
“No, wait. Aren’t you fellows the Giant’s crew? Haven’t I seen you with Charles Byrne?”
“That’s us,” replied swagger-boy Pybus.
A look of effortful geniality spread itself at once over the Scotchman’s face. “And how’s your big fella today?”
“Like a sick dog, sir,” Jankin said. “Ain’t he, Francis Claffey?”
“Hm,” said Mr. Hunter.
“Sits by the fire and does naught,” Jankin added.
“I see. Now then, gentlemen”—Mr. Hunter plunged his hand under his gown and fished about. Pybus braced himself, wondering would he pull out a knife; he distrusted the nature of the stain on his clothing. Mr. Hunter’s flat palm came out with three-halfpence on it. “Oh dear, Howison. I shall have to step out to a patient and earn a guinea. How is it I’m down to this?”
“You purchased those newts. An impulse, sir.”
“True, I had forgot the newts. Well, gentlemen, take the will for the deed. I would have seen you right if I could. Do you ever take a drink at the Crown, on Wych Street?”
“We might,” said Pybus.
“If you see my man Howison in there, he’ll treat you all round. Howison, take notice of these men. They and we shall have some dealings before many months have passed.”
“It’s a mystery walking,” Pybus said, as they set off back to Cockspur Street. But by the time they got there, Joe Vance had solved it for them. “Slig’s been round, he put me wise. The man is no animal-trainer. He is what they call in England a crocus.”
“Which is to say?” asked the Giant.
“Which is to say, he is a surgeon. He cuts for the stone and takes off green legs. He is one of those anatomies of whom you have been singing.”
“His man offered to pull my kidneys out,” said Pybus. “I took it for banter.”
“We’d best stay away from him,” Jankin said. “And his man Howison. And the Crown on Wych Street.”
Vance gawped. It was the longest speech he’d ever heard Jankin make, and it was stuffed with sense. But Claffey said, “He swore he’d treat us all round, and I suppose his drink’s as good as any other man’s, crocus or no crocus.” Claffey was out late these nights, scouring for Bride Caskey. No matter what Mary might say, he was convinced that it was she who had despoiled his darling.
Mary went out on her own account these nights. “I have nothing left to lose, so I try to make gains,” she explained. She was angry when they tried to hold her back. “I too want money in my pocket. I want a sack like the Giant’s. But I know I shall be dead before I get it.”
Mary’s hair seemed to have darkened; she looked older, and wilder. The Giant thought of the eldest brother, the eldest brother of the dwarves. Of his word, his look of love. It was these things detained the maiden in the forest. He said nothing to Mary. Let her go: as well be outside in the disaster, as inside, locked up with it.
Each night the rooms grew smaller, at Cockspur Street. There was a scraping noise inside his chest. “You could do with a dose of physic,” Vance suggested, but he said no, no, keep away from physic, and keep away from the crocus. God bless us, he said. St. Comgall keep us. Mary neglected the scrubbing. The rooms grew fusty. One afternoon he burst open the nailed-shut window. A black north wind rattled the sashes.
Christmas came on. The peck was getting rougher. They dined on a sheep’s head boiled, and called it a banquet; most nights it was bad bread and loblolly.
“Open your sack, Giant,” young Pybus groaned. “Let us have a slice of ham, as we did in former days. Let us have seed cake.”
“I will open my sack for Toby,” the Giant said. “For no project else.”
“Not even eating?” said Pybus. “Oh, pitiful.”
“The devil of a pig,” said Slig, as slowly he stirred his turnips and gruel, “the devil of a pig is, will it sit in a chair? Now, Constantine Claffey has heard of a bear that’s for rent—”
“I am not parting with my money for a bear. A bear is disagreeable to me.”
“But Charlie, you’re not listening. The fact is, you can get a bear and shave it. Then you put a bonnet on it and a gown, and its face peeps out shy and lovely—and you must put gloves on it and pad the fingers.”
