BLACK SHEEP!

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," "KISSING THE ROD," &c. &c.

CHAPTER V. GOING DOWN.

ON the evening of the day appointed for the
dinner, Mr. Philip Deane stood on the steps of
Barton's restaurant in the Strand, in anything
but a contented frame of mind. His face, never
too frank or genial in its expression, was puckered
and set in rigid lines; his right hand was
perpetually diving into his waiscoat-pocket for
his watch, to which he constantly referred;
while, with a slight stick which he carried in
his left, he kept striking his leg in an irritable
and irritating manner.

Mr. Deane had cause for annoyance; it was a
quarter past seven, and neither of the guests
whom he had invited had as yet appeared,
though the dinner had been appointed  for
seven sharp. Crowds of men were pouring into
and out of the restaurant, the first hungry and
expectant, the last placid and replete; and Mr.
Deane envied the first for what they were about
to receive, and the last for what they had
received. Moreover, the intended diners had in
several cases pushed against him with scant
ceremony, and Mr. Deane was not accustomed
to be pushed against; while the people who
had dined eyed him, as they stood on the steps
lighting their cigars, with something like
compassion, and Mr. Deane was unused to be pitied.
So he stood there fretting and fuming, and
biting his lips and flicking his legs, until his
shoulder was grasped by George Dallas, who,
with as much breath as he could command—
not much, for he had been running—said:

"My dear Deane! a thousand apologies for
being so late! Not my own fault, I protest!"

"Never is, of course," said Mr. Deane.

"Really it was not in this instance. I went
round to the Mercury office to look at some
proofs, and they kept me to do an article on a
subject which I had had the handling of before,
and which—"

"No one else could handle arter you, eh?
Pretty tall opinion you newspaper-writin' fellows
have of yourselves! And why didn't you
bring Routh with you when you did come?"

"Routh? I haven't seen him for three days.
Isn't he here?"

"Not he! I've been coolin' myself on this
a'mighty old door-step since seven o'clock, only
once goin' inside just to look round the saloon,
and I've not set eyes on him yet."

"How very odd!"

"So very odd, that I'll see him somethingest
before I wait for him any longer! Come you
in with me. I took a table right slick opposite
the door, and we'll go and strike up at once."

He turned on his heel as he spoke, and walked
up the passage into the large coffee-room of the
restaurant. Dallas, who followed him closely,
noticed him pause for an instant before one of
the looking-glasses in the passage, put his hat a
little more on one side, and throw open the folds
of his fur-lined coat. Beneath this noticeable
garment Mr. Deane wore a large baggy suit of
black, an open-worked shirt-front with three
large diamond studs in it, a heavy gold watch-
chain. There was a large diamond ring on the
little finger of each hand. Thus tastefully attired,
Mr. Deane, swaggering easily up the centre of
the coffee-room and slapping his leg with his
stick as he went, at length stopped at a vacant
table, and clinked a knife against a tumbler.

"Now, waiter! Just look smart and slippy,
and bring, up our dinner right away. One of
my friends is here, and I'm not a-goin' to wait
for the other. He must take his chance, he
must; but bring up ours at once, d'ye hear?
Why, what on airth is this?"

"This" was a boy of about twelve years of age,
with a dirty face and grimy hands, with an old
peakless cap on its head, and a very shiny,
greasy, ragged suit on its back. " This" seemed
to have been running hard, and was out of
breath, and was very hot and damp in the face.
Following Mr. Deane's glance, the waiter's eyes
lighted on " this," and that functionary
immediately fell into wrathful vernacular.

"Hallo! what are you doing here?" said he.
"Come, you get out of this, d'ye hear?"

"I hear," said the boy, without moving a
muscle. " Don't you flurry yourself in that
way often, or you'll bust! And what a go
that'd be! You should think of your precious
family, you should!"

"Will you—"

"No, I won't, and that's all about it. Here,
guv'nor"—to Deane—" you're my pitch; I've
brought this for you." As he said this, the boy
produced from his pocket a bit of string, a pair
of musical bones, and a crumpled note, and
handed the latter to Deane, who stepped aside