He went straight from the railway terminus to the quiet tavern upon the
first floor of which the Ragamuffins had their place of rendezvous. It
was not an hour for the encounter of many Ragamuffins. A meek-looking
young man, of clerical aspect, who had adapted a Palais Royal farce, and
had awoke in the morning to find himself famous, and eligible for
admission amongst the Ragamuffins, was sipping his sherry and soda-water
while he skimmed the morning papers. Him Mr. Hawkehurst saluted with an
absent nod, and went in search of the steward of the club, from whom he
obtained Mr. Burkham's address, with some little trouble in the way of
hunting through old and obscure documents.
It was the old address; the old dingy, comfortable, muffin-bell-haunted
street in which Mr. Burkham had lived ten years before, when he was
summoned to attend the sick Yorkshire farmer.
Mr. Burkham's career had not been brightened by the sunshine of
prosperity. He had managed to live somehow, and to find food and raiment
for his young wife, who, when she considered the lilies of the field, may
have envied their shining robes of pure whiteness, so dingy and dark was
her own apparel. When children came, the young surgeon contrived to find
food and raiment for them also, but not without daily and hourly
struggles with that grim wolf who haunts the thresholds of so many
dwellings, and will not be thrust from the door.
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