CHAPTER VII.

Billy turns the Corner.

Robert Grantham for a moment was undecided what to do. No one was near them; he and Billy were just then alone on the bridge. Resolving upon his course of action, he raised Billy in his arms and walked with his burden toward Rathbeal's lodging. Billy was nothing of a weight for a man to carry, being but skin and bone, and Grantham experienced no difficulty in the execution of the merciful task he had taken upon himself. He was not troubled by inquiries from the few persons he encountered. A policeman looked after them, but as Grantham made no appeal to him, and there was no evidence of the law being broken, he turned and resumed his beat. Robert Grantham was a quarter of an hour walking to the house in which Rathbeal lodged. Without hesitating, he pushed the street door open, and ascended the stairs. Rathbeal heard him coming up, and waited for him on the landing.

"What have you got there?" he asked.

"A lump of misery," replied Grantham.

Rathbeal made way for his friend, who entered the room and laid Billy on the bed. Then he examined the lad to see if any bones were broken, Rathbeal, better skilled than he, assisting him.

"Where did you find him, Robert?"

"On Westminster Bridge. He must have stumbled against someone who pushed him off into the road, where he fell fainting. I have known the poor little fellow for months, but I have not seen him for the last three or four weeks. I wondered what had become of him."

"Where do his people live?"

"Heaven knows! He has none, I believe; or at all events, none who care to look after him. He is a waif of the streets, not an uncommon growth in London."

"You have been good to him?"

"I have given him bread sometimes, when I had it to give; and the last time I met him I took him home with me, and made up a bed on the floor for him. He remained with me a week, and then he unaccountably disappeared. What is to be done? He does not recover. He is not dead, thank God! There is a faint beat of the heart."

Rathbeal produced a bottle in which there was some brandy. He moistened the lad's lips with the spirit, and poured a few drops, diluted with water, down his throat. Still the lad did not open his eyes.

"Have you anything to eat in the cupboard?" asked Robert Grantham.

"There is a little bread and meat," said Rathbeal.

"He looks scarcely strong enough to be able to masticate hard food. Make some water hot, Rathbeal. I will go and get a packet of oatmeal; a basin of gruel will be the best thing for him."

"Wait a minute, Robert." Rathbeal devoted a few moments to the lad, and added gravely: "On the opposite side of the road, half a dozen doors down, there is a poor man's doctor. Ask him to come up at once and see the boy."

"I will;" and meeting Rathbeal's eyes, he said, "Do you fear there is any danger?"

"Yes. I have some medical skill, as you know; but I do not hold a diploma. It will be advisable that a doctor should see the poor boy."

Robert Grantham nodded, and took from his pocket all the money it contained--one sixpence and a few coppers. Rathbeal handed him five shillings.

"Thank you, Rathbeal," said Grantham, and ran down the stairs. In less than ten minutes he was back, with a packet of oatmeal, and accompanied by the doctor. While the doctor examined the lad, Rathbeal busied himself in the preparation of the gruel, the kettle, already nearly boiling, standing on a little gas-stove.

"Yes," said the doctor, noticing the preparation; "it will be the proper food to give him when he comes to his senses. Put a teaspoonful of brandy in it. A son of yours?"

"No," answered Grantham; "my friend, Mr. Rathbeal, has never seen him before. I found him in this condition in the street."

"Where are his parents?"

"I do not know, nor whether he has any."

"But you must have had some previous knowledge of him," said the doctor, looking with curiosity at Grantham.

"Oh, yes. I met him by chance some months since, when he was in want of food, and we struck up an acquaintance. Is he in danger?"

"He may not live through the night." He put up his hand; Billy was coughing, and a little pink foam gathered about his lips, which the doctor wiped away. "Exposure and want have reduced him to this state. He has been suffering a long time, and his strength is completely wasted. Had he been attended to months ago, there would have been a chance for him. Listen!" Billy was coughing again, a faint, wasting cough, painful to hear. "I can do very little. I will send you a bottle of medicine, which may give him temporary relief; and I will come again about midnight, if you wish."

"I shall feel obliged to you. We shall be here all night. Should he have brandy after he has taken the gruel?"

"A few drops now and then will do him no harm. He needs all the strength you can put into him. Endeavor to get from him some information about his relatives, and go for them."

"Would it be best to take him to a hospital?"

"He should not be removed; he will not trouble you long."

"It is more a grief than a trouble."

"I understand. See, he is coming to. How do you feel now, my little man?"

"_I_ don' know," murmured Billy. "There's somethink 'ere." He moved his hand feebly to his chest. "Is that you, Mr. Gran? Where am I?"

"With good friends, Billy."

"You've allus been that to me, sir."

"Now try and eat a little of this," said Grantham, raising the lad gently in his arms.

Billy, with a grateful smile, managed to get two or three spoonfuls down, and then sank back on the bed.

"Do not force him," said the doctor. "Where do you live, Billy?"

"I don't know--anywhere."

"But try and remember."

"I can't remember nothink--only Mr. Gran. It ain't likely I'll forgit 'im. Thank yer kindly, sir, for wot you've done for me; there ain't many like yer."

He closed his eyes, and appeared to sleep.

"I will see him again at midnight," said the doctor, and stepped softly from the room.

Rathbeal cleared the table, and arranged some manuscripts.

"We may as well work while we watch, Robert. These must be copied by the morning."

He spoke in a whisper, and, sitting down, commenced to write. Grantham lingered awhile by the bedside, and as Billy did not stir, presently joined his friend, and proceeded with his copying. He did not observe that Billy, when he left his side, slyly opened his eyes, and gazed upon him with a look of grateful, pathetic love. Every time Grantham turned to him he closed his eyes, in order that it should be supposed he was sleeping. The writing proceeded almost in silence, the friends only exchanging brief, necessary words relating to their work. Now and then Grantham rose and went to the bedside, and when the bottle of medicine arrived he laid his hand gently on Billy's shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Gran," said the lad, "I'm awake."

"Take this, Billy; it will do you good."

"Nothink'll do me good, sir; but I'll take it. I _did_ want to see you before I went where I'm going to."

"There, there, my dear boy," said Robert Grantham, "you must not exhaust yourself by talking too much. You have taken the medicine bravely. Now try and swallow a spoonful of gruel."

He had kept it hot for the lad on the gas-stove.

"Thank you, Mr. Gran, I'll try; but I _should_ like to know where I'm going to."

"If you do not get well, Billy, you will be in a better place than this."

"Glad to 'ear it, sir; though luck's agin me. Yer didn't think it bad o' me to cut away from yer so sly, did yer?"

"No, my lad, no; but what made you go?"

"I'll tell yer 'ow it was, sir. I didn't want to take the bread out of yer mouth, and I found out I was doing it, without yer ever saying a word about it. There was the last day I was with yer, Mr. Gran; you 'ad dry bread, I 'ad treacle on mine; yer give me a cup 'o broth, and water was good enough for you. At supper you didn't take a bite of anythink, while I was tucking away like one o'clock. 'It's time for you to cut yer lucky, Billy,' I sed; and I did."

"Foolish lad! foolish lad!" said Robert Grantham, smoothing Billy's hair. "Where did you go to?"

"I don' know, Mr. Gran--into the country somewhere; but I didn't 'ave better luck there than 'ere, sir. I was took bad, and I was told I was dying; but I got better, Mr. Gran, and strong enough to walk back to London. I only come to-night, sir. When I was bad in the country, an old woman sed I was done for, and that if I didn't pray for salvation I should go to--you know where, sir. She give me a ha'penny, and sed, 'Now, you go away and pray as 'ard as yer can.' But I didn't think that'd do me any good, and ses I to myself, 'I'll toss up for it. Heads, salwation; tails, t'other.' I sent the ha'penny spinning, and down it come--tails, t'other. Jest like my luck, wasn't it, Mr. Gran?"

"Billy," said Robert Grantham earnestly, "you must drive that notion out of your head. We are all equal in the sight of God----"

"Oh, are we, Mr. Gran? That's a 'ard notion, as yer call it, to drive out o' my head, and I don't think I've got time for it. Beggin' yer pardon, sir."

Rathbeal, pen in hand, stopped in his work, and listened to the conversation.

"I tell you we are all equal in the eyes of God--rich and poor, high and low. The prayers of a poor boy reach God's ears as readily as the prayers of a rich man."

"If _you_ prayed, Mr. Gran," said Billy, "Gawd'd listen to yer. Per'aps yer wouldn't mind praying for me a bit."

Robert Grantham covered his eyes with his hand.

"'Ave I 'urt yer, sir?" moaned Billy. "Don't say I've 'urt yer!"

"No, my boy, no. If I had as little to answer for as you----" He paused awhile. "Your state is not of your own creating, Billy."

"No, sir; I don't know as it is. I couldn't 'elp bein' wot I am."

"There are many who could not say as much, who walk into sin with their eyes wide open--Billy!"

The lad was seized with a sudden paroxysm of coughing, which lasted several minutes. The fit over, he lay back exhausted, the red foam issuing from his mouth. It was no time for exhortation. Robert Grantham cleared the fatal sign from the sufferer's mouth, and patted Billy's hand and stroked his face pitifully. Billy's lips touched the consoling hand.

"Thank yer, sir. Let me lay still a bit."

The men resumed their work, and the boy was quiet. At midnight the doctor called again.

"As I feared," he said, apart to Robert Grantham; "he will last but a few hours."

Robert Grantham asked him what his fee was. The doctor shook his head, and said:

"I have done nothing; I could do nothing. Permit me to play my humble part in your kind charity. Good-night."

He shook hands with them, put Billy in an easy position, and left them.

"It isn't altogether a bad world, Robert," observed Rathbeal.

"It is what we make it," replied Robert Grantham, with a heavy sigh.

"That will not apply to the poor outcast lying there," said Rathbeal, looking at Billy.

"True, true," rejoined Grantham. "I was thinking of my own life."

Rathbeal had the intention, when Mr. Fox-Cordery left him, of saying something about his visit, but this sad adventure had put it out of his head. He thought of his intention now, when Robert Grantham said the world was what we made it; and he resolved that before many days had passed he would invite his friend's confidence in a direct way. In the presence of death he could not do so, and he set the matter aside for the present.

Their copying was finished at three o'clock, and Rathbeal gathered the pages, and put them in order. There had been no apparent change in the lad, but the solemnity of the scene impressed the men deeply. The house was very quiet, and no sound came to them from the street. They had endeavored, without success, to obtain from Billy some information of his relations. Either he did not or would not understand them, for he gave them no intelligible replies to their questions. They decided to make another effort during the next interval of consciousness, and, sitting by his bedside, they watched their opportunity. It came as Rathbeal's watch pointed to the hour of four. Billy raised his lids; his hands moved feebly. The men inclined their ears. Rathbeal left it to Robert Grantham to speak.

"Billy!"

"Yes, Mr. Gran; yes, sir."

"I want you, for my sake, to try and remember. You had a father and mother?"

"Yes, Mr. Gran, a long time ago."

"Where are they?"

"I don' know, sir."

"Is it very long since you saw them?"

"Oh, ever so long!"

"But there must be someone--an aunt or uncle."

"Nobody, nobody!"

"Try, Billy; try to recollect--for my sake, remember."

"Yes, sir; yes, Mr. Gran, I'll try."

But he seemed to forget it immediately, for he said nothing more.

It must have been half-an-hour after this that Rathbeal touched Robert Grantham's arm impressively. The dews of death were on Billy's forehead, and his lips were moving.

"Prue, little Prue!" he murmured.

"A girl's pet name, probably," whispered Rathbeal in Robert Grantham's ear.

"Yes, Billy, yes," prompted Grantham; "who is little Prue?"

"Sweethearts we wos. Little Prue! little Prue!"

At this dying boy's mouth Fate was weaving its web; and some miles away Mr. Fox-Cordery was dreaming of the woman he loved and the friend he had ruined.

"Where does she live, Billy?"

"We wos sweethearts. I liked little Prue."

"Try and remember where she lives, Billy."

"Is that you speaking, Mr. Gran?"

"Yes, my boy. Do you understand what I say?"

"I don' know. 'Now you go away and pray as 'ard as ever yer can,' the old woman ses, and I goes away and tosses up for it. 'Eads, salwation; tails, t'other. And down it comes--tails. Just like my luck. But there's something I _do_ want to pray for! It's all I can do for 'im, and he ses Gawd'll 'ear a pore boy. So 'ere goes. Where's my ha'penny to toss with? No, I don't mean that. I mean Gawd, are yer listenin'?"

"Say your prayer, Billy," whispered Grantham, seeing that the lad's last moments had come; "God is listening to you."

"O Lawd Gawd!" prayed Billy, pausing painfully between each word; "give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over. Look out! I am going to turn the corner."

A few moments afterward Billy had turned the corner, and was traveling on the road of Eternity, with angels smiling on him.