When they turned out of the street with its few dismal oil-lamps, their
way led them among dirty tents and black pits, and they had to depend
for light on the lantern they carried. They crossed a rickety little
bridge over a flooded river; then climbed a slope, on which in her
bunchy silk skirts Polly slipped and floundered, to stop before
something that was half a tent and half a log-hut.--What! this the end
of the long, long journey! This the house she had to live in?
Yes, Richard was speaking. "Welcome home, little wife! Not much of a
place, you see, but the best I can give you."
"It's . . . it's very nice, Richard," said Polly staunchly; but her lips
trembled.
Warding off the attack of a big, fierce, dirty dog, which sprang at her,
dragging its paws down her dress, Polly waited while her husband undid
the door, then followed him through a chaos, which smelt as she had
never believed any roofed-in place could smell, to a little room at the
back.
Mahony lighted the lamp that stood ready on the table, and threw a
satisfied glance round. His menfolk had done well: things were in
apple-pie order. The fire crackled, the kettle was on the boil, the cloth
spread. He turned to Polly to kiss her welcome, to relieve her of bonnet
and mantle. But before he could do this there came a noise of rowdy
voices, of shouting and parleying. Picking up the lantern, he ran out to
see what the matter was.
Left alone Polly remained standing by the table, on which an array of
tins was set--preserved salmon, sardines, condensed milk--their tops
forced back to show their contents.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146