At this, the poor woman fell a crying again, and Barbara’s mother too. And little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time resolved themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit couldn’t go out for a walk if he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions, tigers, or other natural curiosities behind those bars—nothing indeed, but a caged brother—added his tears to theirs with as little noise as possible.
Kit’s mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more than she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and submissively addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he please to listen to her for a minute. The turnkey, being in the very crisis and passion of a joke, motioned to her with his hand to keep silent one minute longer, for her life. Nor did he remove his hand into its former posture, but kept it in the same warning attitude until he had finished the paragraph, when he paused for a few seconds; with a smile upon his face, as who should say “this editor is a comical blade—a funny dog,” and then asked her what she wanted.
“I have brought him a little something to eat” said the good woman. “If you please, sir, might he have it?”
“Yes—he may have it. There’s no rule against that. Give it to me when you go, and I’ll take care he has it.”
“No, but if you please sir—don’t be angry with me sir—I am his mother, and you had a mother once—if I might only see him eat a little bit, I should go away so much more satisfied that he was all comfortable.”
And again the tears of Kit’s mother burst forth, and of Barbara’s mother, and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was crowing and laughing with all its might—under the idea, apparently, that the whole scene had been invented and got up for its particular satisfaction.
The turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one and rather out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his paper, and coming round to where Kit’s mother stood, took the basket from her, and after inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and went back to his place. It may be easily conceived that the prisoner had no great appetite, but he sat down upon the ground and ate as hard as he could, while, at every morsel he put into his mouth, his mother sobbed and wept afresh, though with a softened grief that bespoke the satisfaction the sight afforded her.
While he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about his employers, and whether they had expressed any opinion about him; but all he could learn was, that Mr. Abel had himself broken the intelligence to his mother with great kindness and delicacy late on the previous night, but had himself expressed no opinion of his innocence or guilt. Kit was on the point of mustering courage to ask Barbara’s mother about Barbara, when the turnkey who had conducted him reappeared, a second turnkey appeared behind his visitors, and the third turnkey with the newspaper cried “Time’s up!”—adding in the same breath “Now for the next party,” and then plunging deep into his newspaper again. Kit was taken off in an instant, with a blessing from his mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing in his ears. As he was crossing the next yard with the basket in his hand, under the guidance of his former conductor, another officer called to them to stop, and came up with a pint-pot of porter in his hand.
“This is Christopher Nubbles isn’t it, that come in last night for felony?” said the man.
His comrade replied that this was the chicken in question.
“Then here’s your beer,” said the other man to Christopher. “What are you looking at? There an’t a discharge in it.”
“I beg your pardon” said Kit. “Who sent it me?”
“Why, your friend” replied the man. “You’re to have it every day, he says. And so you will, if he pays for it.”
“My friend!” repeated Kit.
“You’re all abroad, seemingly” returned the other man. “There’s his letter. Take hold.”
Kit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as follows.
“Drink of this cup. You’ll find there’s a spell in its every drop ’gainst the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and Co.’s). If they ever send it in a flat state, complain to the Governor. Yours R. S.”
“R. S.!” said Kit, after some consideration. “It must be Mr. Richard Swiveller. Well, it’s very kind of him, and I thank him heartily!”
LXII
A faint light, twinkling from the window of the countinghouse on Quilp’s wharf, and looking inflamed and red through the night-fog, as though it suffered from it like an eye, forewarned Mr. Sampson Brass, as he approached the wooden cabin with a cautious step, that the excellent proprietor, his esteemed client, was inside, and probably waiting with his accustomed patience and sweetness of temper the fulfilment of the appointment which now brought Mr. Brass within his fair domain.
“A treacherous place to pick one’s steps in of a dark night,” muttered Sampson, as he stumbled for the twentieth time over some stray lumber, and limped in pain. “I believe that boy strews the ground differently every day, on purpose to bruise and maim one; unless his master does it with his own hands, which is more than likely. I hate to come to this place without Sally. She’s more protection than a dozen men.”
As he paid this compliment to the merit of the absent charmer, Mr. Brass came to a halt; looking doubtfully towards the light, and over his shoulder.
“What’s he about, I wonder?” murmured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe and endeavouring to obtain a
