"That's all right, my lass, that's all right," he said, stopping
her stammering thanks. "You write to me if things don't get
better. You know where to find Jack Burridge."
Strolling about the streets in the evening, I happened to pass the
inn where he was staying. The parlour window was open, and out
into the misty night his deep, cheery voice, trolling forth an old-
fashioned drinking song, came rolling like a wind, cleansing the
corners of one's heart with its breezy humanness. He was sitting
at the head of the table surrounded by a crowd of jovial cronies.
I lingered for a while watching the scene. It made the world
appear a less sombre dwelling-place than I had sometimes pictured
it.
I determined, on my return to London, to look him up, and
accordingly one evening started to find the little by-street off
the Mile End Road in which he lived. As I turned the corner he
drove up in his dog-cart; it was a smart turn-out. On the seat
beside him sat a neat, withered little old woman, whom he
introduced to me as his mother.
"I tell 'im it's a fine gell as 'e oughter 'ave up 'ere aside 'im,"
said the old lady, preparing to dismount, "an old woman like me
takes all the paint off the show.
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