CHAPTER EIGHT

Abouthalf-pastnineJacobleftthehouse,hisdoorslamming,otherdoorsslamming,buyinghispaper,mountinghisomnibus,or,weatherpermitting,walkinghisroadasotherpeopledo.Headbentdown,adesk,atelephone,booksboundingreenleather,electriclight…."Freshcoals,sir?"…"Yourtea,sir."…Talkaboutfootball,theHotspurs,theHarlequinssix-thirtyStarbroughtinbytheofficeboytherooksofGray'sInnpassingoverheadbranchesinthefogthinandbrittleandthroughtheroaroftrafficnowandagainavoiceshouting:"Verdict—verdict—winner—winner,"whilelettersaccumulateinabasket,Jacobsignsthem,andeacheveningfindshim,ashetakeshiscoatdown,withsomemuscleofthebrainnewstretched. Then,sometimesagameofchessorpicturesinBondStreet,oralongwayhometotaketheairwithBonamyonhisarm,meditativelymarching,headthrownback,theworldaspectacle,theearlymoonabovethesteeplescominginforpraise,thesea-gullsflyinghigh,Nelsononhiscolumnsurveyingthehorizon,andtheworldourship. Meanwhile,poorBettyFlanders'sletter,havingcaughtthesecondpost,layonthehalltable—poorBettyFlanderswritingherson'sname,JacobAlanFlanders,Esq.,asmothersdo,andtheinkpale,profuse,suggestinghowmothersdownatScarboroughscribbleoverthefirewiththeirfeetonthefender,whentea'sclearedaway,andcannever,neversay,whateveritmaybe—probablythis—Don'tgowithbadwomen,dobeagoodboywearyourthickshirtsandcomeback,comeback,comebacktome. Butshesaidnothingofthekind."DoyourememberoldMissWargrave,whousedtobesokindwhenyouhadthewhooping-cough?"shewrote"she'sdeadatlast,poorthing.Theywouldlikeitifyouwrote.Ellencameoverandwespentanicedayshopping.OldMousegetsverystiff,andwehavetowalkhimupthesmallesthill.Rebecca,atlast,afterIdon'tknowhowlong,wentintoMr.Adamson's.Threeteeth,hesays,mustcomeout.Suchmildweatherforthetimeofyear,thelittlebudsactuallyonthepeartrees.AndMrs.Jarvistellsme—"Mrs.FlanderslikedMrs.Jarvis,alwayssaidofherthatshewastoogoodforsuchaquietplace,and,thoughsheneverlistenedtoherdiscontentandtoldherattheendofit(lookingup,suckingherthread,ortakingoffherspectacles)thatalittlepeatwrappedroundtheirisrootskeepsthemfromthefrost,andParrot'sgreatwhitesaleisTuesdaynext,"doremember,"—Mrs.FlandersknewpreciselyhowMrs.Jarvisfeltandhowinterestingherletterswere,aboutMrs.Jarvis,couldonereadthemyearin,yearout—theunpublishedworksofwomen,writtenbythefiresideinpaleprofusion,driedbytheflame,fortheblotting-paper'sworntoholesandthenibcleftandclotted.ThenCaptainBarfoot.Himshecalled"theCaptain,"spokeoffrankly,yetneverwithoutreserve.TheCaptainwasenquiringforheraboutGarfit'sacreadvisedchickenscouldpromiseprofitorhadthesciaticaorMrs.BarfoothadbeenindoorsforweeksortheCaptainsaysthingslookbad,politicsthatis,forasJacobknew,theCaptainwouldsometimestalk,astheeveningwaned,aboutIrelandorIndiaandthenMrs.FlanderswouldfallmusingaboutMorty,herbrother,lostalltheseyears—hadthenativesgothim,washisshipsunk—wouldtheAdmiraltytellher?—theCaptainknockinghispipeout,asJacobknew,risingtogo,stifflystretchingtopickupMrs.Flanders'swoolwhichhadrolledbeneaththechair.Talkofthechickenfarmcamebackandback,thewomen,evenatfifty,impulsiveatheart,sketchingonthecloudyfutureflocksofLeghorns,CochinChinas,OrpingtonslikeJacobintheblurofheroutlin