THE PRODIGAL SON.
BY DUTTON COOK, AUTHOR OF “PAUL FOSTER’S DAUGHTER,” &c.
“A lytel misgoyng in the gynning causeth mykel errour in the end.”—Chaucer’s “Testament of Love.”
CHAPTER XV. A MEETING.
Stowe Street is one of those numerous parallel “no thoroughfares” which pierce the Strand crosswise, and leading down to the banks of the river, arrive at a sudden termination of close iron railings. Passing along the Strand, glimpses of the Thames are every now and then to be caught by means of these streets as through crannies in a wall. One might almost fancy that a colossal panorama of the river had been cut into transverse slips, and pasted up here and there to break the monotonous line of houses. A slight dash of water and sky crossing pleasantly, now and then, an endless warp of bricks and mortar—a savoury morsel of an unwieldly and disproportioned sandwich—soothing to the eye, though the heaven may be lead-coloured and the wavelets opaque, and the freight they float no better than shapeless barges with brown patched sails, carried up by the tide, or gross blunt-edged lighters “zedding” along, careless what they bump against, like strong drunken men; or lively little steamers, that dart about like tadpoles, and make so much noise and carry so many, and all for so small a charge.
London is more thoroughly partitioned into quartiers than is demonstrable by maps; or than many people imagine. These purblind defiles, hemmed in between a silent and a particularly loud highway, may be said to be set apart for the open-air performances of barrel-organs, Punch and Judy, the street conjuror, the versatile monkey who plays the fiddle and goes through the musketry exercise with equal ability, the acrobats: and for the residence of many lodgers of semi-respectable and not expensive habits. The neighbourhood is thickly populated: it contains few shops, but several offices, in which vague professions are carried on. The tenants generally are inclined to be mysterious as to their occupation; they all carry street-door keys, are partial to late suppers of a shell-fish character, never clean their windows, and invariably evade the income-tax collector.
It was noon when Wilford knocked at the door of No. 67, Stowe Street. It seemed almost as though such a proceeding were quite out of rule. He was detained some time on the step; yet he could plainly hear the noise of persons moving about in the passage. Windows were thrown up and heads projected, and he was probably inspected by the residents in different parts of the house. The door was at length opened by a short, broad servant—“servant gal” perhaps conveys the most complete notion of her—warm, moist, and not clean looking, always busy holding on to her