"I haven't got a home," he returned.
"What, no home? Where was your home when you had one?"
"I never had a home," he said. "I've always been travelling; but
sometimes we stay a month in a place." Then, after an interval, he
added: "I belong to a dramatic company."
"And do you ever go on the stage to act?" I asked.
"Yes," he returned, with a weary little sigh.
Then our journey came to an end, and we saw the doors and windows of
the St. Just Working Men's Institute aflame with yellow placards
announcing a series of sensational plays to be performed there.
The queer-looking people came down and straggled off to the Institute,
paying no attention to the small boy. "Let me advise you," I said,
standing over him on the pavement, "to treat yourself to a stiff
tumbler of grog after your cold ride," and at the same time I put my
hand in my pocket.
He didn't smile, but at once held out his open hand. I put some pence
in it, and clutching them he murmured "Thank you," and went after the
others.
XXVI
THE STORY OF A SKULL
A quarter of a century ago there were still to be seen in the outer
suburbs of London many good old roomy houses, standing in their own
ample and occasionally park-like grounds, which have now ceased to
exist. They were old manor-houses, mostly of the Georgian period, some
earlier, and some, too, were fine large farmhouses which a century or
more ago had been turned into private residences of city merchants and
other persons of means. Any middle-aged Londoner can recall a house or
perhaps several houses of this description, and in one of those that
were best known to me I met with the skull, the story of which I wish
to tell.
It was a very old-looking, long, low red-brick building, with a
verandah in front, and being well within the grounds, sheltered by old
oak, elm, ash and beech trees, could hardly be seen from the road. The
lawns and gardens were large, and behind them were two good-sized grass
fields. Within the domain one had the feeling that he was far away in
the country in one of its haunts of ancient peace, and yet all round
it, outside of its old hedges and rows of elms, the ground had been
built over, mostly with good-sized brick houses standing in their own
gardens. It was a favourite suburb with well-to-do persons in the city,
rents were high and the builders had long been coveting and trying to
get possession of all this land which was "doing no good," in a
district where haunts of ancients peace were distinctly out of place
and not wanted. But the owner (aged ninety-eight) refused to sell.
Not only the builders, but his own sons and sons' sons had represented
to him that the rent he was getting for this property was nothing but
an old song compared to what it would bring in, if he would let it on a
long building lease.
