Читать книгу THE EAST END TRILOGY: Tales of Mean Streets, A Child of the Jago & To London Town - Morrison Arthur - Страница 18

Bill Napper was a heavy man of something between thirty-five and forty. His moleskin trousers were strapped below the knees, and he wore his coat loose on his back, with the sleeves tied across his chest. The casual observer set him down a navvy, but Mrs. Napper punctiliously made it known that he was “in the paving;” which meant that he was a paver. He lived in Canning Town, and was on a foot-path job at West Ham (Allen was the contractor) when he won and began to wear the nickname “Squire.”

Daily at the stroke of twelve from the neighboring church, Bill Napper’s mates let drop rammer, trowel, spade, and pick, and turned toward a row of basins, tied in blue-and-red handkerchiefs, and accompanied of divers tin cans with smoky bottoms. Bill himself looked toward the street corner for the punctual Polly bearing his own dinner fresh and hot; for home was not far, and Polly, being thirteen, had no school now.

One day Polly was nearly ten minutes late. Bill, at first impatient, grew savage, and thought wrathfully on the strap on its nail by the kitchen dresser. But at the end of the ten minutes Polly came, bringing a letter as well as the basin-load of beef and cabbage. A young man had left it, she said, after asking many ill-mannered questions. The letter was addressed “W. Napper, Esq.,” with a flourish; the words, “By hand,” stood in the corner of the envelope, and on the flap at the back were the embossed characters “T. & N.” These things Bill Napper noted several times over, as he turned the letter about in his hand.

“Seems to me you’ll ‘ave to open it after all,” said one of Bill’s mates; and he opened it, setting back his hat as a preparation to serious study. The letter was dated from Old jewry, and ran thus:

“re” B. Napper, deceased.

“Dear Sir — We have a communication in this matter from our correspondents at Sydney, New South Wales, in respect to testamentary dispositions under which you benefit. We shall be obliged if you can make it convenient to call at this office any day except Saturday between two and four.

“Your obedient servants,

“Tims & Norton.”

The dinner hour had gone by before the full inner meaning had been wrested from this letter. “B. Napper, deceased,” Bill accepted, with a little assistance, as an announcement of the death of his brother Ben, who had gone to Australia nearly twenty years ago, and had been forgotten. “Testamentary dispositions” nobody would tackle with confidence, although its distinct suggestion of biblical study was duly remarked. “Benefit” was right enough, and led one of the younger men; after some thought, to the opinion that Bill Napper’s brother might have left him something; a theory instantly accepted as the most probable, although some thought it foolish of him not to leave it direct instead of authorizing the interference of a lawyer, who would want to do Bill out of it.

Bill Napper put up his tools, and went home. There the missis put an end to doubt by repeating what the lawyer’s clerk said, which was nothing more definite than that Bill had been “left a bit”; and the clerk only acknowledged so much when he had satisfied himself, by sinuous questionings, that he had found the real legatee. He further advised the bringing of certain evidence on the visit to the office. Thus it was plain that the Napper fortunes were in good case, for, as “a bit” means money all the world over, the thing was clearly no worthless keepsake.