Mr Corbett's Ghost Read Free Page B

a black moment. So say no more and be gone!’
    He paused and stared at his young caller with a quaintly earnest air. He took a pace down so that he and the boy stood on a level. They were of a height. Maybe, even, Benjamin was a shade the taller.
    â€˜Admit now—your heart and soul ain’t in it?’
    An unlucky expression! Whatever of doubt or uneasiness Benjamin might have felt (and he felt both, for he was but human) shrank beside the sudden image of skinny, grinning Mister Corbett grating, ‘Heart and soul, Master Partridge. I want them. I demand them!’
    â€˜Let me in,’ muttered Benjamin bleakly.
    The house smelled of graveyards—as did the old man—but otherwise it was no glummer than a parlour in Bow. The old man shrugged his shoulders, as if he’d done what he could, and led the way.
    â€˜This way, young man. Tread carefully. The stairs are treacherous. I don’t want your death on my hands!’
    So there was such a room aloft.
    Benjamin’s heart began to struggle in his breast. His breath came quickly and made thin patterns in the candle light. The old man paused. He jerked the candle down, thereby causing banisters and certain respectable pieces of mahogany furniture to take fright and crouch in their own shadows.
    â€˜Remember, young man—it’s heart and soul or nothing!’
    Again, fear and doubt fell away as Mister Corbett’s face was before Benjamin. His heart grew steady under a ballast of two years’ hating.
    â€˜It’s heart and soul, all right! And I’ll tell you—’
    â€˜Tell me nothing!’ interrupted the old man curtly. ‘No reasons,
if
you please! Reasons ain’t my concern. Had my fill of ’em, young man. Reasons that would freeze the ears off a brass monkey. Payment’s my concern.’
    Nervously Benjamin felt in his pocket. Not much there. But he hoped with all his heart and soul it was enough to procure—Mister Corbett’s death!
    â€˜Nothing now,’ said the old man, observing Benjamin’s action and divining its result. ‘I don’t aim to beggar you. My terms is fairer than that. A quarter of your earnings from now till—’
    â€˜Till when?’
    â€˜Till you die, young man. Just till then. And then you’re free. Paid up. Discharged. Now, no haggling
if
you please. This ain’t a market-place. Take my terms or leave ’em. A quarter of everything from now till Doomsday. I always deal in quarters. Always have and always will. So it’ll be fivepence out of every one and eightpence. Or, if you prosper (and please God you do!), five shillings out of every pound. No more: no less. Don’t be offended, young man. I always put my terms straight. Ask anyone . . .’
    But Benjamin was not disposed to ask anyone. The terms seemed reasonably fair, future payment being a cheerfuller prospect than present expense. He nodded in as businesslike a fashion as the circumstance allowed.
    The old man shook his head and, with many a painful sigh, continued upward into the night.
    â€˜Another floor, young man. The top of the house.’
    â€˜I know,’ said Benjamin.
    Again, the old man paused. He peered down over the banister with an air of resentment, as if a confidence had been betrayed and a secret blown to the winds. He seemed to shiver before mounting the remaining stairs briskly. Benjamin followed.
    â€˜This is the room,’ said the old man, and pushed open a door.
    For no reason but expectation, Benjamin shrank back into his pitiful coat. Yet the room was quiet. A fire burned subtly in the grate, and the furnishings were as genteel as anything else in the house. True, there was a smell of graveyards, but no worse than in the hall downstairs.
    â€˜Come inside,’ said the old man, lighting a second candle. ‘Come in and sit you down.’
    His voice was grown suddenly courteous, as if long custom in that room had got the