For many weeks I addressed envelopes. I had a place as
assistant to a man who owned a barrow, and used to call down one
side of the road while he called down the other.
"Once for a week I had absolutely nothing to do, and I begged.
What a week that was! One day the fire was going out and I had
eaten nothing all day, and a little chap taking his girl out, gave
me sixpence--to show off. Thank heaven for vanity! How the
fish-shops smelt! But I went and spent it all on coals, and had
the furnace bright red again, and then--Well, hunger makes a fool
of a man.
"At last, three weeks ago, I let the fire out. I took my
cylinder and unscrewed it while it was still so hot that it
punished my hands, and I scraped out the crumbling lava-like mass
with a chisel, and hammered it into a powder upon an iron plate.
And I found three big diamonds and five small ones. As I sat on
the floor hammering, my door opened, and my neighbour, the
begging-letter writer came in. He was drunk--as he usually is.
"'Nerchist,' said he. 'You're drunk,' said I. ''Structive
scoundrel,' said he. 'Go to your father,' said I, meaning the
Father of Lies. 'Never you mind,' said he, and gave me a cunning
wink, and hiccuped, and leaning up against the door, with his other
eye against the door-post, began to babble of how he had been
prying in my room, and how he had gone to the police that morning,
and how they had taken down everything he had to say--''siffiwas
a ge'm,' said he.
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