I was prepared to betake myself to the offices of my friend Sheriff Muntle to relate the details of the preceding day when I recalled that Muntle would be unavailable for private counsel until eventide, owing to his having removed himself to the Chowser School for the purpose of investigating a matter of the utmost importance: that hothouse thievery of earlier mention. Having absented himself from Milltown for two days, the sheriff consequently found himself deprived not only of my society and all the intelligence I was fairly bursting to convey pertaining to the momentous events of the previous day, but also active participation in other events of that period, including — as I would later learn — a fresh example of rude impatience on the part of Montague Pupker in the form of the most clamant species of door-pounding and door-kicking as had ever been evinced outside a shop, this protracted display of insolent public impropriety sending my landlady Mrs. Lumbey (the imperiled protector of Pupker’s even more imperiled daughter Hannah, and owner of said door) into such a tizzy as to engender thoughts within her fervid brain of dropping a heavy mangle or iron safe from an upper storey window down upon Pupker’s raging head.
Thinking of Muntle and of Pupker and of the appointment that was to take place between those two gentlemen on Monday with regard to a certain sub-cellar containing a most amazing inventory of mysterious items, I was reminded of something along these same lines that I had seen from Dabber’s terrace the night before when my host and I had stepped out to take the night air, my mind fuzzy with drink, my vision hazy. In that late hour, through the fog of inebriation, I descried some three or four blocks away a waggon stopt before Pupker’s emporium being loaded from the cellar trap by three dark figures whose features would have been impossible to discern even had I been cold sober. All of the cargo was boxed and crated and would not have drawn interest even had there been passers-by at this desolate hour.“Ah,” I said to myself.“I was wondering when the deed would be done, and I see that Pupker doesn’t procrastinate.”
“When what deed would be done?” enquired Sir Dabber, peering with squeezed eyes into the night without knowing what he was supposed to be looking for.
“It is no great matter,” I replied. “At least not for the present. Bumper me, my good sir! Your guest is positively parched!”
I shelved the memory for later review, and was making every effort to direct my halting alcohol-poisoned person toward my own lodgings above Mrs. Lumbey’s dress shop (where I hoped to cover my pounding head with a blanket and sink back into the arms of recuperative Morpheus), when I noticed a barefoot man in rags and tatters backing his way out of the apothecary’s shop across the street, in response to an angry injunction by that business’s proprietor to “Go along and never cast your dirty shadow upon this upstanding establishment again!” The door was then promptly slammed shut in the man’s face. During the seconds that succeeded this overwrought rebuff, the penuriously-attired man stood in the manner of one giving close inspection to the wood grain of the door’s outer face (for quite close was he in proximity to it when he had been summarily dismissed by its closure), or perhaps the man’s eyes were shut tight as he was taking this quiet intervening moment to compose and steady himself. Shortly thereafter the shabby man turned round to behold the street and all potential witnesses therein, and in so doing, revealed himself to be the pauper Harry Scadger, who had only four days earlier quitted his clan’s gipsy-like encampment within the apricot grove, and moved himself, his wife Matilda, and their five children to the Pupker Mews, as he had duly been directed to do.
I could not take my eyes from the man who looked many years older than his true two or three and thirty, life for all of the Scadgers, young and old, being steeped in toil and hardship, impairments of fate that aged the body with great acceleration and put frightful creases upon faces that rarely smiled or found any measure of joy or delight in the mortal journey. Raising his eyes to meet mine, Scadger acknowledged me with a nod that did not alter the despondent expression upon that wontedly cheerless countenance.
Having done this, he appeared prepared forthwith to quit this spot, and even took one step away from the door, as I, in turn, made up my own mind about approaching and detaining him. Anticipating my putting to him a question about what had just occurred, he raised a hand to sign that he did not wish to speak of it, leaving me then to stand in his presence and execute a mundane greeting that served neither of our interests beyond empty salutation.
“And it is quite a joy to see you as well,” said Scadger quite mechanically (for what was to be found particularly availing about this most mortifying moment?).
“Have you found work in Milltown yet?” I asked.
“Soon I may be hired at the grist mill. I hear, as well, that there is now an opening for inventory-keeper at the dried fish warehouse.” Scadger’s voice trailed off. He was distracted. I did not pursue the fact that it was my brother’s departure from Dingley Dell that had created the vacancy of Harry Scadger’s reference. It would have served no good purpose at the moment. At all events, it was quite apparent to me that Harry didn’t wish to speak to me about this or any other thing, shifting as he was from one leg to the other in a scarcely-concealed indication of an impatient desire to be on his way. Even in the best of circumstances our society had been a bit strained; though our intercourse had always been cordial, there existed between us that imposing wall of class and economic estrangement — a wall that now towered even higher after what had just taken place.
“I must be off,” he finally said. “You must come and visit Matilda and me after she has prepared our new home to receive guests. It should not be long. Already the rooms are tidy and clean. But, alas, we have nothing yet in the way of furniture for a guest to sit down upon!”
Scadger affected to smile. It was a hollow thing, this attempt at good cheer.
I could restrain myself no longer and asked the very question which the poor man most dreaded: “Why on earth did Skettles eject you from his shop? What was the trouble?”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Trimmers, I do not wish to—”
“Come, come, Scadger,” I pursued with little concern for his present state of abashment. “I’ve assisted you in the past. Perhaps I may be of some service in this particular instance.”
There succeeded no response. Instead, Harry Scadger lowered his eyes and bowed his head, as if this combined gesture of abasement should be sufficient to end my pursuit and send me on my way. Yet I was resolved to get to the bottom of the matter, no matter how long it took and at whatever cost to the man’s feeling of self-worth.
“Come now, Scadger.”
“I have no need of taking money from you, Trimmers, should that be your primary goal in detaining me. The Charity League has kindly lent a small sum to Matilda and me with which to situate ourselves and the children in the Mews and to tide us over until I am able to secure gainful employment.”
“Forgive my persistence, Scadger, but I must now know ever the more why Skettles would have you dismissed from his shop, if indeed you had money to pay for his apothecarial compounds. Was there something you sought that he was unable to provide? For I am familiar enough with your character to know that you would never have entered his shop bent only on provocation.”
Scadger nodded. “I did seek something from him. Something for my daughter Florence. To quell her cough. Unfortunately he had nothing to sell me.”
“That’s rot! Of course there must be elixirs or syrups upon his shelves that will suppress or sooth a cough. Let me have a word with him.”