The Sunday herald and weekly national intelligencer., 1891-06-07
DICK GRAILEY'S ILL-LUCK.
The Tale of a Black Sheep.

stance, it was disgustingly raw and cold as he
ssuntered along Fleet street toward the gayer
Strand, where the theatres at any rate, looked
warm and bright with their flaring gas-iets
and their portraits of popular actresses. The
theatres Why, only few years ago, Dick
had been one of those sleek, supercilious
young men, in shining shirtfront and sweet
scented buttonhole, who now elbowed him
aside on the pavement as they escorted pretty
women from their carriages to the stalls of
some fashionable playhouse. Yes, he had
been like them-well-fed, we'll dressed, and
well-loolxing. And nowr Well, Mr.. Richard
Graley was not nice to look at. He had
shifty eye, a nose inclined to redness at the
tip, an ill-shsved, blotchy cheek. His hands
were covered with chilblains, and, having
temporarily parted with his only overcost, he
was constrained to stamp briskly ON the sodden
pavement to keep his blood moving at all.
He had had nothing to eat, to speak of, the
whole day; but now he had got hold of cheap
cigar, and that was something. Men offered
him drinks, in and around the newspaper
Offices in Fleet street; but they never thought
of Offering him plate of beef or basin of
soup. Mr.. Richard Grailey had had several
whiskies-and-waters since morning; but bit
meal, so that his head felt little light and
his Imagination began to run riot. Mr.
Richard Grailey was in the mood to dream
dreams.
His longings took practical form. He
wanted to feel warm, to have good dinner, a
coat to his back, and something more toerable
to smoke than that abominable penny cigar
In word, he wanted money-only little of
which had slipped with incredible swiftness
through his fingers some dozen years ago. 1t
was shameful that gentleman should be re-
duced to the position that he was in, reduced
to writing sporting paragraphs for a small
sporting paper, with the pay uncertain. And
it had come to this: he who had been at Eton,
who had spent, at any rate, one term at Oxford,
(his stay, to be sure, having been cut short by
the absurd prejudices of the authorities did
not know where to put his hand upon six
pence.
1t was twelve years since he had lived in
London and most of his friends had gone
abroad or died, while some had settled down to
married respectability in Bayswater and Ken
sington. One or two of these he had brushed
past in the street and they had not been able
to recognize him. Perhaps he was changed
they had all been boon companions of his once
or else the world was a more ungrateful
place than even he could imagine it. Those
years in Canada, horrible frozen years of exile,
during which he had tried most ways of earn
ing living, must have altered him. He had
been Internationally and fairly good-looking
when he had come to the end of his patrimony,
but twelve years of more or less intermittent
-''fun'' had not added to the lustre of his eye,
the freshness of his complexion, or the steadi-
ness of his hand. Canada to be sure, had not
turned out the Ell Dorado of his fancy, and
much of his time had been passed in endeavor-
ing to cheat the cold in the bars and drinking
saloons of Quebec and Montreal. 1t was in
one such place that he had met Jim Vereker
again-Jim, who used to be his fag at Eton,
and who had had a row with his mother and
had gone over to the Dominion couple of
years ago. Young gentlemen in the colonies
are not fastidious as to whore they are seen,
and the two had often met But Jim Vereker,
in the opinion of Dick, had always been bit
of prig, with over-nice ideas about truth and
honor which did not answer in this workaday
world, especially when a man had to earn
living as best he could. They had chummed
for bit, but at last they had parted in anger,
and Dick, for one, had an old score to pay off
on his quondam Eton fag.
And tonight, thinking over his old quarrel
with Jim, as he hung about Charing Cross, he
suddenly bethought him of Jim's mother. He
remembered her well-a fair timid, delicate
woman, generally on the sofa near the fire
when he had gone, as boy, to their house in
SangaZul Square. She had always been kind
TO him-always; why should she not be kind
TO him again? Mrs Vereker had been a
widow for many years; she lived alone, and shC
was a rich woman. Dick resolved that h'
would stroll up Pail Mall and find his way tC
Sangazul Square. He remembered the house
perfectly-a large one, with red blinds. Yes
Mrs. Vereker was at home but she did not set
people in the evening, said the butler; ''woul(
the gentleman send up his name ?' And
presently, he was shown into coy room
half-study, half-boudoir, where a bright fir
fiickered and large reading-lamp illuminet
the pale worn face of an elderly woman bend
ing over book. A fluffy Persian cat wa
curled up on a cushion at her feet, and tn
room was redolent of the scent from bow
of white lilac.
The lady rose, trembling, as he entered.
'You are Mr.. Grailey ?' she said, anxiously
Il am, indeed, glad to see You. You hay
been in Canada, have you not? You ma
have news of my-my poor Jim?'
Richard Grailey watched her narrowly
How sorrow had altered the pretty, fair fac
he remembered twenty years ago! The lai
two years had made her an old woman. Ho