I had to change the subject, and asked him what was in the box over the head of his bed, so securely attached to the wall. I was just going to handle it when he sang out: "Don't touch it! don't touch it, or you'll blow up the whole house!" "What is it?" "Explosives," he said. "I may want them; I'm not going to the workhouse again." I did not touch them, but got away as far as possible. Jonathan then produced an ordinary medicine-bottle, about half full of some liquid. "That's the last bottle the doctor ever sent my wife, and half of it was enough. I'm saving the other half; I may require it. No workhouse or parish doctor for me." I began to feel creepy; but the old man continued: "Lift that little bucket out of the corner, and tell me what's in it." I lifted it, and examined it, and said: "It is three parts full of charcoal, on the top of which is a quantity of sulphur. There is a piece of candle fixed in the sulphur and a box of matches attached to the handle of the bucket."
"Right," he said. "When my food is gone, I may put that bucket beside my bed, lock my door, light that candle, and lie down to sleep. I may do that, or I may blow the show up, or I may take that half-bottle of medicine. I haven't decided yet."
There was no appearance of boasting or jesting about the old man; his lips quivered, and he evidently meant what he said. But life has too much interest for him at present, and so long as he can find things and employ his strange talents in strange ways, Jonathan will not hasten his end. But when the streets know him no more, when his fading eyesight and his dwindling strength prevent him finding things, when he feels his dependence on others and can no longer burnish his milk-cans, then, and not before then, Jonathan will make his choice, and he may light his candle.
But the end was not yet, neither did it come in catastrophic fashion. I had not seen him for months, but, wishing to know how the old man was getting on, I ran down to his little home to renew our acquaintance; but he had disappeared, for the workhouse infirmary had received him.
Poor old Jonathan! The byways and thoroughfares of London know him no longer. Hairpins lie in scattered profusion on our pavements East and West, and babies' comforters may be seen in the mud and slime of our gutters; but hairpins and comforters lie unheeded, for Jonathan has passed.