it was several weeks before tony could scrape together enough money for his new boots, though he pinched and starved himself with heroic courage and endurance. he did not mean to buy them at a shop; for he knew a place in whitechapel where boots quite good enough for him were to be had for two or three shillings. he was neither ambitious nor fastidious; old boots patched up would do very well to start with, if he could only manage to get them before aunt charlotte came up to town again. she had sent word she was coming the last saturday in january; and early in the afternoon of that day, before the train could come in from stratford, tony started off to the place where he intended to make his purchase.
it was a small open space in one of the streets of whitechapel, where there was an area of flags, lying off the pavement. several traders held possession of this square, sitting on low stools, or cross-legged on the ground, with their stock in trade around them. one dealer bought and sold all kinds of old and rusty pieces of iron; another, a woman, ill clad and with red eyes, displayed before her a dingy assortment of ragged clothes, which were cheapened by other spare and red-eyed women, who held almost naked children by the hand. it was cold, and a bitter, keen east wind was searching every corner of london streets. the salesman tony was come to deal with had a tolerable selection of old boots, very few of them pairs, some with pretty good upper-leathers, but with no soles worth speaking of; and others thickly cobbled and patched, but good enough to keep the feet dry, without presenting a very creditable appearance. for the first time in his life tony found out the perplexity of having a choice to make. there were none which exactly fitted him; but a good fit is a luxury for richer folks than tony, and he was not troubled about it. his chief anxiety was to look well in the eyes of dolly's aunt, who might possibly let him see her on her way back to the station, if she approved of him; and who would not now be obliged to carry dolly off with her, to be out of the way of his naked feet.
he fixed upon a pair at last, urged and coaxed to them by the dealer. they were a good deal too large, and his feet slipped about in them uncomfortably; but the man assured him that was how everybody, even gentlefolks, bought them, to leave room for growing. there was an awkward, uneven patch under one of the soles, and the other heel was worn down at the side; but at least they covered his feet well. he shambled away in them slowly and toilsomely, hardly knowing how to lift one foot after another, yet full of pride in his new possessions. it was a long way home to old oliver's alley, between holborn and the strand; but he was in no hurry to arrive there before they had finished and cleared away their tea; so he travelled painfully in that direction, stopping now and then to regale himself at the attractive windows of tripe and cow-heel shops. he watched the lamplighters kindling the lamps, and the shopkeepers lighting up their gas; and then he heard the great solemn clock of st. paul's strike six. tea would be quite over now, and tony turned down a narrow back street, which would prove a nearer way home than the thronged thoroughfares, and set off to run as fast as he could in his awkward and unaccustomed boots.
it was not long before he came to a sudden and sharp fall off the kerb-stone, as he trod upon a bit of orange-peel, and slipped upon it. he felt stunned for a few seconds, and sat still rubbing his forehead. these back streets were very quiet, for the buildings were mostly offices and warehouses, and most of them were already closed for the night. he lifted himself up at length, and set his foot upon the flags; but a shrill cry of pain broke from his lips, and rang loudly through the quiet street. he fell back upon the pavement, quivering and trembling, with a chilly moisture breaking out upon his skin. what hurt had been done to him? how was it that he could not bear to walk? he took off his new boots, and tried once more, but with no better success. he could not endure the agony of standing or moving.
yet he must move; he must get up and walk. if he did not go home, they would think he had run away again, for fear of meeting dolly's aunt. at that thought he set off to crawl homewards upon his hands and knees, with suppressed groans, as his foot trailed uselessly along the ground. yet he knew he could not advance very far in this manner. what if he should have to lie all night upon the hard paving-stones! for he could not remember ever having seen a policeman in these back streets: and there did not seem to be anybody else likely to pass that way. it was freezing fast, now the sun was gone down, and his hands scraped up the frosty mud as he dragged himself along. if he stayed out all night, he must die of cold and pain before morning.
but if that was true which old oliver said so often, that the lord jesus christ loved him, and that he was always with those whom he loved, then he was not alone and helpless even here, in the deserted street, with the ice and darkness of a winter's night about him. oh! if he could but feel the hand of christ touching him, or hear the lowest whisper of his voice, or catch the dimmest sight of his face! perhaps it was he who was helping him to crawl towards the stir and light of a more frequented street, which he could see afar off, though the pain he felt made him giddy and sick. it became too much for him at last, however, and he drew himself into the shelter of a warehouse door, and crouched down in a corner, crying, with clasped hands, and sobbing voice, "oh! lord jesus christ! lord jesus christ!"
after uttering this cry tony lay there for some minutes, his eyes growing glazed and his ears dull, when a footstep came briskly up the street, and some one, whom he could not now see for the strange dimness of his sight, stopped opposite to him, and then stooped to touch him on the arm.
"why," said a voice he seemed to know, "you're my young friend of the crossing,—my little fourpenny-bit, i call you. what brings you sitting here this cold night?"
"i've fell down and hurt myself," answered tony, faintly.
"where?" asked the stranger.
"my leg," he answered.
the gentleman stooped down yet lower, and passed his hand gently along tony's leg till he came to the place where his touch gave him the most acute pain.
"broken!" he said to himself. "my boy, where's your home?"
"i haven't got any right home," answered tony, more faintly than before. he felt a strange numbness creeping over him, and his lips were too parched and his tongue too heavy for speaking. the gentleman took off his own great-coat and wrapped it well about him, placing him at the same time in a more comfortable position. then he ran quickly to the nearest street, hailed the first cab, and drove back to where tony was lying.
tony's accident.
