Black Hearts in Battersea Read Online Free PDF Page A

pour ze coffee in a moment. Tell me about
my good friend Dr. Gabriel Field—how is it wiss him?"

    "Dr. Field?" Simon stammered, absently taking a large bite of the crisp bread which flew into crumbs all round him, "but—haven't you seen him? I thought he would be here."
    "Not since my
jour-de-fête
in July," said Dr. Furrneaux, carefully pouring coffee into two cups and handing one to Simon.
    "But then, but—"
    "He said you were to live wiss him. Are you not, then?"
    "He seems to have moved. He is not at the address he sent—"
    "Chose assez étonnante,"
Dr. Furrneaux muttered to himself. "Can Dr. Field be in debt? Escaping his creditors? Or in prison? He would have told me..."
    "He wrote inviting me to come and live with him, sir," Simon said. "He would have said if he was planning to move—"
    "Well, no doubt he has been called away on ze private affairs. He will return. One sing is certain, he will come back here. Now, you have eaten? Ze little one, he has eaten too?" Dr. Furrneaux nodded benevolently at the kitten which was licking up some crumbs of bread and butter from the dusty floor. "It is well. To work, zen! I wish to see you draw." He handed Simon a stick of charcoal.
    "Yes, sir." Simon took the charcoal with a trembling hand. "Wh-where shall I draw?"
    Dr. Furneaux's whiskered gaze roved round the room. There was not a clean canvas nor an empty space in it.
"Draw on zat wall," the doctor said, waving at the wall to his right, which was invitingly bare and white.

    "All over it, sir?"
    "Of course."
    "What shall I draw?"
    "Oh—anysing you have seen in ze last few days."
    As usual when Simon started drawing, he was rapt away into a world of his own. People knocked and entered and consulted Dr. Furrneaux, waited for assistance, went away again; some of them stared at Simon, others took no notice. Dr. Furrneaux himself came and went darting out to conduct a class, or back to criticize the efforts of a private pupil. At intervals he made more coffee, from time to time offered a cup of it—or a piece of bread, apple, grape, or sausage—to Simon. He ignored Simon's work, preferring, apparently, to wait till it was finished.
    Toward noon a boy a little younger than Simon came in escorted by a tall, thin man.
    "
Mon dieu!
" Dr. Furrneaux groaned to himself at sight of them. Then he stood up and waved them forward.
    "My dear young Justin—my dearest friend's grandson! And the sage Mr. Buckle.
Enchanté de vous voir.
Mr. Buckle—do yourself ze kindness to sit down. Let us see what you have been working at ziss week, my dear Justin."
    The boy did not speak, but hunched his shoulders and looked depressed, while the man addressed as Mr. Buckle—a sandy-haired, pale-eyed individual dressed in rusty black—laid a small pile of drawings on the desk.
    Neither the man nor the boy took any notice of Simon,
who observed that the boy looked positively ill with apprehension as Dr. Furrneaux examined his work. He was a sickly-looking lad, very richly dressed, but the olive-green velvet of his jacket went badly with his pale, spotty cheeks, and the plumed hat which he had taken off revealed lank, stringy hair.

    It was plain that he wished himself a thousand miles away.
    Dr. Furrneaux looked slowly and carefully through the pile of drawings. Once or twice he seemed about to burst out with some remark, but restrained himself; when he reached the last, however, his feelings became too much for him and he exploded with rage.
    "How can you, how
can
you bring such stuff to show to
me,
Jean-Jacques Furrneaux, Principal of ze Rivière Academie? Zis,
zis
is what I sink of zese
abominable
drawings!"
    With considerable difficulty he tore the whole batch across and across, scattering pieces of paper all about him, his whiskers quivering, his eyes snapping with rage. Although so small, he was a formidable spectacle. The boy, Justin, seemed ready to melt into the ground with terror as bits of paper flew like autumn leaves. Simon watched