Fraternity. John Galsworthy
themselves—low class o' man like that; 'e's got to do the best 'e can for 'imself. They say there's thousands o' these 'ouses all over London. There's some that's for pullin' of 'em down, but that's talkin' rubbish; where are you goin' to get the money for to do it? These 'ere little men, they can't afford not even to put a paper on the walls, and the big ground landlords-you can't expect them to know what's happenin' behind their backs. There's some ignorant fellers like this Hughs talks a lot o' wild nonsense about the duty o' ground landlords; but you can't expect the real gentry to look into these sort o' things. They've got their estates down in the country. I've lived with them, and of course I know.”
The little bulldog, incommoded by the passers-by, now took the opportunity of beating with her tail against the old butler's legs.
“Oh dear! what's this? He don't bite, do 'e? Good Sambo!”
Miranda sought her master's eye at once. 'You see what happens to her if a lady loiters in the streets,' she seemed to say.
“It must be hard standing about here all day, after the life you've led,” said Hilary.
“I mustn't complain; it's been the salvation o' me.”
“Do you get shelter?”
Again the old butler seemed to take him into confidence.
“Sometimes of a wet night they lets me stand up in the archway there; they know I'm respectable. 'T wouldn't never do for that man”—he nodded at his rival—“or any of them boys to get standin' there, obstructin' of the traffic.”
“I wanted to ask you, Mr. Creed, is there anything to be done for Mrs. Hughs?”
The frail old body quivered with the vindictive force of his answer.
“Accordin' to what she says, if I'm a-to believe 'er, I'd have him up before the magistrate, sure as my name's Creed, an' get a separation, an' I wouldn't never live with 'im again: that's what she ought to do. An' if he come to go for her after that, I'd have 'im in prison, if 'e killed me first! I've no patience with a low class o' man like that! He insulted of me this morning.”
“Prison's a dreadful remedy,” murmured Hilary.
The old butler answered stoutly: “There ain't but one way o' treatin' them low fellers—ketch hold o' them until they holler!”
Hilary was about to reply when he found himself alone. At the edge of the pavement some yards away, Creed, his face upraised to heaven, was embracing with all his force the second edition of the Westminster Gazette, which had been thrown him from a cart.
'Well,' thought Hilary, walking on, 'you know your own mind, anyway!'
And trotting by his side, with her jaw set very firm, his little bulldog looked up above her eyes, and seemed to say: 'It was time we left that man of action!'
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