Pollyooly. Edgar Jepson
reference to it had the effect of making his nostrils grow more sensitive to it; and he learned that it was a lingering aroma loath to leave a haunt so proper to it as his blackening chambers. Other matters also troubled him at times; but, absorbed in his work, he could give them but little attention.
It was a full ten days after he had so solemnly warned the Honorable John Ruffin. against Pollyooly that, one morning as she was on the very point of setting the rashers of the Honorable John Ruffin to grill, she heard a loud roaring from the chambers of Mr. Gedge-Tomkins. It was a sound of a surprising volume; and she hastily opened the door of the Honorable John Ruffin's chambers, to discover what it meant, just in time to see Mrs. Meeken scuttle forth from the opposite doorway with all the appearance of a panic-stricken, but aromatic, hen.
Mr. Gedge-Tomkins stood, four-square and dreadful, in the doorway from which she had fluttered. His large face was flushed; and his eyes glowed with a volcanic indignation.
"Go!" he bellowed in a terrible voice. "My weekly bill has gone up seven shillings! My rooms are filthy! You have stolen half my underlinen! You have not only stolen my whisky, but you have watered what you left—watered it—watered it! Go! and never come near the place again."
"I wants a week's wages instead of notice. I knows my rights," cried Mrs. Meeken, quavering, but shrill.
"Not a penny! Not a penny! Go, or I'll throw you down the stairs," bellowed Mr. Gedge-Tomkins, with a quite extraordinary air of meaning what he said.
He was plainly past the chivalrous stage; and Mrs. Meeken did not wait She shuffled down the stairs as fast as her feet could slop—there is no other word for their curious action. As she went her voice rose in shrill lamentation: this was what she got for slaving her life out for "ha 'ulkin' brute" … never again as long as she lived would she rescue a stranger from "hartful 'uzzies" … Oh, how mistaken she had been in ever reckoning Mr. Gedge-Tomkins a gentleman!
Mr. Gedge-Tomkins stood in his doorway, breathing heavily, his heart still sore from his unsatisfying encounter with watered whisky the night before. The lament of Mrs. Meeken came up fainter from the well of the staircase. An angelic smile wreathed the lips of Pollyooly who had been a grave spectator of the distressing scene.
The eyes of Mr. Gedge-Tomkins rested on her thoughtfully. His work must not be interrupted again by watered whisky; he shrank from the trouble of seeking a new laundress.
"You can come back at once. Get my breakfast," he said in the surly tone of one who reluctantly yields under the pressure of circumstances.
Pollyooly's heart leaped with joy at this sudden, unexpected doubling of her income. It was on the tip of her tongue to accept the offer. But she checked herself, and gazed at Mr. Gedge-Tomkins with a cold eye:
"I couldn't come back for less than six shillings a week, sir," she said firmly. "It would take me ever so long to get your rooms clean again after that dirty old woman. Besides, you said I told lies."
Mr. Gedge-Tomkins scowled darkly at her. Without a word he turned round, went back into his chambers, and slammed the door. Pollyooly's face fell at this sudden fortune's sudden flight. But a quarter of an hour later his door opened again, and out he came.
He walked across the landing and said heavily, "I'll pay you six shillings a week. After all, with you I know the worst that is to be known, and you do not drink whisky. Get my breakfast."
"Thank you, sir," said Pollyooly, with an angel smile; and she dropped a curtsey.
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