Chapter 47

Jo's Will

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets,

where the high church spires and the distances are so

near and clear in the morning light that the city itself

seems renewed by rest, Allan revolves in his mind how and where

he shall bestow his companion. "It surely is a strange fact," he

considers, "that in the heart of a civilised world this creature in

human form should be more difficult to dispose of than an

unknown dog." But it is none the less a fact because of its

strangeness, and the difficulty remains.

As first he looks behind him often, to assure himself that Jo is

still really following. But, look where he will, he still beholds him

close to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand

from brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps

along, glancing over at him, watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last

thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on;

considering with a less divided attention what he shall do.

A breakfast-stall at a street corner suggests the first thing to be

done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses, and

comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of

his right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left-

kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty

repast to Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the

coffee, and to gnaw the bread and butter; looking anxiously about

him in all directions as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable, that even hunger has

abandoned him. "I thought I was amost a starvin, sir," says Jo,

soon putting down his food; "but I don't know nothink-not even

that. I don't care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em."

And Jo stands shivering, and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse, and on his chest.

"Draw breath, Jo!"

"It draws," says Joe, "as heavy as a cart." He might add, "and

rattles like it;" but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."

Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at

hand, but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little

measure of wine, and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He

begins to revive, almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We may

repeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan, after watching him with his

attentive face. "So! Now we will take five minutes rest, and then

go on again."

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with

his back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and

down in the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards

him without appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment

to perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded

can brighten, his face brightens somewhat; and, by little and little,

he eats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly" title="ad.无希望地，绝望地">hopelessly laid down.

Observant of these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in

conversation; and elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of

the lady in the veil, with all its consequences. Jo slowly munches,

as he slowly tells it. When he has finished his story and his bread,

they go on again.

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of refuge for the boy, to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite, Allan

leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered. But

all is changed at the rag-and-bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer

lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much

obscured by dust, whose age is a problem-but who is indeed no

other than the interesting Judy-is tart and spare in her replies.

These sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite and

her birds are domiciled with a Mrs Blinder, in Bell Yard, he

repairs to that neighbouring place; where Miss Flite (who rises

early that she may be punctual at the Divan of justice held by her

excellent friend the Chancellor) comes running downstairs, with

tears of welcome and with open arms.

"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious,

distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd

expressions, but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can

be-more so than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits

until she has no more raptures to express; then points out Jo,

trembling in a doorway, and tells her how he comes there.

"Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now you

have a fund of knowledge and good sense, and can advise me."

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to

consider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs

Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's

room. "Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands, after a

twentieth repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To be sure! of

course! My dear physician! General George will help us out."

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George,

and would be, though Miss Flite had not already run upstairs to

put on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl, and to arm herself with her reticule of documents. But as she informs her

physician, in her disjointed manner, on coming down in full array,

that General George, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear

Fitz-Jarndyce, and takes a great interest in all connected with her,

Allan is induced to think that they may be in the right way. So he

tells Jo, for his encouragement, that this walking about will soon

be over now; and they repair to the General's. Fortunately it is not

far.

From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long

entry, and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs

well. He also descries promise in the figure of Mr George himself,

striding towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his

mouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by

broadsword and dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through

his light shirt-sleeves.

"Your servant, sir," says Mr George with a military salute.

Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his

crisp hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness,

and at some length she performs the courtly ceremony of

presentation. He winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and

another salute.

"Excuse me, sir. A sailor I believe?" says Mr George.

"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "But I

am only a sea-going doctor."

"Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-

jacket, myself."

Allan hopes Mr George will forgive his intrusion the more

readily on that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside

his pipe, which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing. "You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I know,

by experience, that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and since it's

equally agreeable to yourself-" and finishes the sentence by

putting it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all he

knows about Jo; unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.

"And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the

entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the

whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.

"That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr George, I am in this difficulty

about him. I am unwilling to place him a hospital, even if I could

procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he

would not stay there many hours, if he could be so much as got

there. The same objection applies to a workhouse; supposing I had

the patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed about from

post to pillar in trying to get him into one-which is a system that I

don't take kindly to."

"No man does, sir," returns Mr George.

"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place,

because he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person

who ordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he

believes this person to be everywhere, and cognisant of

everything."

"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr George. "But you have not

mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?"

"The boy makes it one. But the name is Bucket."

"Bucket the Detective, sir?"

"The same man."

"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper, after

blowing out a cloud of smoke, and squaring his chest; "and the boy is so far correct that he undoubtedly is a-rum customer." Mr

George smokes with a profound meaning after this, and surveys

Miss Flite in silence.

"Now, I wish Mr Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to

know that this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared;

and to have it in their power to speak with him, if they should

desire to do so. Therefore I want to get him, for the present

moment, into any poor lodging kept by decent people, where he

would be admitted. Decent people and Jo, Mr George," says Allan,

following the direction of the trooper's eyes along the entry, "have

not been much acquainted, as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do

you happen to know any one in this neighbourhood, who would

receive him for a while, on my paying for him beforehand?"

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little

man, standing at the trooper's elbow, and looking up, with an

oddly twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face.

After a few more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant

at the little man, and the little man winks up at the trooper.

"Well sir," says Mr George, "I can assure you that I would

willingly be knocked on the head at any time, if it would be at all

agreeable to Miss Summerson; and consequently I esteem it a

privilege to do that young lady any service, however small. We are

naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You

see what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for

the boy, if the same would meet your views. No charge made,

except for rations. We are not in a flourishing state of

circumstances here, sir. We are liable to be tumbled out neck and

crop, at a moment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, and

so long as it lasts, here it is at your service."With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr George places the

whole building at his visitor's disposal.

"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the

medical staff, that there is no present infection about this

unfortunate subject?"

Allan is quite sure of it.

"Because, sir," says Mr George, shaking his head sorrowfully,

"we have had enough of that."

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.

"Still, I am bound to tell you," observes Allan, after repeating his

former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced;

and that he may be-I do not say that he is-too far gone to

recover."

"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the

trooper.

"Yes, I fear so."

"Then, sir," returns the trooper, in a decisive manner, "it

appears to me-being naturally in the vagabond way myself-that

the sooner he comes out of the street, the better. You Phil! Bring

him in!"

Mr Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of

command; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo

is brought in. He is not one of Mrs Pardiggle's Tockahoopo

Indians; he is not one of Mrs Jellyby's lambs, being wholly

unconnected with Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance

and unfamiliarity; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is

the ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the

senses, in body a common creature of the common streets, only in

soul a heathen. Homely filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on him:

native ignorance, the growth of English soil and climate, sinks his

immortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth, Jo,

in uncompromising colours! From the sole of thy foot to the crown

of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee.

He shuffles slowly into Mr George's gallery, and stands huddled

together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know

that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what

he is, and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from

them. He is not of the same order of things, not of the same place

in creation. He is of no order and no place; neither of the beasts,

nor of humanity.

"Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr George."

Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a

moment, and then down again.

"He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging-

room here."

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a

bow. After a little more consideration, and some backing and

changing of the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery

thankful."

"You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be

obedient, and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,

whatever you do, Jo."

"Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favourite

declaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to

get myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all,

sir-'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."

"I believe it. Now attend to Mr George. I see he is going to speak to you."

"My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr George, amazingly

broad and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down,

and get a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the

trooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the gallery,

and opens one of the little cabins. "There you are, you see! Here is

a mattress, and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as

Mr, I ask your pardon, sir;" he refers apologetically to the card

Allan has given him; "Mr Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be

alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the target and not

you. Now, there's another thing I would recommend, sir," says the

trooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil, come here!"

Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics.

"Here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter.

Consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a natural interest

in this poor creature. You do, don't you, Phil?"

"Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.

"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr George, in a martial sort of

confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a

drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath, and was to

lay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles-"

"Mr George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out

his purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of

improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes

the best of her way to Court; having great fears that otherwise her

friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her, or may give the

judgment she has so long expected, in her absence; and observing

"which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years, would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes the

opportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicines;

and obtaining them near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper

walking up and down the gallery and to fall into step and walk

with him.

"I take it, sir," says Mr George, "that you know Miss

Summerson pretty well?"

Yes, it appears.

"Not related to her, sir?"

No, it appears.

"Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr George. "It seemed to

me probable that you might take more than a common interest in

this poor creature, because Miss Summerson had taken that

unfortunate interest in him. 'Tis my case, sir, I assure you."

"And mine, Mr George."

The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and

bright dark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems

to approve of him.

"Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I

unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where

Bucket took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not

acquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn.

That's what it is."

Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.

"Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man; and know

him to have been in communication with Bucket before,

respecting a deceased person who had given him offence. I know

the man, sir. To my sorrow."

Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is? "What kind of man. Do you mean to look at?"