Mr. Dunkin’s notice to quit arrived early the next morning. The service of that notice was a duty he owed to society, morality, conscience, virtue, propriety, religion, and several other things, which he enumerated without hesitation. He could not have sat in his pew the next day with any comfort, knowing that such a duty remained unperformed; he would have felt a hypocrite.

The notice might have come before, for the trade had been good and steady; but Mr. Dunkin also had heard the whispers that the ship-yard might be shut, and he had hesitated long. Now, however, there was no alternative—if Mrs. May were left to flaunt her infamy the trade must decline under the scandal, and the place fall worthless again. More, her expulsion at this time would seem less a seizure of the new branch than a popular vindication of righteousness.

Johnny was at home when the notice came. He had sent a message to Mr. Cottam, pleading urgent family affairs.

“Might have expected it,” Johnny said, giving the paper to Hicks, whom he had called into counsel. “Anyway mother swears she can’t show her face in the shop again. She seems almost afraid to come out of her bedroom, talks wild about disgracing her children, an’ wishes she was dead. She’s pretty bad, an’ as to the shop—that’s done up. Question is what to do now.”

Then Hicks rose to his feet, and met the occasion face to face. “We’ll do this thing between us,” he said, “and damn everybody! I ain’t a man o’ business, not special, but I got you all into this ’ere mess an’ I’ll see you out of it, or I’ll bust. Fust thing, this ’ere Mr. Dunkin’s game’s plain enough. ’Ere’s a very decent business goin’ on, an’ ’e takes this excuse to collar it ’isself. You ain’t took the shutters down yet, an’ we won’t take ’em down. We’ll stick up a big bill ‘Business come to a end,’ or such other words, an’ let the customers go where they like an’ ’ope they won’t come back. Then p’raps ’e’ll come along in a day or two an’ offer to buy the stock, thinkin’ ’e’ll get it for next to nothin’, you bein’ all at sixes an’ sevens. We won’t sell it—not one farden candle. But we won’t say so. No. We’ll fight cokum. We’ll ask ’im to think over it for another day or two an’ see if ’e can’t make it a quid or two more. ’E’ll let it slide all the week if we do it right, expectin’ to land us at the last minute an’ make us take anythink. But we’ll just be walkin’ the stuff all away very quiet in the evenin’s, in a barrer, an’ then ’e’ll come into a empty shop unexpected, an’ ’e won’t know what the customers is used to, an’ that’ll give ’im fits for another week or two. See?”

“But where shall we take the stuff?”

“Take it? Lord, anywhere!” replied Hicks, with a sweep of the hand. “There’s plenty o’ empty shops ready to be took everywhere. Why the number I’ve seen these two or three days ’ud surprise ye! Some ain’t as good as others p’raps, but that we’ll settle in the week. It’s just beginnin’ again, that’s all, same as what ye did three or four year back! Lord, we’ll do it, I tell ye—do it flyin’!” Long Hicks waved his arms enthusiastically. “As to the—the ha’pence,” he went on, “p’raps your mother’s got some, p’raps she ain’t—don’t matter either way. I’m a single man, an’ bin in good work years, an’ I got a bit in the savin’s bank. All right! I ain’t goin’ to offer no favours, so don’t sing out! Sixpence in the pound’s all I get out o’ the Post Office, an’ that ain’t much. I’m open to make it a bit more—three per cent. if ye like—on loan; any security, or none—there’s plenty in the place in the Forest an’ the stock an’ all—’ave it yer own way. Business! ’Ard business! That’s all it is. An’ now we’ll clear decks. Fust, get your mother an’ sister out o’ this, somewhere out o’ Harbour Lane, where they ain’t known, an’ where they’ll quit frettin’.”“Where?” Hicks’s impetuosity left Johnny’s wits lagging.

“Temp’ry lodgin’s. Needn’t be fur; next parish is as good as fifty mile auf, in London. Better. An’ by George! now I think of it, I see the very place when I was goin’ round. Party o’ the name o’ Bushell, in Poplar. ’Ouse too big for ’em—got a furnished bedroom to let; showed it me, case I might know anyone an’ send ’em, them ’avin’ done me a turn sendin’ me to Old Ford. What’s more, there’ll be two more rooms, unfurnished, next week, tenant goin’ out—young gal, a dressmaker. So we can take them too, if we get pushed, an’ run the sticks in there. There’s luck to begin with! Why, things’ll go like clockwork!”

Hicks rushed off to make sure of the lodging, and in half an hour was back with a four-wheeled cab.

“Get ’em down an’ pop ’em in sharp,” said Hicks. “I’ve told the cabby where to go. You go with ’em an’ make ’em comfortable, an’ I’ll wait ’ere till you come back. Mind—people at the ’ouse on’y know she’s in trouble ’cos ’er ’usband’s run away, an’ I paid a week in advance. Go on—I’ll keep out o’ the way in the back till they’re clear auf; they don’t want to see me.”

Nan and Bessy wore veils, and hurried into the cab, while Johnny glowered fiercely at every face he could see turned toward them. To Johnny the streets seemed unreasonably familiar as the cab jolted through them—unreasonably like what they were a day ago, before this blow fell and knocked the world out of shape. They went out through Blackwall Cross, by the High Street, and past the Institute, where the familiar housekeeper—the housekeeper who had given him Nora’s farewell letter—stood on the steps with a broom; through the two streets, and past that corner where they had parted—it seemed years ago. As to when they might meet again, and how—that was not to be thought of now. His head was too full already.