CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HOW TOM DRIFT GETS LOWER STILL.

Two years pa.s.sed.

They were, without exception, the dullest two years I, or, I venture to say, any watch made, ever spent. There I lay, run down, tarnished and neglected, on the p.a.w.nbroker's shelf, never moved, never used, never thought of. Week followed week, and month month, and still no claimant for me came.

Other articles on the shelves beside me came and went, some remaining only a day, some a week, but I survived them all. Even my friend the chain took his departure, and left me without a soul to speak to.

None of the hundreds of tickets handed in bore the magic number 2222, which would have released me from my ign.o.ble custody, and, in time, I gave up expecting it, and settled down to the old-fogeydom of my position, and exacted all the homage due to the "father of the shop"

from my restless companions.

My place was at the end of a long shelf, next to the screen dividing the shop from the office, and my sole amus.e.m.e.nt during those two dreary years was peeping through a crack and watching my master's customers.

They were of all sorts and all conditions, and many of them became familiar.

There was the little girl, for instance, the top of whose bonnet just reached as high as the counter, who, regularly every Monday morning, staggered in under the weight of a bundle containing her father's Sunday clothes, and, as regularly every Sat.u.r.day evening, returned to redeem them. It was evident her respectable parent did not attend many evening parties between those two days, for I never remember his sending for them except at the regular times.

Then there was the wretched drunkard, who crept in stealthily, with now a child's coat, now a picture, now a teapot; and with the money thus raised walked straight across the road to the public-house. And there was his haggard, worn wife, who always came next day with the ticket, and indignantly took back her household goods. There was the young sailor's wife, too, with her baby in her arms, who came rarely at first, but afterwards more often, to p.a.w.n her few poor treasures, until at length a glad day came when the brawny tar himself, with his pockets full of cash, came with her and redeemed them every one.

I could tell of scores of others if I wished, but I have my own life to record, and not the transactions of my master, the p.a.w.nbroker.

One day, towards the end of the first year, the door opened softly and quickly, and there entered into the office a youth, haggard and reckless-looking, whom, I thought, surely I had seen before. I looked again.

Was it possible? Yes! this was none other than Tom Drift! But oh, how changed! A year ago, erring and wayward as he had been, he was yet respectable; his dress was the dress of a gentleman; his bearing was that of a gentleman too; his face had been naturally intelligent and pleasant; and his voice clear and cheerful. But now! There was a wild, restless roll about his eyes, a bright flush on his hollow cheeks, a dulness about his mouth, a hoa.r.s.eness in his voice, which seemed to belong to another being. He was dissipated and seedy in appearance, and hung his head, as though ashamed to meet a fellow-being's look, and, instead of one, looked at least ten years older than he had.

Such a wreck will evil ways make of a youth! He looked eagerly round, to see that no one but he was in the office, and then produced from his pocket a scarf-pin.

"What will you give me for this?" he whispered.

The p.a.w.nbroker took it up and turned it over. It was a handsome pin, with a pearl in the front.

"Ten shillings," said the p.a.w.nbroker.

"What!" exclaimed Tom; "do you know what it's worth?"

"Ten shillings is all I can give you," curtly replied the p.a.w.nbroker.

Tom gulped down a groan. "Give me the money, then, for goodness' sake,"

he said.

The p.a.w.nbroker coolly and deliberately made out the ticket, while Tom stood chafing impatiently.

"Be quick, please!" he said, as though fearful of some one detecting him in a crime.

"Don't you be in a hurry," said the p.a.w.nbroker.

"Here's the ticket."

"And the ten shillings?" broke in Tom.

"You shall have it," said my master, going to his drawer.

To Tom it seemed ages while the silver was being counted, and when he had got it he darted from the shop as swiftly as he had entered it.

"That fellow's going wrong," muttered the p.a.w.nbroker to himself, as he laid the pin on the shelf beside me.

I recognised it at once as having often been my companion on Tom's dressing-table at nights, but I myself was so discoloured and ill that it did not at first know me. I was too anxious, however, to hear some thing about Tom to allow myself to remain disguised.

"Don't you know me, scarf-pin?" I asked.

He looked hard at me. "Not a bit," he said.

"I'm Tom Drift's old watch."

"You don't say so! So you are! How ever did you come here? Did he p.a.w.n you?"

"No; I was stolen from him one night at the music-hall, and p.a.w.ned here by the thief."

"Ah, that music-hall!" groaned the pin; "that place has ruined Tom Drift."

"When I left him," I said, "he was just going to the bad as hard as he could. He had broken with his best friend, and seemed completely--"

"Hold hard! what friend?" interposed the pin.

"Charlie Newcome, my first master; they had a quarrel the day I was stolen."

"That must be nearly two years ago?" said the pin.

"Just," said I. "Do tell me what has happened since then."

"It's a long story," said the pin.

"Never mind, we've nothing else to do here," I said encouragingly.

"Well," said the pin, "the night you were lost Tom never turned up at home at all."

"He was utterly drunk," I said, by way of explanation.

"Don't you interrupt," said the pin, "or I won't tell you anything."

I was silenced.

"Tom never turned up at all until the next morning; and he sat all that day in his chair, and did nothing but look at the wall in front of him."

"Poor fellow!" I could not help saying.

"There you go!" said the pin; "be good enough to remember what I said, and if you can't endure to hear of anybody sitting and looking at a wail, it's no use my going on with my story."

"I only meant that I could imagine how miserable he was that day," said I; "but go on, please."