Out of one of the smaller thoroughfares lying between Holborn and the
Strand, there opens a narrow alley, not more than six or seven feet
across, with high buildings on each side. In the most part the ground
floors consist of small shops; for the alley is not a blind one, but
leads from the thoroughfare to another street, and forms, indeed, a short
cut to it, pretty often used. These shops are not of any size or
importance--a greengrocer's, with a somewhat scanty choice of vegetables
and fruit, a broker's, displaying queer odds and ends of household goods,
two or three others, and at the end farthest from the chief thoroughfare,
but nearest to the quiet and respectable street beyond, a very
modest-looking little shop-window, containing a few newspapers, some
rather yellow packets of stationery, and two or three books of ballads.
Above the door was painted, in very small, dingy letters, the words,
"James Oliver, News Agent."
The shop was even smaller, in proportion, than its window. After two
customers had entered--if such an event could ever come to pass--it would
have been almost impossible to find room for a third. Along the end ran a
little counter, with a falling flap by which admission could be gained to
the living-room lying behind the shop. This evening the flap was down--a
certain sign that James Oliver, the news agent, had some guest within,
for otherwise there would have been no occasion to lessen the scanty size
of the counter. The room beyond was dark, very dark indeed, for the time
of day; for, though the evening was coming on, and the sun was hastening
to go down at last, it had not yet ceased to shine brilliantly upon the
great city. But inside James Oliver's house the gas was already lighted
in a little steady flame, which never flickered in the still, hot air,
though both door and window were wide open. For there was a window,
though it was easy to overlook it, opening into a passage four feet wide,
which led darkly up into a still closer and hotter court, lying in the
very core of the maze of streets. As the houses were four stories high,
it is easy to understand that very little sunlight could penetrate to
Oliver's room behind his shop, and that even at noonday it was twilight
there. This room was of a better size altogether than a stranger might
have supposed, having two or three queer little nooks and recesses
borrowed from the space belonging to the adjoining house; for the
buildings were old, and had probably been one large dwelling in former
times. It was plainly the only apartment the owner had; and all its
arrangements were those of a man living alone, for there was something
almost desolate about the look of the scanty furniture, though it was
clean and whole. There had been a fire, but it had died out, and the
coals were black in the grate, while the kettle still sat upon the top
bar with a melancholy expression of neglect about it.
James Oliver himself had placed his chair near to the open door, where he
could keep his eye upon the shop--a needless precaution, as at this hour
no customers ever turned into it. He was an old man, and seemed very old
and infirm by the dim light. He was thin and spare, with that peculiar
spareness which results from the habit of always eating less than one
can. His teeth, which had never had too much to do, had gone some years
ago, and his cheeks fell in rather deeply. A fine network of wrinkles
puckered about the corners of his eyes and mouth. He stooped a good deal,
and moved about with the slowness and deliberation of age. Yet his face
was very pleasant--a cheery, gentle, placid face, lighted up with a smile
now and then, but with sufficient rareness to make it the more welcome
and the more noticed when it came.
Old Oliver had a visitor this hot evening, a neat, small, dapper woman,