accursed drink!"

He started up and clutched the hair of his head with both hands for a moment; but the feeling pa.s.sed away, and he sat down again and resumed breakfast, while he said in a graver tone than he had yet used--

"Excuse me, doctor; I'm subject to these bursts now and then. Well, what say you about the body? My friend offers me twenty pounds, if I get the right kind. That would be seventeen pounds of profit on the transaction. It's worth an effort. It might put me in the way of making one more stand."

Ned said this sadly, for he had made so many stands in time past, and failed to retain his position, that hope was at dead low-water of a very neap-tide now.

"I don't like the look of the thing," said the doctor. "There's too much secrecy about it for me. Why don't your friend speak out like a man; state what he wants it for, and get it in the regular way?"

"It mayn't be a secret, for all I know," said Ned Hooper, as he concluded his repast. "I did not take the trouble to ask him; because I didn't care. You might help me in this, doctor."

"Well, I'll put you in the way of getting what you want," said the doctor, after a few moments reflection; "but you must manage it yourself. I'll not act personally in such an affair; and let me advise you to make sure that you are not getting into a sc.r.a.pe before you take any steps in the matter. Meanwhile, I must wish you good-day. Call here again to-night, at six."

The doctor rose as he spoke, and accompanied Ned to the door. He left a coin of some sort in his palm, when he shook hands.

"Thankee," said Ned.

"If you had come to beg, you should not have got it," said the doctor.

"G.o.d help him!" he added as he shut the door; "it is an awful sight to see an old companion fall so low."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AN OLD PLOT.

It is evening now. The snow is still on the ground; but it looks ruddy and warm in the streets, because of the blaze of light from the shop-windows, and it looks colder than it did on the house-tops, by reason of the moon which sails in the wintry sky.

The man in the moon must have been in good spirits that night, for his residence seemed almost fuller than the usual full moon, and decidedly brighter--to many, at least, of the inhabitants of London. It looked particularly bright to Miss Tippet, as she gazed at it through the windows of her upper rooms, and awaited the arrival of "a few friends"

to tea. Miss Tippet's heart was animated with feelings of love to G.o.d and man; and she had that day, in obedience to the Divine precept, attempted and accomplished a good many little things, all of which were, either directly or indirectly, calculated to make human beings happy.

Emma Ward, too, thought the moon particularly bright that night; in fact she might almost have been regarded as a lunatic; so steadily did she gaze at the moon, and smile to herself without any apparent motive.

There was reason for her joy, however, for she had come to know, in some mysterious way, that Frank Willders loved her; and she had known, for a long time past, that she loved Frank Willders.

Frank had become a foreman of the Fire Brigade, and had been removed from his former station and comrades to his new charge in the city. But Frank had not only risen in his profession; he had also risen intellectually. His mother had secured to him a pretty good education to begin with, and his own natural taste and studious habits had led him to read extensively. His business required him to sit up and watch when other men slept. He seldom went to bed before four o'clock any morning, and when he did take his rest he lay down like the soldier in an enemy's country, ready to rush to arms at the first sound of the bugle. His bugle, by the way, was a speaking-trumpet, one end of which was close to the head of his bed, the other end being in the lobby where the men on duty for the night reposed.

During these long watches in the silent lobby, with the two men belted and booted on their tressels, the clock ticking gently by his side, like the soft quiet voice of a chatty but not tiresome friend, Frank read book after book with absorbing interest. History, poetry, travel, romance--all kinds were equally devoured. At the particular time of which we write, however, he read more of poetry than of anything else.

The consequence was that Frank, who was one of nature's gentlemen, became a well-informed man, and might have moved in any circle of society with credit to himself, and profit as well as pleasure to others.

Frank was by nature grave, sedate, earnest, thoughtful. Emma was equally earnest--more so perhaps--but she was light-hearted (not light _headed_, observe) and volatile. The result was mutual attraction. Let philosophers account for the mutual attraction of these qualities as they best may, we simply record the fact. History records it; nature records it; experience--everything records it; who has the temerity, or folly, to deny it?

Emma and Frank _felt_ it, and, in some mysterious way, Frank had come to know something or other about Emma's feelings, which it is not our business to inquire into too particularly.

So, then, Frank also gazed--no, not at the moon; it would have required him to ascend three flights of stairs, and a ladder, besides pa.s.sing through a trap to the roof of the station, to enable him to do that; but there was a lamp over the fireplace, with a tin reflector, which had quite a dazzling effect of its own--not a bad imitation of the moon in a small way--so he gazed at that, and thought it very bright indeed; brighter than usual.

We may as well put the reader out of suspense at once by saying that we do not intend to describe Miss Tippet's evening with "a few friends."

Our own private opinion in regard to the matter is, that if they had been fewer than they were, and more worthy of the name of friends, the evening might have been worth recording, but it is sufficient to say that they all came; acted as usual, spoke as usual, felt as usual, "favoured the company" with songs, as usual, and--ah--yes--enjoyed themselves as usual till about half-past eleven o'clock, when they all took their leave, with the exception of Miss Deemas, who, in consideration of the coldness of the weather, had agreed to spend the night with her "dear friend."

Miss Deemas was one of those unfortunates with whom it is impossible for any one to sleep. Besides being angular and hard, she had a habit of kicking in her slumbers, and, being powerful, was a dangerous bedfellow.

She knew this herself, and therefore wisely preferred, when visiting her friends, to sleep alone. Hence it happened that Miss Tippet and Emma went to bed in the back room with the green hangings, while Miss Deemas retired to the front room with the blue paper.

There is a common fallacy in naval matters founded on poetical license, to the effect that the mariner is separated from death by a single plank; whereas, the unpoetical truth is, that the separation consists of many hundreds of planks, and a solid bulwark of timbers more than a foot thick, besides an inner "skin," the whole being held together by innumerable iron and oaken bolts and trenails, and tightened with oak.u.m and pitch. We had almost fallen into this error--or poetical laxity of expression--by saying that, on the night of which we write, little did Miss Tippet know that she was separated from, not death exactly, but from something very awful, by a single plank; at least, by the floor of her own residence, and the ceiling of the house below--as the sequel will show.

That same night, David Boone, gaunt, tall, and cadaverous as of old, sat in his back parlour, talking with his friend Gorman.

"Now, Boone," said the latter, with an oath, "I'm not goin' to hang off and on any longer. It's more than seven years since we planned this business, the insurances have been effected, you've bin a prosperous man, yet here you are, deeper in my debt than ever."

"Quite true," replied Boone, whose face was so pale that he might have easily been mistaken for a ghost, "but you know I have paid up my premiums quite regular, and your interest too, besides clearin' off some of the princ.i.p.al. Come, don't be hard on me, Gorman. If it had not been that trade has got worse of late, I would have cleared off all I owe you, but indeed, indeed I have not been so successful of late, and I'm again in difficulties. If you will only wait--"

"No," cried Gorman, "I'll not wait. I have waited long enough. How long would you have me wait--eh? Moreover, I'm not hard on you. I show you an easy way to make a good thing of it, and you're so chicken-hearted that you're afraid to do it."

"It's such a mean thing to do," said Boone.

"Mean! Why, what do you call the style of carrying on business that you started with seven years ago, and have practised more or less ever since?"

"That is mean, too," said Boone; "I'm ashamed of it; sorry for it. It was for a time successful no doubt, and I have actually paid off all my creditors except yourself, but I don't think it the less mean on that account, and I'm thoroughly ashamed of it."

There was a good deal of firmness in Boone's tone as he said this, and his companion was silent for a few minutes.

"I have arranged," he said at last, "about your making over your policies of insurance to me as security for the debt you owe me. You won't have to pay them next half-year, I'll do that for you _if necessary_." He laughed as he said this. "I have now come to ask you to set the house alight, and have the plan carried out, and the whole affair comfortably settled."

Gorman said this in an encouraging voice, a.s.suming that his dupe was ready to act.

"B-but it's awful to think of," said Boone; "suppose it's found out?"

"How can it be found out?"

"Well, I don't know. It's wonderful how crime is discovered," said Boone despondingly; "besides, think of the risk we run of burning the people who live above, as well as my two clerks who sleep in the room below us; that would be murder, you know. I'm sure I have tried my very best to get Miss Tippet to go from home for a short time, I've almost let the cat out of the bag in my anxiety, but she won't take the hint."

"Oho!" exclaimed Gorman, with a laugh.

"Well, have you made the arrangements as I directed you last night?"

"Yes, I've got a lot of tarry oak.u.m scattered about, and there is a pile of shavings," he added, pointing to a corner of the room; "the only thing I'm anxious about is that my young man Robert Roddy caught me pouring turpentine on the walls and floor of the shop. I pretended that it was water I had in the can, and that I was sprinkling it to lay the dust before sweeping up. Roddy is a slow, stupid youth; he always was, and, I daresay, did not notice the smell."

Gorman was himself filled with anxiety on hearing the first part of this, but at the conclusion he appeared relieved.

"It's lucky you turned it off so," said he, "and Roddy _is_ a stupid fellow. I daresay he has no suspicion. In fact, I am sure of it."

"It's not of much importance _now_, however," said Boone, rising and confronting his friend with more firmness than he had ever before exhibited to him, "because I have resolved _not to do it_."

Gorman lit his pipe at the fire, looking at the bowl of it with a scornful smile as he replied--

"Oh! you have made up your mind, have you?"

"Yes, decidedly. Nothing will move me. You may do your worst."

"Very good," remarked Gorman, advancing with the lighted paper towards the heap of shavings.