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Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

by George Manville Fenn · English · Gutenberg #34665 · 464,544 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

Author: George Manville Fenn


        
Release date: December 15, 2010 [eBook #34665]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34665

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTMAS PENNY READINGS: ORIGINAL SKETCHES FOR THE SEASON ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Christmas Penny Readings
Original Sketches for the Season
By George Manville Fenn
Published by George Routledge and Sons
This edition dated 1867

Christmas Penny Readings, by George Manville Fenn.

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CHRISTMAS PENNY READINGS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.



CHAPTER ONE.

CUTTING TIMES; OR, A FROST AND THAW.

ONE--FREEZING SHARP.

Twenty years ago, Hezekiah Thornypath was in Luck's way--so much so,
that Luck kicked him out of it.  Hez went up to London to make his
fortune, and he took his wife and children with him to help to make it:
Hez meant "to make his crown a pound," as the old song says, but he did
not.  Either times, trade, or Hez's management was bad; things went
contrary; and, as though it were a punishment for marrying against old
Thornypath's wish, Hezekiah's few hundred pounds melted away, troubles
came upon him, friends forsook him, and when he considered that his
affairs could be no worse, he had to fetch the doctor, who came, shook
his head, and in a few hours Hez and his wife were weeping bitterer
tears than they had ever shed before, for the rigour of death was fast
stealing away the beauty from the features of their youngest child.

The house looked sad and sombre with the blinds drawn down; footsteps
were hushed, and voices were heard but in a whisper--how needlessly Hez
too well knew, as he gazed, with his weeping wife, upon the little
sleeper.  The world looked in advance one dreary desert, while hope
seemed to have parted from them for ever.  No friendly word of comfort
was spoken, no whispered consolation--they were alone in the great city,
and the tears that fell had no earthly witness.

A few days dragged slowly past, and then the lid of the little painted
deal coffin hid from aching eyes the tiny spirit's cast-off robe.
Blinding tears, breasts heaving while the thrilling words of the Apostle
fell upon the grieving parents' ears, a last long look at the deep cold
grave, and a catching of the breath as the earth fell heavily upon their
infant's breast, and then, slowly, sadly, hand-in-hand, away from the
little grave.

Three months passed away, and the shabby mourning had grown more rusty--
three months of sorrow and struggles for the bare necessaries of life--
and then again the slow, creaking step of the doctor; the same anxious
faces watching the hard-drawn breath and fevered countenance of another
little sufferer--watching with aching hearts, and moaning in the
bitterness of their spirit at their helplessness, their utter impotence
to give relief.  Gazing with awe at the wild eye, unearthly look, and
startled mien; ever and anon trying to soothe the child, whose spirit
seemed to hold communion with another world.  The same sad, sad scene:
the creaking step departing, with the assurance, "nothing can be done;"
and then, by the gloomy light of the wretched candle, the shades of that
deepest night were seen to gather upon the little brow, as the eyes were
closed in the sleep whose waking is into life eternal.

Through the crowded streets again, to the crowded habitation of the
dead, a shabby funeral, with shabby mourners, hardly noticed but by the
children, who cease their play and cling to the churchyard rails, or
follow the sad procession amongst the mouldering graves.  Another little
coffin close beside the first in the cold, black earth, while hearts
filled to bursting mourn for the lost ones, drinking deeply of
affliction--of those bitter waters of Marah; and then on again, toiling
through life's weary way.

Months of struggling--months of privation and misery; and after a day
spent in a vain effort to gain employ, Hez slunk through the
gaily-lighted streets of the West End, shrinking within himself as
though it were dishonest of him to be poor, and to show his haggard face
amid so much wealth.  Christmas was at hand, and the gaily-decorated
shops were thronged with merry faces; the streets, too, were crowded,
vehicles were loaded, and railway-vans groaned beneath the weight of the
presents they were bearing away.  Boys home for the holidays, visitors
from the country, busy purchasers and sight-seers, hurried through the
teeming arteries of the mighty city; and the light of many a roaring
fire danced upon the window-blinds, or sent its curtain-shaded radiance
glowing across the road, telling of home and comfort, and the welcome
awaiting those away.  Soft flakes of snow were falling fast, and
deadened the footfalls of those he met.  A little farther on, strains of
music greeted his ear, and a voice arrested him for an instant as he
heard the words of a song well-known in happier days.  Again onwards, to
pass a merry party of young men, laughing and happy.  Everything
betokening comfort, wealth, and the festivity of Christmas, met his eye;
but no misery save his own, for the bitter night had sent all others
hiding down in courts and alleys, seeking in their darkness' for shelter
from the winter's icy breath.  Hez groaned; for he thought of past
Christmas-days, and now of the present, with his one beggarly room in a
court; of his patient, long-suffering wife, and half-starving children;
of the dire pressure upon him, and his impotence to ward off the
troubles.  Want had him tightly in her clutches, and, with the thought
of his misery, he looked down upon his wretched garb in despair.  He had
sold everything that the traffickers with poverty would buy; little by
little, furniture, plate, watches, books, clothes, the little trifles
interchanged in brighter days, all, all had gone; and now Hez hurried
back to his lodging, knowing that he could not stir again in search of
employment but as a shoeless beggar.

Hez and his wife supped that night upon the luxury he took in with him--
a hot potato; the two children lay asleep in their corner when he
returned; and bare and wretched as the back room was, lighted only by a
rushlight, there was still one bright ray to illumine its darkness--love
was there; and the same fond smile welcomed Hez back, as greeted him in
brighter days; the same arms--albeit thin and attenuated--clung round
his neck, and the same gentle face was laid to his, as when, in the full
career of prosperity, he had returned to a comfortable home.

Christmas-Eve, and things at the worst: the tide of prosperity floated
away, and Hez's bark stranded.  A bitter night; no furniture to sell; no
coals; no fire; and three weeks' rent in arrear.  A few hours before,
and a message came, that the landlady wanted to see Mr Thornypath; when
the poor fellow encountered the storm of abuse in waiting for him; to
listen to the threats of bailiffs, and finally, as no money was produced
by the wordy warfare, to receive notice to quit.  It was ten o'clock,
and Hez sat by the empty grate upon a broken stool; the children with
their mother were asleep upon a mattress stretched in the corner of the
room.  Poor things, they had cried with the cold, and their mother,
trying to lend warmth to their little chilled forms, in her weariness
and misery slept by their side.  Hez had knelt down, and kissed away a
half-dried tear from the pallid cheek, as he had added his ragged coat
to his wife's scanty covering.  It was a bitter, biting night, and Hez
felt half stupefied with the cold; the pane of glass which the children
had broken was badly stopped, and through it the chilly blast rushed in.
Earlier in the night there had been an organ in the court; but the man
gave in after playing half a tune, and shivered off, thinking of his own
sunny land; some musicians, too, and a carol singer, had been to the
public-house hard by; but their strains raised no response; and now,
Christmas-Eve though it was, the occasional tramp of a policeman, and
the hum of the distant street, were all the sounds that greeted the ear.

Hez sat upon his stool and mused, unmindful of the cold that crept
beneath his ragged shirt, and pinched him until it left blue marks upon
his flesh; unmindful of all but the half-muttered words and sighs of his
sleeping wife, when he would lightly cross the room to re-adjust the
wretched coverlet, and listen to her breathings, as though afraid that
she might leave him in her sleep.  Hez sat and mused: the bygone came
back, and the thinker saw himself as child, boy, and man.

Then he recalled stormy interviews with his father; insubordination and
defiance; the smarting of a blow upon his flushing cheek; and then,
married life, and still happiness for a time; years of sunshine, and his
barque floating gently along the stream, which now bore him for a time
upon his way.  Then the recollection of others' pains; the affliction,
ruin, and distress he had witnessed, where adversity had been bravely
battled with for long, long years.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A black cloud shrouding the man's soul: why should he suffer thus? what
had he done? where was his sin? should wife and little ones bear the
offence of the father?--suffer for his disobedience?  Thousands around
were in opulence; and he, willing to fight for his daily bread, eager to
seize the work that should give him the labourer's independence, pushed
to the wall by the hundreds striving to grasp the coveted food-procurer.
Why should he not take what stern fate denied? must he sit and watch
his little ones' agony, or apply as a pauper for parish relief?  What
was honesty to him now? he must have gold--gold--not to satisfy greed or
the avarice of possession, but because it was the life of all most dear
to him.  Glittering stores of life-blood--wife's, children's
life-blood--breath--lay in the windows close, at hand; could he not
clutch the spoil, and let them live and be happy once more?  "Thou shalt
not steal!"  What whispered of theft?  It was no theft, but duty; the
right of a strong man to grasp the possessions of the weaker, as kings
made conquests.  Gold, jewellery, wealth for the taking, and then in
some country home to forget once more this hideous act in life's drama.
"Thou shalt not steal!"  Hush, conscience, hush!  Man must live!  But
not by bread alone.  Not one sparrow should fall to the ground without
He willed it so!  But life--life for the sleeping ones; life for his
long, long-suffering wife--for his prattling children!  Must he keep
laws and see the famine-pinched cheeks, the blue lips, and listen to
wailing cries for bread?  Had he not waited and hoped--hoped still
against the crushing desolation that pressed upon his weary brain?  But
why not die?  Why should they not all sleep--sleep together?  A little
charcoal and the door well closed; the chimney stopped; and then, with
them gently sleeping, without a struggle, wafted away from this weary
life to eternal rest.  His would be the sin; and they, poor, gentle,
loving hearts, would be tenderly led by the hand of Mercy to their
Father's home.  Life! what was life but one great sorrow?  They, poor
sleepers, would not suffer.  But what was that?  A merry gentle laugh
and a few half-muttered words from little golden hair, nestling close to
her mother's breast; prattling words of playful glee; some happy dream
playing round that little flame of life.  And should he crush it out?
slay as a murderer that tiny innocent? to hear no more the music of its
mirth, the ringing silver of its laugh, and the broken, half-framed
words and sentences of its lips--words so sweet and playful that the
child itself would peer through the golden tangle that overhung its
bright blue eyes, and laugh--merrily laugh--to hear its own attempts.
Those blue eyes, pure in their light as the heaven reflected in their
liquid depth.  Must this be so?  God--God forgive the thought!  They
should live--live to bless him yet, for his secret should be his own.

The grate bar--the broken poker!  Enough: they would suffice.  He would
go--go at once; but stay, he must wait awhile; his wife had moaned in
her sleep, the wind had rattled the window, and he felt numbed with the
cold.  He had thought too much; but he was now relieved and determined.

TWO--DOWN TO ZERO.

Fleet Street.  The wind whistling down the river lanes and moaning
through the courts.  The night far advanced, and a thin section of the
moon rising behind the distant cathedral.  Stars bright, and sparkling
like diamonds through the keen frosty air.  The gas within the lamps
quivering in the chilling draught, and the policeman passing a figure
cowering in a dark alley near Temple-bar.  The warder of the night
passes, and a single vehicle rattles by directly after, the horse's
breath rising like a vapour; and then wheels and footsteps gradually
fade upon the ear as they pass, echoing down the long street.  The
bareheaded, coatless figure emerges from its concealment, and looks
around.  All still as death, and no eye upon its actions but the stars
of heaven, as it were, spirits looking down to chronicle what passed.
The rattling of a shutter bar--the grating noise as of iron upon iron,
mingled with the crackling of woodwork; the figure wrenching and tearing
with maniacal fury at the firm fastenings, while huge drops of sweat
roll down his face.  More resistance; more noise; but the figure,
straining with the might of a giant, again and again, till the iron
snaps in the frosty air; and then, wrenched out by its protecting bar,
an iron-sheeted shutter lies upon the pavement.  To dash in the thick
glass, and, with bleeding hands, to seize watches, chains, trays of
rings, and sparkling jewels, and force them into a bag, is but the work
of a few moments, and, grasping with both hands all that he can clutch,
the figure turns to flee, just as the sharp report of a pistol rings
from the interior of the shop.  The glass shivers, but the figure is
untouched, and grasping the stolen treasure, darts along the pavement,
hardly avoiding the blow aimed at him by a policeman.  Away down the
well-lit street, followed by sounds that lend speed to the enfeebled
frame, for, joined to the shouts of the alarmed inmates of the house,
the policeman's rattle sends its harsh whirring alarm-notes through the
still night air.  Onward, clutching the booty to his breast, and panting
as the pursuing steps sound fainter; a race for more than life, and the
street nearly passed, when another enemy darts from a side court, and
grasps the fugitive's arm.  There is a sharp struggle for a few moments,
and the policeman falls, stricken to the ground by an iron bar, and the
figure dashes on again.  But the alarm has spread as he turns down
Bridge Street, where the sharp air seems to numb the limbs of the
runner.  Battle after rattle and shrill whistles are heard, and the
figure stands for a moment undecided, wiping the half-frozen drops from
his brow.  Again onward, with enemies springing up on all sides, and
shouts ringing in his ears; panting up the steep slope of the old
bridge, but at the top two more enemies.  Beaten, wearied, fainting; no
hope; escape closed; prison; felon's dock; transportation; a starving
wife and children; and a dishonoured name--all crowding thoughts,
rushing to the brain to add anguish to the moment, as, still clutching
his ill-gotten booty, the despairing wretch, with a last look around,
climbs the heavy stone balustrade, gives one wild shriek, and parts the
air in a plunge down into the dark abyss of rushing waters.  The waters
part to receive him in their cold embrace, and then the struggle for
life--for breath--above water--borne away by the swirling eddies, and
dashed against the sharp buttress; gliding along by the slimy stone, and
hurried through the arch, to be caught by the back eddy, and swept into
still water, and borne down by the heavy booty.  One glance at the
bright stars, with the stream bubbling at his mouth; arms failing with
beating the waves; and then the tide roaring in the drowning wretch's
ears, spreading his long hair for a moment upon the surface, and then
closing above his head--the concentric rings swept away, and all cold,
dark, and familiar once more--the gas in the court shining up through
the window upon the ceiling, and wife and children asleep upon the
floor.

Cold and stiff, Hez staggered to his feet; a heavy dew was upon his
brow; a deep groan burst from his breast; and, sinking upon his knees,
he covered his haggard face with his hands, and, by the side of his
sleeping ones, a prayer of thankfulness welled forth from the depths of
his heart that it was but a dream.  Overwrought nature could bear no
more, and at last, sinking beside his sleeping wife, that happy
oblivion, given alike to rich and poor, closed his eyes once more in
rest.

THREE--RAYS FROM THE CRYSTALS.

The bells rang forth merrily upon that Christmas-morn; the sun shone out
in unclouded splendour, and danced in vivid flashes from the snowy
covering of the house-tops.  Water frozen in the bedrooms, and, far off
in the country, the rivers ringing with the pick-axe blows to break the
massive ice.  Birds upon the house-tops setting all their feathers up
perpendicularly, and looking as if they had put in an appearance against
the cold by donning an extra suit.  There was a crisp feeling in the air
that sent the blood tingling through the veins, and gave a rosy hilarity
even to the porters of the gate-ways about Lincoln's Inn; for they
seemed to drop their pounce and parchment air for the time, and beat
their breasts, and stamped about the fresh-swept pavement with such an
air of jollity, that people turned round to look at them; and one
wayfarer gave it as his opinion that the Court of Chancery was dead, and
the porters had received the news of a pension from a grateful country.
The policemen, too, for once looked good-tempered; and one was actually
seen to smile upon a ragged urchin going surreptitiously down a slide.

It was Christmas-morning, but there was plenty of business going on: the
poulterer's boy from round the corner showed ears that looked like raw
beef; but he had a broad grin upon his countenance as he puffed along,
sending his vapoury breath on high in little clouds, and evidently
happy, although laden with a tray of "Aldermen hung in chains;" and fat
and plump those turkeys looked; rich, too, those sausages, but freezing
hard in the sharp air.  The greengrocer up Hez's Court was doing a
powerful stroke of business in potatoes and greens; oranges, parsnips,
and sticks of celery and horse-radish disappeared like magic.  "'Taters
at three pound tuppence" went off like shots; and, as for the penny a
pound "flukes," there was great fear lest they should not last out, for
the "floury Regents" were almost sold off.  People seemed to have run
mad after greens at "five-pence the market bunch;" and the master of the
shop had been heard to say to his wife, that "if it hadn't ha' been
Christmas-day, he'd ha' kep' open all church time!"  But it was
Christmas-day, as anyone might have seen by the bareheaded butcher-boys
taking home the mottled beef that they could not find time for on the
previous night; for trade was so brisk that there was no occasion to cry
"What d'ye buy, buy, buy!" every moment being taken with weighing and
cutting up.

It was Christmas-day; and, for once in a way, London seemed disposed to
forget all the troubles of work-a-day life in the full enjoyment of the
festive season.  "Clang-clash" went the bells.  One, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight, and then backwards and forwards, and in and
out, chopping and changing, dodging, bob-majoring, tripling and
doubling, and rolling out their peals in every way connected with
campanology; until they all went off together with a mighty clash, as
though they had gone mad with delight because it was Christmas-day.
Many were the puddings that, tightly bound in the well-floured cloth,
had been plunged into the seething copper, as soon after six o'clock as
cook could get the water to boil; and many were the happy hearts
collected from far to eat of the tiresome old cloying, surfeiting,
sweet, lovable, festive dish.

Saint Dunstan's church-clock had just pointed to half-past nine, when a
stoutish old lady in a black silk dress, ditto bonnet, bright-hued
shawl, a basket of the celebrated old check pattern, and bearing a
genuine stag-horn handled gingham umbrella, secured round its waist by a
piece of black tape, and much resembling its owner in bodily
proportions--a stoutish old lady struggled between the knees of the
passengers from the very bottom of the first "up" Kensington 'bus that
morning; and then tried the patience of the key-bugle playing conductor
to its fullest stretch while she sought for the money to pay her fare.
Of course the 'bus had stopped before the stoutish old lady had expected
it, or she would have been prepared, and she said so; while, by a series
of the most terrible contortions she contrived to force her hand through
the lumber-room full of pin-cushions, nutmegs, orris-root, scissors,
bodkin-cases, pearl buttons, thimbles, stilettoes, etcetera, etcetera,
which the stoutish old lady called her pocket, and extricated from its
snug, warm place, at the very bottom, the flat tin-box which was her
purse; and also, as a matter of course, which would not open at any
price, till the old lady grew almost purple in the face, when off flew
the lid--"spang"--scattering sixpences and shillings half over the road.
But it was Christmas-day, and the conductor must have had just such a
jolly-looking old soul for his own mother, for he good-humouredly and
nimbly hopped about and picked up the scattered coins, put the old lady
"all square agin," and then, upon the strength of its being
Christmas-morning, gave the motherly-looking old soul a sounding kiss
upon one of her puckered cheeks, and hopped upon his perch before the
old lady could get her breath.

The passenger, who was no other than Mrs Cripps, clear-starcher and
laundress, of Kensington Gravel Pits, had walked some distance up Fetter
Lane before she had recovered her equanimity, when a pleasant-looking
smile began at one corner of her mouth, at the side where she had lost
most teeth, and gradually overspread her mottled old face, till she
looked like what she was--such a true specimen of a comfortable old
English dame, that a fat butcher standing at his door, with a face red
as his own beef, looked as if he would have liked to take the old lady
under the mistletoe hanging so temptingly with its pearly berries
outside the greengrocers over the way.  But he did not do it; and,
directly after, a shade crossed Mrs Cripps's countenance as she turned
up a court to the left.  She walked up and down it several times, as she
said to herself, "to get breath," but in reality to try and rid herself
of a nervous trembling that would come over her, and make her old hands
shake so that she could hardly hold umbrella and basket.  Truth must
out; and at last the nervousness so increased that the dame went into
the "Rising Sun," and again brought the tin-box into requisition to pay
for a glass of gin; and thus fortified Mrs Cripps turned into the
shabbiest house in the court, pointed out to her as Number 9, where she
puffed and panted up the stairs until she reached the second floor
landing, leaving out the customary summons of two rings at the second
bell, so as "to take them by surprise."

For three or four days Mrs Cripps had been in a state of great
excitement; for she had found out that Master Hez, whom she had nursed
when a baby, and her dear bairn, Miss Celia, whom she knew before the
little darling was as tall as her umbrella, were in London and very
badly off.  The old lady, who had settled in the great city's suburb at
the death of her husband, an event which had taken place many years
before, hugged herself with the idea that she could now repay an old
debt, and determined to try and get them to dine with her on
Christmas-day.  A real north country goose was obtained expressly for
the occasion; the raisins were stoned and the suet chopped over-night,
and before starting that morning the old lady had seen the pudding in
the copper, and left her _aide-de-camp_ with full munitions and
instructions for carrying on the management of the _batterie de cuisine_
until her return with "company to dinner."

In her homely way the world had prospered with the old lady.  The best
parlour was, though perhaps no example of refined taste, snug and
comfortable; and if any one could brew a good cup of tea in the best
china teapot it was Mrs Cripps.  Rumour said something about dividends,
and periodical visits to the Bank.  Be that as it may, Mrs Cripps had a
comfortable business of her own; and heavy was the load of linen--clean
or dirty--that the man with the rough pony took backwards and forwards
from "the squares."

It was some time before the visitor to Pounce Court could summon up
enough courage to turn the handle of the door and enter the backroom,
"to take them by surprise;" but when by a mighty effort she did so, the
surprise was not with them, but returned upon herself.  Poor Mrs
Cripps, she gave a sort of hysterical gulp as she closed the door behind
her and hurried across the room to greet Hez and his wife; but she had
not gone many steps ere she was overcome by what she saw, and, sinking
upon her knees, she burst forth into a wild fit of sobbing and weeping,
rocking herself to and fro, and moaning at intervals--"My poor bairns!
oh, my poor bairns!"

She had cause; seated side by side, cold, gaunt, and hunger pinched, Hez
and his wife watched with famished eyes their two children eating the
bare crusts which their last pence had purchased.  There was no fire in
the room; scarcely a bit of furniture, and cold gusts of wind rushed
through the ill-filled window.  But Mrs Cripps, though fat, was gifted
with energy; her hand dived into her capacious pocket and brought forth
a large blue cotton handkerchief, and in a moment her eyes were wiped;
and as the astonished family gazed upon her she scuffled back to the
door, and was gone.  In a few seconds, however, she was back again to
fetch her basket which she had left upon the floor; was gone again; but
only to return and fetch the great gingham umbrella which stood leaning
against the table, with its large stag-horn hook gazing in a pensive way
into a broken saucer.

Few minutes elapsed before the silence was again broken, when heavy
steps were heard ascending the staircase; the coal man gave his
customary shout at the door, and half a hundred weight and some bundles
of wood were deposited in the cupboard; while before Hez's wife had
recovered from her surprise, in puffed Mrs Cripps, with a loaf under
her shawl, and the big basket in such a plethoric condition that the
handles would not half close.

A portion of the outer sunshine seemed to have crept into the room, or
to have been reflected from Mrs Cripps's face; and what with attempted
smiles, and the efforts required to gulp down an occasional sob, that
lady's countenance was a physiognomical study.  The umbrella was soon
crowned with the big black bonnet, and stood up in a corner, the shawl
hung up on a nail, the gown skirts pinned up all round, and the old lady
bustling about the place as though she belonged to it.  Twice only had
she to run up in a corner to bury her face in the big blue handkerchief;
but making a cheerful fire, and picking out the most nubbly coals,
getting the kettle on in the most eligible position for heat, and
fanning the blazing wood with the dust-pan, took up so much time that
the old lady soon forgot to sob.  The odds and ends of cups and saucers
were then arranged upon the table; and the children, with eager eyes,
watched the disgorging of the big basket, until they clapped their
little hands with delight in anticipation of the coming banquet.
Rashers of bacon, fresh butter, eggs, coffee, sugar, all were there; and
then the kettle gave two or three premonitory snorts by way of clearing
its throat, and to announce that it was going to sing; whereupon the
elder girl was enlisted into Mrs Cripps's working committee, and set to
do duty as toaster of a rasher of bacon before the now cheerful fire.
Plates were put to warm; the small saucepan rummaged out, and a piece of
rag drawn tightly through a hole in the bottom.  "Tos it yuns!" as Hez's
little one informed the dame after she had seen it herself and
temporarily repaired the evil; and then eggs were placed in it, upon the
hob, all in readiness; so that, what with the brightness of the fire,
and Mrs Cripps's smiling face, the bare and not wretched room began to
wear an aspect of unwonted cheerfulness.

Everything was progressing to a satisfactory state of readiness; and now
the demands upon the old lady's time were multifarious: the kettle was
sputtering and boiling over into the fire; the bacon was nearly done;
the coffee required tossing in and out of a tea-cup; the eggs wanted
watching while they seethed their prescribed three minutes and a half;
and then there was the bread and butter to cut and the butter wouldn't
spread, but kept coming off in great crumb-lined flakes.  But
perseverance overcomes all difficulties, and as Mrs Cripps had plenty
of that virtue in her composition, she surmounted all her trials, and
set the two children to work with an egg each, and some bread and
butter, before she turned to the elders.

Hez and his wife had hardly moved since their visitor entered the room,
but Mrs Thornypath was weeping tears of thankfulness upon her husband's
shoulder; while the latter, with feelings of mingled gratitude and
wounded pride, sat with head half averted, until his old nurse
approached with so apologetic an air, such a union of respect and pity,
withal such tenderly, motherly words, that Hez completely broke down,
and burying his face in his hands, he wept like a child.

Poor Mrs Cripps, she was thirty years old when Hez was born, and she
was thirty years older than he still; in her eyes he was but a boy, and,
sobbing aloud, she knelt by his side, and parting the long hair from his
forehead, the good old soul kissed him tenderly, and wiped his eyes with
her big blue handkerchief.  But the sun came out again all over Mrs
Cripps's face, and dissipated the cloud that was lending gloom to the
festive morn; whispering words of comfort to the stricken couple, Mrs
Thornypath brightened up; and Hez, passive as a child, let them lead him
to the table, where the old lady presiding beamed upon them all during
the repast.

But it was Christmas-day, and Mrs Cripps's plans had not yet reached
fruition; so, after the breakfast, she retired with Mrs Thornypath into
a corner, where, during a long discussion, the latter lady seemed trying
to beg off some arrangement that the other was proposing; but she was
speedily conquered by her energetic adversary, who, watching her
opportunity, attacked poor Mrs Thornypath in her weakest point, and
carried the day by saying it would "do the dear children good."  Mrs
Thornypath then crossed over to her husband, who was leaning against the
mantel-piece, and whispered with him for a minute; when he, poor fellow,
glancing at his clothes, sorrowfully shook his head.  But it was of no
use; Mrs Cripps reinforced the attacking party, and poor Hez,
completely beaten, gave a silent acquiescence to their entreaties.

There was now a busy interval of preparation, when a heavy footstep was
heard upon the stairs.  Hez gave an involuntary shiver as a loud rap was
heard at the door, and then, without waiting for an answer, in stalked a
stout, red-faced woman--the landlady--who, having gained scent of the
new friend who appeared upon the scene, thought this a favourable
opportunity for renewing her importunities.  She had come with a speech
all ready made up, and began:--

"Now, Mr Thornypath, about this here rent?"

Hez was about to reply, when Mrs Cripps confronted the intruder, and
with the most cutting politeness said, "Pray, mum, have you brought your
receipt?"

This was hardly what the landlady had prepared herself for, so she
replied in the negative, when Mrs Cripps, with the same show of
politeness, requested her to fetch it; and after backing the red-faced
woman out, stood waiting her return; for Mrs Cripps was ready to face
twenty Mrs Prodgers, and give them all a bit of her mind.  This feeling
was also strongly shared by the lady in question, who had determined
also to make the second floor back a present of the above popular
portion of a quarrelsome person's thinking apparatus; but upon her
return, very much out of breath with her ascent, in spite of Hez's
remonstrances, she was paid in full, and before a sufficiency of lung
inflation had taken place, the closing door cut short all attempts at
recrimination.

Mrs Prodgers was one of that class of householders who so abound in our
thickly-populated neighbourhoods.  She took a house with the intention
of making all she could out of it, and not such a very unbusiness-like
proceeding after all.  But it is the cause of a vast amount of misery
amongst those who are compelled to seek a house close to their daily
avocation.  They are obliged to live upon the spot, and so, in the
scarcity of abodes, pay whatever rent is demanded, always a most
exorbitant one, and this they contrive to pay while work holds out, but
the first drawback places them at the tender mercies of their Mrs
Prodgers, when their life becomes a burden, and too often that most real
of all distresses, a distress for rent, sweeps away the little
hardly-gained furniture.  In many cases, however, Mrs Prodgers, through
her over-reaching, finds that her tenants have left suddenly, leaving
"not a wrack behind."  Would it not be better to receive a moderate and
well-paid refit?

A boy out of the first-floor back soon fetched a hackney coach, and into
it Mrs Cripps hurried all her party, to be conveyed by her to the
"Gravel Pits."  There was plenty of delicacy, too, in the old dame, for
she could not see anything upon the journey but the children, nor attend
to anything but their wants, and so by degrees Hez's shame and wounded
pride, that so far had covered him with an icy reserve, melted before
the genial dame.  The bright morning, and the merry faces of his
children, listening to the details of the pudding that awaited them,
these, too, tended to bring to his remembrance the dream of the previous
night, and to show him that one loving, honest heart on earth was more
than a match for despair.  The streets were full of happy faces, and to
Hez's eye everything appeared already to wear a brighter aspect.  "Try
again" seemed to ring in his ears, and during a temporary stoppage the
greeting of one rosy-faced old man to another, "Merry Christmas and
Happy New Year to you, my boy," seemed to thrill through him.  Why
should it not be a happy new year to him too?  And with the thought the
saddening, vacant, helpless look vanished from his countenance, driven
away by the spirit of energy and determination; his carriage became more
erect, and this unwonted aspect was communicated to her who had divided
with him the troubles of the past.

Mrs Cripps still kept too busy on the front seat with the children to
observe what passed opposite, but somehow or other a very large tear
trickled slowly down her nose, until it descended "plash" upon the hand
of the child she held in her lap, making the little thing ask in her
wonderment "what made it yain there?"  There was too much to point out
to the children for any notice to be taken of what took place, and when
at last Hez and his wife each held out a hand to the dame, the former
felt that there was no cause to fear humiliation, for the hearty, honest
pressure, accompanied as it was by the motherly, loving smile, showed
the full extent of the existing sympathy, and how little need there was
for wordy thanks.

FOUR--THE SUN'S INFLUENCE.

There never was such a goose before! never--brown, crimply, fragrant,
and luscious, as--as--as--there; nothing else will compare with it--
luscious as roast goose.  The cooking too: one turn more would, nay
must, have spoiled it; and as to the consequences of one turn less, they
were not to be thought of.  It was just, to do Mary justice, "done to a
turn," and Mrs Cripps was put out of her misery; for, as she had told
Mrs Hez in confidence, she had had her doubts; but they were all
cleared up, and the old lady's face shone and looked for all the world
like the pippins that had composed the sauce.  Such mashed potatoes,
beautifully worked all over the surface into elegant designs with a
fork, and showing brown where they had been to the fire; while just
under Hez's nose, and sending forth a maddening jet of steam, was a
tureen full of supplementary gravy, and sage and onions, in case the
great levy that lay within the internal regions of the goose should
fail.  There was a big brown jug of the brownest stout; bread of the
whitest; greens of the greenest; and the table had all the best cut
glass on, so as to give the effect to Mrs Cripps's six silver
table-spoons.  There was a real oak Christmas log upon the fire,
crackling away and sending whole regiments of soldiers flying up the
chimney, when poked for the gratification of little Goldenhair.  Hez's
eldest child, too, had had a peep in the sideboard cupboard, where there
were oranges, apples, figs, nuts, decanters, and all sorts of unheard-of
treasures.  But at last the whole party were settled at the table; Mr
and Mrs Hez top and bottom, and Mrs Cripps and the children taking the
posts of the visitors.

There never was such a goose before.  "Ciss-s-s-s" at the first plunge
of the carving-knife a fountain of rich brown gravy spurted right across
the snow-white table-cloth, and right into the salt-cellar; and then
there was such scraping and rubbing up of the mess, only ending in
making bad doubly worse; but at last the carver's duty was well
performed, the choice morsels distributed, and Mrs Cripps idle, from
the fact that she really could not force more mashed potatoes or gravy
upon anyone.

At last, when summoned, Mrs Cripps's Mary came in to change the plates,
and brought with her such a fragrant scent as could only have belonged
to a Christmas pudding; and, sure enough, it directly afterwards made
its appearance, with sides bursting open to disclose the richness
within.  It had been on the boil for six hours; and what with the piece
of holly stuck in the top, and the wine-glassful of brandy set blazing
in the dish, there never could have been such a luxurious pudding
before.  As to the children, they again clapped their hands with
delight, but otherwise gave silent testimony of their admiration by
being helped three times, and eating as only children can eat pudding.

But the best of dinners must have a termination, and so did this one;
and when the hearth had been swept up, and the treasures of the cupboard
shone upon the little table; and whilst the fire-light danced in golden
hues within the old-fashioned decanters, full of old-fashioned home-made
wine, the chairs being all drawn up round the fire, Mrs Cripps began to
tell her visitors of her savings; and how that she had two hundred
pounds in the bank; and it not being likely that she would want it for
many years to come, it was her wish that Hez--"dear Master Hez"--should
take it to begin the world with afresh, and pay his old nurse again when
he could spare it.  And when Hez and his wife would not hear of such a
thing, the old woman grew quite angry, and took the upper hand, saying,
"that they were children and ought not to dictate to an old body of her
years, and that she would do what she liked with her own money," and
last of all pretended to get in such a passion, that the visitors were
obliged to be silent.

At last, when the early winter's eve was closing in, when the ferny
foliage began to appear upon the frosty panes, and before the candles
were lighted, Mrs Cripps, who had been for a long time very silent,
suddenly asked Hez if he remembered the story he used to read her, years
ago, out of his little book, about the mouse helping the lion out of the
net.  Hez replied in the affirmative, and saw again within the glowing
fire the image of his tiny, bygone self, perched upon a tall chair,
reading to his comely nurse.  While his nurse, old, but comely still,
fondly putting her hand upon his shoulder, reminded him, too, of the
dreary Christmas-eve when she had come to his father's house--to her old
master--wet, cold, and weary with her long walk from the distant
village; how that weeping and sobbing she had come to beg the stern old
man to lend her money to save her husband from ruin, and their little
home from being broken up; how that Hez's father had refused--harshly
refused--saying that he had too many ways for his money to waste it in
helping idle people; and how, when turning heartsick to the door, a
little hand had seized hold of old nurse's gown, telling nurse not to
cry, for Hez would give her all his money; and forthwith thrust his
little box, containing two new pennies and a lucky sixpence, into her
hands, setting her weeping more bitterly than ever; bringing her upon
her knees by his side to sob over and kiss the noble-hearted little
fellow, till a stern voice had called him away; but only to come rushing
after her again with the money she sought clasped in his little hands.
"And," concluded the dame, once more sinking upon her knees by the side
of Hez, "I thank God that I can show my dear boy how many years I have
remembered his kind--kind act!"

It was growing very dark in the little parlour, and Mary was getting
very impatient to bring in the tea-things; but her patience was tried
for some time longer, and when at last, unsummoned, she took them in,
and lit the candles, the children had fallen asleep upon the sofa, and
"missus's" eyes looked very red.

FIVE--WHAT FOLLOWED.

Hez had found the long lane had a turning in it at last, and the roadway
of that turning was smooth and easy to travel upon--so easy that he soon
left all the frost and thaw far behind, and got well on in his journey
of life.  He used to say that a blessing went with old nurse Cripps's
money, for success attended his every venture with it.  He is now a man
of some note in his little country-town; and it is a fact patent to all
that a helping hand can always be found with Hezekiah Thornypath by
those who merit it.

I spent a few days with him at Christmas-time, some three or four years
since, and there, in the snuggest corner of the room, sat a very old,
white-haired dame, pretending to be very busy knitting, propped up in
her easy-chair, with one or another of Hez's numerous youngsters on the
watch to pick up the constantly-straying worsted and needles.  There was
always a smile upon the old lady's face when any such act was performed
for her--a smile that grew brighter still when Hez approached to say a
few words.

Christmas-night had come, and a merry day had been spent.  The old lady
had smiled and looked pleased when Hez talked of never having been able
to get such another goose as nurse Cripps gave them that day, years ago,
for dinner; and that, for all his money, he had never seen such a
pudding upon his table as the one he partook of at Kensington.  She had
sat in state, too, while having her health drunk by all the family; and
feebly she bent forward to "wish Master Hez a merry Christmas."  At last
the party was collected round the fire, the evening was fast giving way
to night, and quiet conversation was taking the place of the merry
laughter and games of the afternoon.  Hez and his wife sat on either
side of Mrs Cripps, and had risen to once more wish the dame "a merry
Christmas" before she left them for her early-sought couch.  They had
been talking of bygones; and, sitting with a hand grasped by those she
had loved so long, the poor old lady suddenly lifted herself up, but
only to fall back again in her chair as though asleep.

In the midst of the excitement, I aided Hez to carry her to her room,
where she lay for days just gently breathing, but never again conscious.
Watched night and day by loving friends, she passed away without a sigh
during the still hours of the old year's death, with only a growing
chill to show that her sleep had deepened in intensity, and that here
she would wake no more.



CHAPTER TWO.

CORNS.

"Diet, sir; Diet, decidedly.  Now you'll take this to John Bell's, in
Oxford Street, and they'll make up the prescription; then you'll go on
to Gilbey's--crooked-looking place, you know; just as if they'd built
the house somewhere else, and then when they wanted to put it in its
place found it too big, and had to squeeze it in.  Well, there you'll
order a few dozens of their light dinner claret.  No more '20 port or
fiery sherry.  Taboo, sir, taboo.  Light wine in moderation.  Diet, sir,
diet.  _Good_ morning."

I looked at the bristly-headed physician, who handed me a sheet of note
paper with a big capital B, two long blurs, a rough blotch, a few
spidery ink splays, and an ugly MD at the end of a few inky
hooks-and-eyes, which I received in return for the twenty-one shillings
I left upon the table; and then muttering the one word "diet," I stood
in the hall upon a horrible stony-looking piece of floorcloth that quite
struck cold up my legs.  Here I was confronted by the footman who
ushered me into his master's presence--a blue-coated, crestless-buttoned
wretch with two round grey eyes that said "shillings" as plainly as any
mute thing could; but I was angry, and determined to come no more: so
giving the fellow only a sixpence, I hobbled away and stood in Saville
Row.

Diet, indeed; why no man could be more moderate.  And what's half a
bottle of port for one's dinner?  Why, my grandfather, sir, took his two
bottles regularly, and, beyond an occasional fit of the gout, was as
hale a man as ever lived.  Why, he'd have lived till fourscore safe if
bad management and country doctors had not drawn the regal complaint
into his stomach, where it would stop.  This was coming to a physician
for advice.  And then what did he do when I told him of the agonies I
suffered?--smiled pleasantly, and said it was my liver; while when I
hinted at my corns, what did he do then but metaphorically tread upon
them, for he laughed.

Now, putting dyspepsia on one side, I appeal to my fellow-sufferers, and
ask them, Is there any torture to be compared with the infliction of
corns?  Headache?--take a little medicine and lie down.  Toothache?--
have it out.  Earache?--try hot onion.  Opodeldoc for rheumatism;
chlorodyne for tic; colchicum for gout.  There's a remedy for nearly
every pain and ache; but what will you do for your corns?  Ordinary
sufferings come only now and then, but corns shoot, stab, twitch, and
agonise continually.  What is the remedy?  Plasters are puffs; bandages
empty promises; the knife threatens tetanus; caustic only makes them
black and smarting; while chiropodists--.  Mention them not in my
hearing, lest my vengeance fall upon your devoted head.  Where can you
put your feet to be safe--at home or abroad?  Why, your very boots are
sworn enemies, and the battle at putting on or pulling off makes the
thought of the operation produce beads of cold perspiration upon one's
ample brow.  Who can be surprised at one's lying long in bed of a
morning when tortures await, and you know that just outside the door, by
the side of the large white jug whose water grows less and less steamy,
there stand two hollow leather cylinders loaded with fearful pains to be
discharged at your devoted feet.

There isn't a sensible shoemaker on the face of the earth.  I've tried
them one after the other until I'm tired of them.  One recommends calf,
another kid, another dog-skin, and another "pannus corium," and my feet
are worse than ever.  I won't believe in them any more, though they do
show me lasts made to my feet, and insult me with hideous nubbly, bunkly
abortions carved in wood, which they say represent my feet--my feet,
those suffering locomotives.  I'll take to sandals, or else follow the
advice of the Countess de Noailles, and go barefoot like the old hen in
the nursery rhyme.

I could suffer the bodily pain if it were not for the mental
accompaniment, and the total want of pity and compassion shown by
people.  Only the other day, going down one of those quiet cab-stand
streets, one of the idle wretches that I intended to engage shouted out
to his companions,--

"I say, old 'uns, here's Peter Pindar a-coming."

"Who?" shouted another.

"Cove as turned pilgrim, and went with peas in his shoes," cried Number
One; while, writhing with agony, and gnashing my teeth, I shook my stick
at the rascal.

"You scoundrel," I cried, "it's my corn,--it's not peas."

"Then get it ground, sir," groaned the fellow; when I was so vexed that
I took the omnibus instead, or rather the omnibus took me, and as soon
as I had entered, I was shot into the lap of a stout elderly lady who
looked daggers at me, and revenged herself by putting her fat umbrella
ferrule on my corn at every opportunity.  I believe it was Mrs Saunders
herself, the friend of Mrs Bardell, of Goswell Street.  And oh! what I
suffered in that vehicle!  Would that I could have performed the
operation recommended by the conductor--a man with a gash across his
face when he laughed--to put my toes in my pocket, or go and dispose of
my troubles at Mark Lane.

It was of no use to try: every one who came in or went out of that 'bus,
either trod upon or poked my worst corn with stick or umbrella, and then
in the height of my anguish, when my countenance was distorted with
pain, a stout, wheezing old lady opposite must "Drat my imperance," and
want to know whether I meant to insult her.

I hobbled out of the place of torture as quickly as I could, and stepped
into one of those mud trimmings the scavengers delight in leaving by our
pavements, covering the glossy leather with the foul refuse, so that,
naturally particular about my boots, I was reduced to the extremity of
having a polish laid on by one of those young scarlet rascals, who kneel
at the corners of the streets.

"Black yer boots, sir," cried first one and then another, but I could
not trust to the first I met with, for he looked too eager, the next too
slow, while the third seemed a doubtful character, so I waited till I
reached a fourth.

"Do you see that slight eminence, you dog?"

"Wot that knobble, sir," said the boy.

"That eminence, boy," I said, fiercely.  "That covers a corn."

"All right, sir," said the boy, "I won't hurt it.  I'll go a tip-toe
over him, you see if I don't.  I often cleans boots for gents as has
corns, and I'm used to 'em, and--"

"Yah-h-h-h," I shrieked, for it was impossible to help it, and at the
same moment brought down my umbrella fiercely on the little scoundrel's
head.  Fancy my feelings all you who suffer, for it must have been done
purposely; just as the young ruffian was grinding away with an
abomination of a hard brush--a very hard brush, so hard that there was
more wood than bristles--he looked up at me and grinned while I was
perspiring with fear and pain, and then with one furious stroke he
caught the edge of his brush right upon the apex of Mount Agony, causing
me to shriek, seize my half-cleaned boot with both hands, and dance
round upon one leg regardless of appearances, and to the extreme delight
of the collecting crowd.

"Don't you do that agen, now come," whimpered the boy, guarding his head
with both arms, and smearing his black countenance where a few tears
trickled down.

"You dog!"  I shouted; "I'll--I'll--I'll--"

"Oh, ah!  I dessay you will," whined the boy; "I never said nothin' to
you.  Why don't you pull off your boots then, and not go a-knockin' me
about?"

Of course I hurried away with my boots half-cleaned, and so I have to
hurry through life--a miserable man, suffering unheard-of torment, but
with no one to pity me.  Time back, people would ask what ailed me, but
now they "pooh, pooh" my troubles, since it is only my corns.  I would
not care if people would tread upon me anywhere else, but they won't,
and I feel now reduced to my last hope.

Did not somebody once say, "Great oaks from little acorns grow--great
aches from little toe-corns grow"?  How true--how telling!  But there, I
give up, with the determination to bear my pains as I can, for I feel
assured that no one will sympathise with me who does not suffer from
corns.



CHAPTER THREE.

A GHASTLY DEED.

  In Portsmouth harbour the good ship lay,
  Her cruising ended for many a day,
  And gathered on deck while receiving their pay,
      The sailors most thickly were mustered.
  The Jews on the wharves were all eagerly bent
  On supplying poor Jack, while most likely by scent,
  There were sharks by the score
  On all parts of the shore.
  Both he sharks and she sharks enough, ay and more,
  To devour poor Jack,
  When they made their attack,
      And there on the land they all clustered.

  Only think; from a cruise of four years returned,
  And paid in clean money!  No wonder it burned,
  And Jack's canvass pockets were ready to give.
  But, there: not so ready as Jack who would live
  To the top of his income--the very main truck,
  And when to the bottom of pocket, why luck,
  Would never turn back
  On poor happy-faced Jack,
  Who never said die
  In his life.  And would try
  To face any storm if his officers spoke,
  Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke.

  Now Dick Sprit was a sailor,
  Tight and bold in a gale or
  A storm.  He would cheer in a fight,
  'Mid the bullets' flight,
  And sooner than hear any praise or flattery,
  Would have run his head in a "Rooshun" battery.
  Now Dick his pockets had ten times slapped,
  His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped;
  He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time,
  The long shore days 'mid the frosty rime.
  He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well,
  'Scaped the Jews' oiled words and the grog-shops' smell.
  The night was cold and the way was dark,
  What mattered when Dick was free of his bark,
  And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist,
  His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist,
  He started off for his six miles' tramp
  To his native spot, spite of snow or damp.

  Dick twisted his twist, and he flourished his stick,
  And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick,
  For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or spar
  Is heartily welcome to every tar.
  The night was cold and the way was dark,
  And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,
  As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped,
  Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.
      But what was that when with four years' pay,
      And a leave of absence for many a day,
      With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,
      Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,
      Hurried along o'er the crunching snow,
      As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.

  Some three miles past, and the sailor now
  Paused by a hedge where the holly bough
  Grew thick and dense, and though dim the night
  There were memories many within that sight,
  For the days of old came hurrying by,
  And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;
  While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,
  Of the distant climes and the blood he'd shed,
  Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,
  Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.
  But now once more he was nearing home
  After his four years' tiring roam;
  And with bounding heart how the night he blest,
  And thought of the coming days of rest.

  Some three miles past, when his blood was chilled
  By a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;
  He stood for a moment, and then could hear
  The sounds of a struggle and trampling near;
  Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,
  While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.
  Dick's feelings were wrought to the highest pitch;
  His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,
  Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,
  With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,
  When hard by a cottage a lanthorn's light
  Cast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:
  With gory features and blade in hand
  Two ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;
  As over the struggling form they leant,
  Dick paused no more, but his sapling went,
  Cut one--cut two on each villain's head,
  Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,
  And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,
  While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan,
  But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,
  And breathlessly muttered, "'Twas really too bad.
  Be blest if he ever did see such a rig
  As to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!"

  And Dick was right, for 'twas really no joke,
  Though our sailor lad here had no "pig in a poke;"
  But though courage should merit the best of our praise,
  There's a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes' rays
  Should be shed on our mind when we think to engage,
  And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;
  Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,
  We may turn out as blind as the sailor--Dick Sprit.



CHAPTER FOUR.

COME BACK.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!" laughed Shadrach--Shadrach Pratt, light porter
at Teman, Sundry, and Sope's, the wholesale and retail grocers in the
City.  "Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Shadrach, stopping, with one foot on the wet
pavement and the other in the snowy slush of the kennel, to slap his
thigh, and say: "That's a good 'un, that is--`What do the Arabs of the
desert live on? the sand which is there.'  That _is_ a good one, rale
grit.  Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the little man.  "I'll ask 'em that after
dinner to-morrow."

Who'd have thought, to see the little fellow go skipping along through
the wet, splashy snow, that there were holes in the sides of his boots,
and that one sole had given up the stitches that morning and gone off,
being not buried, but suffering the fiery ordeal of burning, curling
about upon its funereal pyre as though still alive?  Who'd have thought
that he had had no dinner this Christmas-eve, and was now off,
post-haste, to his home in Bermondsey (_pronounced_ Bummonsey), to get
dinner and tea together--a hot meal of bloater and bread-and-butter--
with orders to be back in an hour at the latest? for it was busy tide
with the firm, and whatever Shadrach's duty may have been at other
times, he was heavy porter now decidedly.

Over the bridge, round the corner, down by Tooley Street warehouses,
famed for suffering from an ailment that must amongst buildings answer
to the Saint Anthony's fire of the human being; down past sacking,
sailcloth, and rope warehouses; and down past marine stores, and
miseries enough to give a man an ultramarine tint; and then home in the
pleasant and unsalubrious locality of Snow's Fields.  Snow there was in
plenty--muddy, slushy snow; but the only field visible was a large field
for improvement; but then, as Shadrach said, "How handy for business!"

"Here's father!" was the cry, as the little man rushed in, hugged his
wife, and had his legs hugged at the same time; and then he was in the
warm place by the tea-tray, toasting his steaming boots, and watching
the water being poured into the hissing, hot earthen teapot.

"Now, then," said Mrs Pratt, "they've all had their teas; and you're
not to touch them, or give them a scrap.  But have you had your dinner?"

"No," said Shadrach; "only stayed my stomach with half a pint of four
ale and a hot tater, at one; but I've brought a bloat--There, bless my
soul!  I always did say the tail of your coat is not a safe place, and
if I ain't been setting upon it.  What a good job it was a hard-roed
'un.  Not hurt a bit.  Who'll toast it?"

"Me--me--me!" chorussed some six or seven voices; and then the most
substantial-looking of the family was picked out, and she began toasting
till the fish began to curl its head and tail together, when the toaster
happening to turn her head to watch the distribution of "dog's bits" (ie
scraps of bread-and-butter), the bloater glided from the fork, and had
to be picked from the ashes and wiped.

But it was not so very gritty when done, and only made Shadrach think
about the Arabs and the sandwiches; though, after distributing so many
scraps, father's share of bloater, or grit, was not large; and then up
jumped the refreshed head of the family, and prepared for another start.

"'Tain't much, eighteen shillings a week, with a family, is it?" said
Shadrach, counting the money out in his wife's hand; "but, never mind,
there's lots worse off."

Mrs Pratt gave a shrug, as much as to say, "And lots better."  But,
smiling again, she told what preparations had been made towards the next
day.

"There, I can't stop," said Shadrach; "you must do it all.  Goose, you
know!  Wait till it's quite late at Leadenhall, and then you'll get it
cheap.  They can't sell them all out."

Mrs Pratt seemed to think that the goose would make a fearful hole in
eighteen shillings.

"There's coals, and grosheries, and vegetables, and bread, and butter;
and Ginger's boots are in a sad state, and--and--"

Certainly, Ginger's boots were in a sad state; but that was not of much
consequence, according to the Countess de Noailles; and if she advocated
bare feet amidst the aristocracy, she would have little pity for
Ginger--domus name of Mr Pratt's fourth son; for Shadrach was given to
nicknaming his children in accordance with the common objects of his
life: hence "Ginger," "Pepper," and "Spicy" were familiar terms for as
many children.

"But didn't I, eh?--the Christmas-box?" said Shadrach, pinching his chin
and looking innocent.

"Why, an old cheat!" cried Mrs Pratt, rushing to the door, and finding
a brown paper parcel resting behind the bulky umbrella upon her clogs;
and then, amidst a volley of cheers, bearing it to the table, which was
directly surrounded by chairs, climbed upon by an escalading party, and
it was only by dint of great presence of mind that Mrs Pratt saved the
brown paper citadel by hurriedly opening it, drawing out a pound of
raisins, and bribing the attacking party by giving them a plum apiece.

"Ta ta!  I'm off," cried Shadrach, with glistening eyes, as he hurried
out and banged the door after him; but only to climb on to the
window-sill by means of holding on to the water-butt and nearly pulling
it over, when he could peep through a hole in the shutter and see his
wife hold up to the eyes of the exultant children the Christmas-box
regularly given by Teman, Sundry, and Sope to their _employes_.  There
was a pound of raisins, and a pound of currants, and a ditto brown
sugar, a ditto lump, an ounce of spice, and a quarter of a pound of
peel; which was the last packet opened, when Shadrach leaped down and
hurried away through the dirty street.

But it was fine now overhead, and the stars began to twinkle brightly,
while the slushy roads were fast growing crisp; but not crisp enough to
prevent moisture from creeping through into Shadrach's boots.

"Because they live on the sand which--law!" cried Shadrach, "what a pity
we can't live on sand; what a lot the little 'uns do eat."  And then he
stopped short for a minute to hear some street singers spoiling a carol,
and heard the reference to a babe in a manger; and then somehow, as he
trotted on, Shadrach could not see very clearly for thinking of two
lambs lost from his humble fold: one sleeping in its little grave with
the pure white snow covering its breast, and the bright stars like
angels' eyes watching it; and the other--"My poor, poor bairn!" sobbed
the little man, hurrying along; and then he was elbowing his way through
the throng on London Bridge, eager to get back in time.

"That's the worst of music," said Shadrach; "it allus upsets me.  Ah!
yah! where are you running to, you young dog?" he cried to a boy who,
yelling out "I would I were a bird," blundered on to the little man's
favourite corn, and made him limp the rest of the way.  "Not that sort
of music, confound him.  Would he was a bird, indeed!  Pity he ain't got
his neck wrung for him.  Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Shadrach, taking a long
breath; "how bracing the wind is off the river! why, I do declare if I
couldn't over posts or anything to-night."

But there was no room for Shadrach to run or over posts, for the streets
were thronged with busy, hurrying people.  The roadway was crowded too;
and everywhere it was plain to see that Christmas was here.  It was
quite a blessing that some of the laden railway-vans did not break down,
for there would have been an absolute block; while, however it was
possible for all the presents on the way to get to their destination in
time, no one could say.  Shops and people, ay, and weather too, all
spoke of Christmas: people looked hearty and genial; the shops looked
generous; while, though the weather felt cold, it was not a griping,
nipping cold, but a warm, dry cold that made the slush hard and firm,
and whispered of blazing fires and brave old English comforts.

God bless it!  I love a Christmas-night; and, when I say a
Christmas-night, I mean any night in that jovial, happy tide, when men
sink the care and money-hunting to spread enjoyment around; when the
hand is open, either for a loving, brotherly pressure, or to aid a
poorer brother; or, better still, the fatherless and the widow.  The
hand open? ay, and the heart too; for there seems to be breathed around
a spirit that softens the hard crust, so that it is open to any emotion,
be it such as begets mirth or tears.  Who can say what it is?--that
loving, happy exhilaration that comes over us, and makes a man even kiss
his mother-in-law roundly.  Why, it's the very time to get your salary
raised, is Christmas; and now the secret is out, I know I shall never be
forgiven by the heads of firms, who will be pounds out of pocket in
future.  Who ever kicked a dog at Christmas; or prosecuted a thief? who
ever gave a beggar a penny without a blush for the smallness of the sum?
God bless it! though it comes so soon year after year to tell us how by
twelve months our span of life is shorter, and that we are nearer to the
long sleep.  God bless it! and may its genial breath softly waft the
incense from every frugal hearth in our land, and rest in love where the
poor prepare their humble feast--ay, feast; for the simplest Christmas
dinner is a feast sprinkled by the torch of "Christmas Present."
There's something stirring in the very air, and the bells sound as they
do at no other time--they go home to the feelings, and call up from the
past the happy emotions planted in our hearts by God; but which a busy
life and rude contact with the world have caused to flee away and hide.
Back they come though, till, in the wild delight, eyes sparkle, cheeks
flush, and hands grasp hands in the fulness of heart to give a squeeze
often accompanied by a twinkling eye, where a tear will force its way.
Holy--sacred--are those reunions--those family meetings; and sad is it
when a seat becomes vacant; but is not that loss a bond to bind those
left the tighter, as wishing each other "a merry Christmas," as I do,
they say--"God bless it!"

Is there such a thing as a kind of magnetism in life by which spirit
whispers to spirit, and by some occult warning we know that those we
love are near?  Or why should old Shadrach start and shiver as he passed
some one in the throng, and then mutter to himself very
thoughtfully--"Poor Polly!"

But it was a busy night, and what baskets did Shadrach lug about from
Gracechurch Street.  East, west, north, and south--here, there, and
everywhere.  Light porter, indeed! why, we won't insult him.  But he
didn't mind, bless you, though he groaned and grunted under his load of
Christmas fruit; and there was something merry to say to every servant
lass who lightened his basket.  Toast and ale, and egg-flip too, were
waiting when eleven o'clock struck, and though Mr Sope wanted to keep
open another hour, and Sundry said half an hour, old Teman, the head,
said "No! regular hours were the thing, and it was not fair to the young
men; and that if the Queen herself came from Buckingham Palace and
wanted a pound or two of fruit, she should not have it after the
shutters were up."

It would have done your heart good to have seen Shadrach rattle up those
shutters, as the boy down stairs held them up to the roller ready for
him to take.

"Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle" went the shutter as he dragged it over the roller,
and then "flip-flap-bang," it was in its place.  "Ter-r-r-r-r-rattle"
went another, and nearly knocked an old gentleman over, but he only gave
a leap, skip, and a jump, and laughed.  Two shutters up, and that big,
nodding Chinese mandarin with the bare stomach is covered up.
"Ter-r-r-r-rattle," and part of the big China punchbowl covered.
"Ter-r-r-r-rattle," and the whole of it covered.  At it again--and the
squeezy almond-eyed lady hidden.  At it again, nine shutters up.  At it
again, skipping about as though he had never walked a step that day, but
just come fresh out of a lavender-and-clover bed ready for work, after
lying by for a rest.  "Ter-r-r-r-rattle-bing-bang-bump."  He did it that
time: knocked the policeman's helmet off, and sent it rolling along the
pavement.

"God bless my soul," said Shadrach, aghast at such an assault upon the
law of the land, but the policeman only laughed, and old Teman only
laughed, and called the bobby up to the door, while he fetched him a
glass of egg-flip himself, and wished him "A merry Christmas."

"Bang--slap--slip--flap--crack--jangle--jang--jink jonk--jank!"  There
they are; the twelve shutters up, and both iron bars; screws rammed in,
and all tight; and Shadrach not a bit out of breath.  Shop closed, and
no Queen to beg for a pound or two of fruit and test old Teman's
loyalty, as he ladled out the flip to his dozen men, when, wishing he
could have poured his share into his pocket, Shadrach said "Good-night!"
and was off homeward.

Plenty of people in the streets yet, but London Bridge seemed empty on
the west side when Shadrach reached it, and then stopped at the first
recess to look over at the rushing river.  A bright, calm, light night,
with snow lying here and there in patches; here upon pier or barge,
there upon roof, and all glittering in the light of the full moon.
Lanthorns here and there where vessels were moored, and lamps in lines
upon the distant bridges.  Frost laying hold of everything; but warmed
with exercise and the genial draught, Shadrach felt not the cold, but
knelt gazing over at the hurrying tide, and comparing it, perhaps, with
his life.  But there was something else upon his mind, something that
kept bringing a shadow over him, and kept him from hurrying home.

At length he stepped down, and walked slowly across the bridge towards
the Borough; but then, with a strange, thoughtful, undecided step, he
crossed over and sauntered back towards the city again; and at last
stood leaning once more over the parapet, gazing at the glittering
river, till he started, for the clocks began to strike twelve.  There
were the faint and distant tones, and the sharp, clear sounds of those
at hand, mingled with which came the heavy boom of Saint Paul's, till
the last stroke had fallen upon his ear, when with a half-shudder of
cold, Shadrach once more stepped down and commenced with some display of
vigour his homeward walk.

There was scarcely a soul to be seen now upon the bridge, but as he
reached the middle recess, Shadrach paused with a strange, tumultuous
beating at his heart, for there, in the same position as that in which
he had so lately leant, was the figure of a woman, evidently watching
the rushing river.

"Could she be meditating self-destruction?"  Shadrach thought.  "Could
he save her?  But why should such thoughts come when he had often and
often seen women of her class in the same attitude?" he asked himself
the question, and could find no answer, except that it was so sad to see
a homeless outcast there upon a Christmas-eve.

"Poor thing--poor thing!" muttered Shadrach to himself; and then, going
up and speaking in a husky voice: "Had you not better go home, my girl?"

"What?" cried the girl, angrily; "home?  There's no home for such as I."

"But the night--the cold--and--ah, my God!--Polly!"

Shadrach had advanced to the girl, and laid his hand upon her shoulder;
when, starting, she turned hastily round and confronted him beneath the
lamp; a mutual recognition took place, when, with a bitter cry, the girl
darted away, while her father staggered and fell, striking his head
violently against the granite seat.

But he soon recovered himself, slowly got up, looked hopelessly round at
the deserted bridge, and then walked with feeble, uncertain steps in the
direction of home.

The old Dutch clock upon the wall had given warning that it was about to
strike one; the fire was low, and the candle burned with a long snuff,
as Shadrach Pratt and his wife sat beside the fire silent and tearful.
There was an open Bible upon his lap, and he had been essaying to read,
but the print looked blurred and confused; his voice was husky; and more
than one tear had dropped upon the page where it said--"I will arise and
go to my father," and again where "his father fell upon his neck and
kissed him;" and there was sorrow that night in the humble home.

The candle burned down, quivered in the socket, and then went out; the
fire sank together again and again with a musical tinkle, and then
ceased to give forth its warmth; but through the two round holes in the
shutters the bright moonbeams shone, bathing the couple with their
light, as slowly they knelt down, and Shadrach repeated some words,
stopping long upon that impressive clause--"As we forgive them that
trespass against us."

"And you'll leave the back door unfastened, Mary?" whispered Shadrach.

Mrs Pratt nodded.

"And forget the past if she should come?"

"Ah, me! ah, me! my poor girl!" cried the mother, thoroughly
heart-broken, and for the first time since her child forsook her home
showing any emotion; "what have we done that we should be her judges?"

The moonbeams shone brightly in as the couple rose, and after listening
for a moment at the stair foot, Shadrach walked to the back door, opened
it, uttered a cry, and then fell upon his knees; for there, upon the
cold snow, with her cheek resting upon the threshold, lay the lost one
of the flock--cold, pale, and motionless, but with her hands
outstretched, and clasped together, as if praying for forgiveness.
Stretched upon the cold snow by the door she had stolen from two years
before; lying where she had crept, with trembling hands, and quivering,
fevered lips, whispering to herself that she would die there, for she
dared ask no entrance.

Need the story be told of that Christmas-day, and of the joy in that
poor man's home--of the sick one weeping in her mother's arms--of the
welcome given to one the world called lost!  I trow not; but let us skip
another year, and then stand in the same room, in the same place, and at
the same hour, as with a bright light in his humble, ordinary face,
Shadrach Pratt, a man not addicted to quoting Scripture, takes his
homely wife's hand, and whispers--

"More than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance."



CHAPTER FIVE.

UPON CHRISTMAS-EVE.

And I've found that out that it isn't money, nor a well-furnished house,
nor clothes that make a man happy, but the possession of a good wife;
and it took me ten years to find it out.  It took me ten selfish years--
years that I had been spending thinking more about myself than anybody
else, you know.  And all that while I'd got so used to it that I never
took any notice of the patience and forbearance and tenderness that was
always being shown to me.  It's all right, thinks I, and it's me that's
master, and I've a right to be served.  And that's the case with too
many of us: we get married, and are precious proud taking the wife out
for a bit; but then come the domestic duties, and mostly a few children,
when it's hard work to make both ends meet, and so the poor wife gets
lower and lower and lower, till she's a regular slave, while the husband
looks on, and never stretches out a hand to save her a bit of trouble.

Well, that's measuring other people's corn by your own bushel, and
that's right--that's just what it is: that's my bushel, and allowing for
it being a bit battered and knocked about, it's surprising what a
correct measure it is, and if ever I use that old measure to try any
other man's corn, and I find as it don't do for it, I always feel as if
I should like to shake that fellow's hand off, for I know he's a trump
and a man worth knowing.

Now, I'm going to tell you how I found it all out, and in finding it all
out as I call it, let me tell you I mean principally what a fool I had
been for ten long years.  I needn't tell you when it was, and Jane there
don't care to be too nice about the day--very well, we'll say you do,
but never mind now--only it was Christmas-eve, and I come home from work
with my hands in my pockets, and a week's wage there too, and when I
mounted the stairs and went into our shabby room, there was the wife
down in the low rocking-chair, with two of the little ones in her lap,
and though her head was partly turned away I could see she was crying,
and another time I should have flown at her about it, for I don't mind
saying as I was a regular brute to her--not hitting or anything of that
sort, you know, but sending hard words such as she's told me since hit
harder than blows.  But I couldn't fly at her then on account of a
strange chap as was there.  Shabby, snuffy-looking little fellow, with
flue in his hair and pits in his chin, where he couldn't shave into, so
that, what with his face not being over well washed, and his old black
clothes looking greasy, he didn't seem the sort of visitor as you'd care
about having in your place, because, though I came home dirty with my
trade, I always set that down as clean dirt, and don't mind it.

"Well, what's for you?"  I says, precious gruff.

"Two pun fifteen and ninepence, with costs," he says, bringing out a
paper; and then you might have knocked me down with it, for I knew it
was for rent.  There'd been a bother about it several times, and no
wonder, and as I'd promised again and again, and never kept my word, as
I should have done, why this was come on me, and there was a man in
possession.

There was only one thing to be done, and of course that I does at once;
goes over the way to the landlord, and when I got into his room I began
to bluster a bit.

"It's a deal too bad," I says.

"Have you brought the money, my man?" he says.

"No, I ain't," I says, "and I thinks--"

"Now, look here, Roberts," he says, quite quietly, and holding up his
finger, "You're not the sort of tenant I want.  You're no credit to the
place.  If you had been a decent fellow, struggling against the world,
and you owed me twice as much, and I saw you meant to pay, why I'd never
have put in the bailiffs; but when I see a man going on as you do, why I
say if you've money to waste you can pay your rent.  Sorry for your
wife, but if you can't pay the money now, there's the door.  I'm not
going to be annoyed in my own place."

He wasn't a big man, but he took me down twenty pegs in a minute in his
cool, easy way, and before I knew where I was I'd backed out, and was
going across the street, when I recollects the man sitting there at
home, and of a Christmas-eve too, and I slowly went back and sent in a
message to landlord, and directly after I stood before him again, and
after no end of a hard fight he consented to let a pound stop on, and
send the man off if I'd pay down one pound fifteen and ninepence.

Well, I thought a minute, and hesitated, and thought again, and then
recollected the dirty, snuffy fellow there, and that settled me, so that
I paid down the money, took my receipt, and a note to the man, and
directly after I was standing in my own place, with that chap gone, and
only threepence left of my six-and-thirty shillings for a Christmas
dinner; and now it came upon me hot and strong why it was that I stood
there like that, and as I saw it all so plain I set my teeth and brought
my fist down upon the table in a way as made the candlestick jump, and
sent the children trembling up to their mother.

"It's because nobody ever said to me, `Sam Roberts, what'll you take to
eat?'"  And then I banged my fist on the table again, and began walking
up and down the room.

Nobody spoke to me, but the wife got the children off quietly to bed,
and at last, when I was still striding up and down, I felt her hand on
my shoulder, and she whispered quite low like--

"Don't mind it, dear."

"But I do," I said, quite fierce and loud, and the poor thing stole away
from me again, and though I didn't look at her, I knew she wasn't able
to keep the tears back, and that I'd been the cause again.

I took no notice then though, for something was working in me, and at
last I told her to go to bed, and she did, while I sat before the bit of
fire in the room and thought it over.

Now don't laugh at me when I tell you that I believe in bells, but I
can't help it if you do, for they always seem to speak to me like music
does, and if there's ever anything will act on me it's the sound of a
peal of bells.  It was bitter cold that night, and yet I didn't feel it;
the wind howled along the street, and I could now and then hear the
great flakes of snow come softly patting at the window, and then the
sashes would shake, and the wind rumble in the chimney, while every now
and then came the sound of the bells, not bright and joyful, but sad and
sobbing and mournful.  I knew it was a merry, rejoicing time with every
one else.  I could not attend to that, for I was gradually getting to
see one thing that I kept on fighting against, and that was, what a fool
I had been.

Fight against it I did, but it was no use, for as the streets got more
quiet, and the wind sunk, the bells rang out clearer and clearer, and
seemed to keep telling me of it.  Now I knew of it by the threepence in
my pocket; now it was by the shabby floor; then the beggarly furniture
and the miserable fire; and though I didn't cross the room I had it in
my mind's eye, and there it all was written plain enough in my wife's
face.

And yet I wouldn't own to it, though the bells seemed to be speaking to
me, and rang out plainer and plainer all my waste and carelessness, till
all at once they stopped for a minute; when one big bell began to toll
slowly, "boom, boom, boom"; and that did it, for the next moment I gave
a wild sort of cry, and was down on my knees with my hands over my face,
and the big tears, hot and blinding, bursting out from between my
fingers.  But the tears might blind, they could not hide that, though
every one seemed like hot lead.  They could not hide what I then saw,
for the bell still went on, now swept away in the distance, now coming
nearer and nearer, till it filled the room, and made the very place seem
to tremble and quiver, as did every nerve in my body.

No; the tears could not hide that scene as the tolling bell brought up,
and there I could see the snow upon the ground, and two mourners
following a little coffin through the street of a country-town with
their footmarks left black in the pathway, as though even they were
marks of the funeral.  And there, too, was the church, and the
grey-haired clergyman meeting us at the gate, and me hard, bitter, and
sullen, seeing it all unmoved, and listening to the words as came now to
my ears borne upon the bells.  There, too, was the little grave, and the
earth thrown out all black round it, and every spade-full of earth, too,
black, just as though everything was in mourning for the little flower
as the bitter winter had nipped.  Yes; there it all was, with the poor
wife sinking down at last upon her knees beside the open grave, and
letting a few of a mother's tears fall silently upon the little plain,
white coffin, and me--hard, bitter, and cold.

"Boom, boom, boom"--how it all came back, and how I saw it all now.  How
plain it all was that I had been a fool and my own enemy, and ready to
blame every one but myself for my ill success; and at last muttering
"pardon, pardon," I held up my hands, and then started to my feet, for
the bells had stopped, and my hands were taken by some one there in the
dark, so that I trembled; till I heard my name whispered, and this time
I did not turn from the offered comfort.

Just then out rang the bells again, bright, cheerful, and merry; and,
though I listened attentively, and tried to make them go with my
thoughts, they seemed now quite to have left me to myself.

And then, without thinking of the bitter night, or our poverty, or what
we should do for a Christmas dinner, we sat there together wrapped up in
one idea, and that was that there was a change come over me, for somehow
I felt quite a different man; and, though no word was spoken, we seemed
to understand one another, and that was quite enough for us.

All at once I turns to the wife, and I says, "I don't know what's come
over me, lass; feelings have got the better of me; I'm almost choking."
And then we both started up, for it seemed hot, and close, and heavy in
the room.

"Why, it's fire somewhere," I says, and then I turned all over hot and
trembling, and the wet stood upon my forehead, for I thought the place
below was on fire, and we on the second floor with three children.

I ran to the window and opened it, and just then there was the rattle of
a policeman going, and first one voice and then another shouting,
"Fire!" while directly after there was a tremendous noise as shook the
house from top to bottom, and made the plaster off the ceiling come
rattling down on our heads, while the shop-front seemed to be blown out.
Then there came another crashing explosion, and that was the jingling
noise and falling of window-glass upon the pavement; and then came
screaming and crying out, the sounds of people running and kicking at
doors, shouting cries for help, and a hundred people outside shrieking,
"Fire!"

For a minute I stood with my hands to my head, as though it was all a
dream.  I felt lost, and could not tell what to do, but the next moment
I had two of the children in my arms; and, shouting to the wife, "Slip
on a few things!"  I tore open the door and darted down the stairs
through the heat and smoke to the first-floor, where the rush of flame
and smoke almost drove me back; but I knew it was for life, and I dashed
down the rest of the way along the passage, and then fell staggering
down with my load upon the pavement.

They had us up, though, in a moment, blackened, scorched, half
suffocated, and smarting; and then, after casting one look up at our
window, where the wife stood with one little one in her arms, I ran
towards the blazing passage, but a policeman and two men had hold of me
in a moment.

"Hold back, man!" said one of 'em; "it's madness to try it."

"Certain death," says another.

"Yes, if you don't let go!"  I roared, feeling as furious as a wild
beast at being held back.  "Let go; I tell you they'll be burnt to death
if I don't save them;" and then I fought with 'em to get away, but they
were too strong for me; and, more coming to help, I could do nothing.

"Pray, let me go," I cried at last, quite pitifully, for I could hear
shrieks for help from up above, and felt that some one would think I had
taken care of myself and left her to perish; and then, what with the
shrieks and the thoughts, I felt almost mad, and strove and plunged so,
that I got free and dashed at the door where the flames came pouring
out.

I believe that I should have rushed in, but at that moment there was
another loud explosion, and I seemed to be lifted off my feet, and
thrown back into the road, where I lay quite helpless and half-stunned
for a few moments.  But I soon came to again, just as they were going to
carry me through the crowd, and begging of them not to take me away, I
got them to let me stop, for the men wanted to see what was going on;
for now the flames were mounting up higher and higher, and rushing out
of the first-floor windows, while that one under where my poor wife
stood shrieking for help was glowing with light, and I knew the fire
would burst out there directly.

The gunpowder canisters in the shop as they exploded had all helped to
make the fire burn more rapidly, and before the first engine came, the
place was blazing furiously, while, instead of trying anything to save
her who stood at the window, people did nothing but shriek and scream
and wring their hands.  I soon saw, unless something was done the fire
would get the better of us, while in spite of all I could think of,
there seemed no way to save her who stood crying there for the help we
could not give--nothing but for her to jump out.  I ran about through
the crowd here and there, calling to the people to save her, and for the
time quite mad and frantic that I could not get at her, when all at once
there was a loud shout and cheer, and the people gave way, as along at
full speed came the tall fire-escape.

I ran to help drag it along, and in a few moments they had it leaning
beneath the window, but it was too short, and I groaned again, for it
seemed only brought to raise our hopes, and then dash them down; but the
next moment the fly ladder was pulled up by ropes, and before any one
could stay me, I tried to get up.

But the escape man was before me, and up and up he went, till there came
a fierce burst of flame and smoke right upon him and beat him back, so
that he crept down again, till he reached where I was coming up, and
then I got past him and past the flames where the escape was quite on
fire, and then up to the window where my wife stood clutching the child,
and leaned half-fainting from the window.

It was a hard matter to reach to them, but I got one foot upon the sill,
dashed out a pane of glass to get a hold of the sash for my hand, and
then began to wonder how I could save them, when I heard a cry from
below and a regular yell of shrieks as the light escape ladder was
burned through and fell to the ground, so that it was only by an effort
I saved myself from felling; but I crept inside the room with a horrid
sensation upon me, for I felt that our last hour was come, and a
frightful one it was.

The wife just turned her horrified face to me once, and then fainted,
while I could see but little of what was going on below, on account of
the rising flame and smoke, and as to the heat it was awful--so
stifling, that I was glad to hold out the heads of them with me, for the
smoke came rolling through the door.

I knew that in a few minutes we must be burned to death, and how awful
those thoughts were that came upon me is more than I can describe, and
yet in spite of all there seemed a calmness, even when I heard a
crackling behind me, and saw the flickering light playing through the
smoke behind as the flames were creeping into the room.

Just then I heard a shouting below, and some one to the left cried to
me.  I looked up and found there were two men at the third-floor window
of the next house, and one of them shouted:--

"Put her down and try and catch this," and then he began swinging a rope
towards me till I got hold of it; and without waiting for instructions
made it fast round the wife's waist, helped her out of the window, and
held on till they had the rope tight, and shouted to me, when I left go,
and saw her go clear of the flame and smoke with such a fearful swing
that I felt sure they would let go, and I shrunk back, for I dared not
look.

Before a minute was over I heard them shout again, and then I looked out
trembling, and caught at the rope again two or three times before I
could get it, for it was a hard matter to get it swung far enough.  But
I had it at last, and pulled in as much as they could spare, so as to
tie it round the little child somewhere about the middle, when they saw
me make a sign, for I could not shout, I was that choked, and then they
hauled in while I kept hold too, so as to keep the little thing from
swinging down so fearfully.

It was a good long rope, and even when they had the little one safe
there was enough left for me to fasten it with a half hitch round my
waist and climb out and hang by the window-sill till they were ready,
for the room was burning, and the flames came over me, quite scorching
my hands, so that in another few minutes I must have dropped.  But the
rope tightened, and I left go, swinging through the air right clear of
the smoke and flame; and then I felt myself dragged up and in at the
window, but I did not see or hear anything more for some little time.

It was a shocking fire, certainly, but it's when people are at the worst
that they find out how neighbourly those around could be, for we found
them as took us in; and in spite of being so frightened and scorched,
after two or three hours' sleep we did not feel so bad but we could put
on the things that were lent us, and I can't help thinking that we
should have given thanks somewhere else for our escape besides in our
bedroom, if it had not been for our burnt-off hair.

And in spite of all loss and care, that was a pleasant Christmas-day we
spent, where everybody seemed as if they could not make enough of us;
and, at the same time, there was a feeling in my heart that seemed to
cheer me and make me look hopefully to the future.  For the clothes and
furniture that we had lost were none to be so proud of--rather different
to what we now have round us, and when I tell the wife so, I get a
pleasant smile, for she says there's light behind every cloud.



CHAPTER SIX.

HAUNTED BY SPIRITS.

"But what an out-of-the-way place to get to," I said, after being most
cordially received by my old school fellow and his wife, one bitter
night after a long ride.  "But you really are glad to see me, eh?"

"Now, hold your tongue, do," cried Ned and his wife in a breath.  "You
won't get away again under a month, so don't think it.  But where we are
going to put you I don't know," said Ned.

"Oh I can sleep anywhere, chairs, table, anything you like; only make me
welcome.  Fine old house this seems, but however came you to take it?"

"Got it cheap, my boy.  Been shut up for twenty years.  It's haunted,
and no one will live in it.  But I have it full for this Christmas, at
all events, and what's more I have some potent spirits in the place too,
but they are all corked down tightly, so there is no fear at present.
But I say, Lilly," cried Ned, addressing his wife, "why we shall have to
go into the haunted room and give him our place."

"That you won't," I said.  "I came down here on purpose to take you by
surprise, and to beg for a snack of dinner on Christmas-day; and now you
are going to give me about the greatest treat possible, a bed in a
haunted room.  What kind of a ghost is it?"

"You mustn't laugh," said Ned, trying to appear very serious; "for there
is not a soul living within ten miles of this place, that would not give
you a long account of the horrors of the Red Chamber: of spots of blood
upon the bedclothes coming down in a regular rain; noises; clashing of
swords; shrieks and groans; skeletons or transparent bodies.  Oh, my
dear fellow, you needn't grin, for it's all gospel truth about here, and
if we did not keep that room screwed up, not a servant would stay in the
house."

"Wish I could buy it and take it away," I said.

"I wish you could, indeed," cried Ned, cordially.

Half an hour after Ned and I were busy with screwdriver and candle busy
in the large corridors, turning the rusty screws which held a large door
at the extreme end of the house.  First one and then another was twirled
out till nothing held the door but the lock; the key for which Ned
Harrington now produced from his pocket--an old, many-warded, rusty key,
at least a couple of hundred years old.

"Hold the candle a little lower," said Ned, "here's something in the
keyhole," when pulling out his knife, he picked out a quantity of paper,
evidently very recently stuffed in.  He then inserted the key, and after
a good deal of effort it turned, and the lock shot back with a harsh,
grating noise.  Ned then tried the handle, but the door remained fast;
and though he tugged and tugged, it still stuck, till I put one hand to
help him, when our united efforts made it come open with a rush,
knocking over the candle, and there we were standing upon the portal of
the haunted room in the dark.

"I'll fetch a light in a moment out of the hall," said Ned, and he
slipped off, while I must confess to a certain feeling of trepidation on
being left alone, listening to a moaning, whistling noise, which I knew
to be the wind, but which had all the same a most dismal effect upon my
nerves, which, in spite of my eagerness to be the inmate of the closed
room, began to whisper very strongly that they did not like it at all.
But the next minute Ned was beside me with the light, and we entered the
gloomy dusty old chamber--a bed-chamber furnished after the fashion of
the past century.  The great four-post bedstead looked heavy and gloomy,
and when we drew back the curtains, I half expected to see a body lying
in state, but no, all was very dusty, very gloomy, and soul chilling,
but nothing more.

"Come, there's plenty of room for a roaring fire," said Ned, "and I
think after all we had better come here ourselves, and let you have our
room."

"That you will not," I said, determinedly.  "Order them to light a fire,
and have some well-aired things put upon that bed, and it will be a
clever ghost that wakes me to-night, for I'm as tired as a dog."

"Here, Mary," shouted Ned to one of the maids, "coals and wood here, and
a broom."

We waited about, peering here and there at the old toilet-ware and
stands, the old chest of drawers and armoire, old chairs and paintings,
for all seemed as if the room had been suddenly quitted; while inside a
huge cupboard beside the fireplace hung a dusty horseman's cloak, and in
the corner were a long thin rapier and a quaint old-fashioned firelock.

"Strikes chilly and damp," said I, snuffing the smell of old boots and
fine dust.

"Ah, but we'll soon drive that out," said Ned.  "But you'd better give
in, my boy.  'Pon my word, I'm ashamed to let you come in here."

"Pooh! nonsense!"  I said.  "Give me a roaring fire, and that's all I
want."

"Ah!" cried Ned.  "But what a while that girl is;" and then he stepped
out into the passage.  "Why, what are you standing there for?" he cried.
"Come and light this fire."

"Plee', sir, I dussent," said the maid.

"Here, give me hold," cried Ned, in a pet; "and send your mistress
here;" and then he made his appearance with a coal-scuttle, paper, and
wood; when between us we soon had a fire alight and roaring up the huge
chimney, while the bright flames flickered and danced, and gave quite a
cheerful aspect to the place.

"Well," cried Mrs Harrington, who now appeared, "how are you getting
on?" but neither Ned's wife nor her sister stood looking, for, in spite
of all protestations, dressed as they were, they set to sweeping,
dusting, airing linen, bed, mattress, etcetera, we helping to the best
of our ability--for no maid, either by threats or persuasion, would
enter the place--and at last we made the place look, if not comfortable,
at all events less dismal than before we entered.  The old blinds came
down like so much tinder when touched, while, as to the curtains, the
first attempt to draw them brought down such a cloud of dust, that they
were left alone, though Mrs Harrington promised that the place should
be thoroughly seen to in the morning.

Returning to the drawing-room, the remainder of the evening was most
agreeably spent; while the cause of my host and hostess's prolonged
absence produced endless comments and anecdotes respecting the Red
Chamber--some of them being so encouraging in their nature that Ned
Harrington, out of sheer compassion, changed the conversation.

"Well, my boy," said Ned, when the ladies had all retired for the night,
"you shan't go to bed till the witching hour is past;" so he kept me
chatting over old times, till the clock had gone one--the big old
turret-clock, whose notes flew booming away upon the frosty air.
"Christmas-eve to-morrow, so we'll have a tramp on the moors after the
wild ducks--plenty out here.  I say, my boy, I believe this is the
original Moated Grange, so don't be alarmed if you hear the mice."

"There's only one thing I care for," I said, "and that is anything in
the shape of a practical joke."

"Honour bright! my boy," said Ned; "you need fear nothing of that kind;"
and then I was alone in the Haunted Chamber, having locked myself in.

My first proceeding was to give the large fire an extra poke, which sent
a flood of light across the room, and the flames gushing up the chimney;
my next, to take one of the candles and make a tour of my bedroom,
during which I looked under the bed, behind the curtains, and into
armoire and cupboard, but discovered nothing.  Next thing I tried the
windows, through which I could just dimly see the snow-white country,
but they were fast and blackened with dirt.  The chimney-glass, too, was
so injured by damp, that the dim reflection given back was something
startling, being more like a bad photograph of life-size than anything
else; and at length, having fully made up my mind that I was alone, and
that, as far as I could make out, there were neither trap-doors nor
secret passages in the wall, I undressed, put out the candles, and
plunged into bed.

But I was wrong in what I had said to my host about sleeping, for I
never felt more wakeful in my life.  I watched the blaze of the fire
sink down to a ruddy glow, the glow turn blacker and blacker till at
last the fire was all but extinct, while the room was dark as could be.
But my eyesight was painfully acute, while my hearing seemed strained to
catch the slightest passing sound.  The wind roared and rumbled in the
great chimney, and swept sighing past the windows; and, though it had a
strange, wild sound with it, yet I had heard the wind before, and
therefore paid but little heed to its moans.

All at once the fire seemed to fall together with a tinkling sound, a
bright flame leaped up, illumining the room for a moment, then becoming
extinct, and leaving all in darkness; but there was light for a long
enough interval for me to see, or fancy I saw, the cupboard door open
and the great horseman's cloak stand out in a weird-like manner before
me, as though covering the shoulders of some invisible figure.

I felt warm--then hot--then in a profuse perspiration, but I told myself
it was fancy, punched my pillow, and turned over upon the other side to
sleep.  Now came a long, low, dreary moan, hollow and heartrending, for
it seemed like the cry of some one in distress; when I raised myself
upon one elbow and listened.

"Old cowl on a chimney," I muttered, letting myself fall back again, now
thoroughly determined to sleep, but the moaning continued, the wind
whistled and howled, while now came a gentle tap, tap, tapping at my
window, as if some one was signalling to be admitted.

"Tap, tap, tap;" still it kept on, as though whoever tapped was fearful
of making too much noise; and at length, nerving myself, I slipped out
of bed, crossed the room, and found that the closet door was open, but a
vigorous poke inside produced nothing but dust and two or three very
sharp sneezes.  So I fastened the door, and listened.  All silent: but
the next moment began the tapping upon the dirty window-pane again; and,
impelled by a mingled sensation of fear and attraction, I crept closer
to the sash, and at length made out the shadow of something tapping at
the glass.

"Bah!  Bah!"  I exclaimed the next moment as I shuffled across the room
and back to my bed, "strand of ivy and the wind."  But I was not to be
at peace yet, for now there came a most unmistakable noise behind the
wainscot--louder and louder, as if some one were trying to tear a piece
of the woodwork down.  The place chosen seemed to be the corner beside
the cupboard; and at last, having made up my mind that it was the rats,
I dropped off to sleep, and slept soundly till morning, when I heard the
cheery voice of my host at the door.

"Oh, all right," he said as I answered; "I only came because the girl
knocked, and said that something must be the matter, for she could not
make you hear."

On descending to breakfast, I found that I was to undergo a rigorous
cross-examination as to what I had seen and heard; but one elderly lady
present shook her head ominously, freely giving it as her opinion that
it was little better than sacrilege to open the haunted chamber, and
finishing a very solemn peroration with the words--

"Stop a bit; they don't walk every night."

This was encouraging, certainly; but in the course of the afternoon I
went up to my room, and found that it had been well cleaned out, while
many little modern appliances had been added to the dingy furniture, so
that it wore quite a brightened appearance.  The insides of the windows
had been cleaned, and a man was then upon a ladder polishing away at the
exterior, when I drew his attention to a number of loose ivy strands,
which he cut off.

In the cupboard I found plenty of traces of rats in the shape of
long-gnawed-off fragments of wood pushed beneath the skirting-board;
while, upon holding my head against the chimney, the groaning of the
cowl was plainly to be heard, as it swung round dolefully upon some
neighbouring chimney.

A pleasant day was spent, and then, after a cosy evening, I was once
more ushered into the chamber of horrors, this time being escorted by
the whole of the visitors, the gentlemen affectionately bidding me
farewell, but not one seeming disposed to accept my offer of changing
rooms.  However, Ned and Mrs Harrington both wished me to go to their
room, when I of course refused; and once more I was alone.

It was now about half-past twelve and Christmas-morning, a regular storm
was hurrying round the house, and a strange feeling of crepitation came
upon me when I had extinguished the light; and then on climbing into bed
I sat and listened for a while, laid my head upon my pillow, and the
next moment, or what seemed the next moment, I was startled by a strange
beating sound, and as I became aware of a dim, peculiar light,
penetrating the room, I heard a low, muffled voice cry appealingly--

"Your hot water, sir--quarter to eight!" while I could hardly believe my
eyes had been closed.

Christmas-day passed as it generally does in the country, that is to
say, in a most jovial, sociable way; and after fun, frolic, sport,
pastime, forfeit, dance, and cards, I stood once more within the haunted
chamber with the strange sensation upon me, that though I had met with
nothing so far to alarm me--this night, a night when, of all nights in
the year, spirits might be expected to break loose, I was to suffer for
my temerity.

As soon as I entered and secured the door, I felt that something was
wrong, but I roused up the fire, lit the wax candles upon the
dressing-table, and then looked round the room.

Apparently I was alone, but upon opening the big closet door, the great
cloak fell down with a ghostly rustle, while a peculiar odour seemed to
rise from the heap.  The long, thin sword too, fell, with a strange
clanging noise as I hastily closed the door, and then setting down the
candle tried to compose myself to look at matters in a calm,
philosophical manner.  But things would not be looked at in that way,
and now I began to feel that I was being punished for all, since the
next moment I could see the eyes of the large portrait between the
windows gleam and roll, now showing the whites, now seeming to pierce
me, so intense was their gaze.  Then the figure seemed to be slowly
coming down from the frame nearer and nearer, till it was close to me,
when it slowly receded, and a shade passed over the canvas, so that it
was gone.

But for shame and the fear of ridicule, I should have opened the door
and cried for aid; in fact, I believe I did rise from the chair and try
to reach the door, but some invisible power drew me into a corner of the
room, where I leaned panting against the wall to gaze upon a fresh
phenomenon.  I had brought a chamber candlestick into the room, and
after igniting the pair of candles upon the toilet table, placed the
flat candlestick between them, and left it alight, but now--no--yes--I
rubbed my eyes--there was no mistake.

_There were six candles burning_.

I started, shook myself, muttering that it was deception; but no, there
burned six candles, while their flames were big and blurred with a
large, ghastly, blue halo round each, that had a strange weird light;
and now I tried to recall what I had read in old ghost stories about
corpse candles, for I felt that these three must be of that character.

In an agony of fear I tried to run up to the dressing-table to dash the
weird lights over, but again the same strange influence guided my steps,
so that I curved off to the bed, where I sat down, trembling in every
limb--limbs that refused their office--while I gazed upon the candles
which now began to float backwards and forwards before me, till I could
bear the strange sight no more, and throwing myself back, I buried my
face in the bed.

But there was no relief here, for as I threw myself down at full length,
the great bedstead gave a crack, a rattle, and a bound, and then in an
agony of dread I was clinging to the bedding, for the huge structure
began to rise slowly higher--higher--higher--sailing away apparently
upon the wings of the wind, and then again sinking lower and lower and
lower to interminable depths, so that I involuntarily groaned and closed
my eyes.  But that was of no avail, for I could feel the great bedstead
career, now on one side, now on the other, and ever going onward through
space like some vessel upon a vast aerial sea.

The rapid gliding upward, in spite of the dread, seemed attended with
somewhat of an exhilarating effect; but the falling was hideous in the
extreme--for now it was slowly and gently, but the next moment the speed
was fearful, and I lay trembling in expectation of feeling the structure
dash upon the ground, while every time I unclosed my eyes I could see
the gyrating candles, and turned giddy with confusion.

And now, with one tremendously swift gliding swoop, away we went, faster
and faster, more rapidly than swallows upon the wing.  Space seemed
obliterated; and, by the rushing noise and singing in my ears, I could
feel that the bedstead was careering on where the atmosphere was growing
more and more attenuated, while soon, from the catching of my breath, I
felt sure that we should soon be beyond air altogether.  The candles
were gone, but there were stars innumerable, past which we sped with
inconceivable rapidity, so that their light seemed continued in one long
luminous streak, while ever more and more the speed was increasing, till
it seemed that we were attached to some mighty cord, and being whirled
round and round with frightful velocity, as if at the end of the string;
and now I trembled for the moment when the cord should be loosed, and we
should fly off into illimitable space, to go on--on--on for ever!

At last it came, and away I went; but now separated from the bedstead,
to which I had clung to the last.  On--on--on, with something large and
undefined in front of me, which I felt that I should strike, though I
was powerless to prevent the collision.  Nearer--nearer--nearer, but
ever darting along like a shooting-star in its course, I was swept on,
till, with a fearful crash, I struck what I now found to be the lost
bed, and tried to cling to it once more; but, no!  I rolled off, and
fell slowly and gradually lower--lower, and evidently out of the sphere
of the former attraction, so that at last I fell, with only a moderate
bump, upon the floor, when, hastily rising, I found all totally dark,
and that the bedpost was beside me; when, shudderingly dragging off some
of the clothes on to the carpet, I rolled myself in them, and went off
into a heavy sleep.

The next morning several of my friends made remarks upon my pale and
anxious looks; and soon after breakfast, Ned beckoned me into his study,
and begged of me to tell him whether I had been disturbed.

For a few minutes I felt that I could not tell of the horrors of the
past night, even though I had vowed to sleep in the haunted room still;
but at last I began my recital, and had arrived at the point where the
bedstead set sail, when Ned jumped up, crying:

"Why, I thought from your looks that you really had been disturbed.  But
I say, old boy, I suppose we must look over it, as it's Christmas; but,
do you know, judging by my own feelings, I think I'd better make the
punch rather less potent to-night."

"Well, really," I said, "I think so too."

"Do you?" said Ned.

"Oh, yes," I said, "for my head aches awfully;" and no wonder, seeing
how it had been Haunted by Spirits!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

ON THE DOWN LINE.

I couldn't stop indoors, for I couldn't bear to see them all.  The
children didn't seem to mind it so much, for they ran about and played,
and their little hearts were light; but there was some one sitting by
the wretched little fire, looking that pale and worn and miserable, that
it went quite to one's heart.

Christmas-morning, with the bright sun shining in through the dirty
windows, while from everywhere the rays went flashing as they lighted
upon the frost, rime, or snow.  Such of the blue sky as we could see
from our court, was as bright and clear a blue as could be seen out in
the country, while the pavement looked dry, and you could hear the snow
crunch under the people's feet.  But there was no brightness with us,
and at last I went out, for I couldn't stop indoors.

Was it my fault?  I kept asking myself; had I tried hard enough to get
took on again; or ought we to have been more saving when I had a
situation?  Ah!  I asked myself all this again and again as I went out,
leaving them at home in a regular state of beggary; for we had come down
to the last shilling.

I've always noticed as poor men keep their hands in their pockets; and I
did mine that sharp, cold morning, and went sauntering along the
streets, wondering what it would all come to, and how we were to manage.
There was every one I met looking cheerful and bright; here and there
shops a little way open, just as if they were winking at you, because
they were so full of all sorts of good things; people were going in and
coming out with loaded baskets; while, when I got near the baker's, it
was enough to make a hungry man savage to see the stream of people, with
their happy, jolly faces, bearing in geese, turkeys, and great fat
mottled pieces of beef; and all looking as though there wasn't such a
thing as poverty.

Everybody seemed in a hurry, and every face seemed twinkling and bright
with the thoughts of good things to come, till at last, from feeling low
and miserable, I got to be reckless and savage, and felt as if I should
have liked to have had it out with the world there on the spot.

Every one you met in the big streets was like nature that morning--
dressed in the best clothes; some bound for church, some out visiting;
and do what I would, I couldn't find one face that looked miserable.
There were the cabs and carriages rattling along; 'buses loaded; the
bells ringing merrily; while there seemed to be a something in the air
that made you feel bright in spite of yourself; and after being savage
for an hour and a half, I seemed to catch the infection from the people
about, and more than once I caught myself going to whistle.

But the thoughts of what I'd left at home made me stop short, with my
face all screwed up, and from going to one extreme I got to another; and
at last, ready to break down, I found myself sitting on the
stone-setting of the railings of one of the West End churches.

Beadle comes out after a bit and has a look at me, as much as to say,
"Are you a beggar, or ain't you?" but he never says nothing; and after a
bit he goes in again.  Policeman comes by beating his white gloves
together, and he looks very suspiciously at me, as if he couldn't quite
make up his mind; and then he goes on, and says nothing.  And there I
sat in the cold, feeling nothing but the misery gripping at my heart,
and at last, seeing nothing but a pale worn face in a bare room, where a
troop of hungry children were wanting bread.

Sounds strange that, and some may think it stretched.  But let them
climb some of the dirty stairs at the East end, and they can find such
sights any day and every day.

No; I could see nothing then, but the place we called home; and I might
have sat there till I froze, if all at once something that seemed almost
like a vision had not come before me; for as I sat there with my head
upon my hands, there came a light touch, and looking up, there stood a
little bright-eyed, golden-haired child before me, her beautiful cheeks
ruddy with the keen air, while a tiny bright tear was in each eye, as
with a pitying look she pushed a penny into my hand; when I was so
utterly took aback, that her bright scarlet cloak was some distance off
as she tripped along beside a tall stately lady, before I could recover
myself.

That did it.  It seemed to bear down pride, anger, everything, and
taking me so suddenly, I couldn't bear it, but there in that open street
my head went down again upon my hands, and in the hopeless misery of my
heart I cried like a child.

But only for a minute, when I jumped up and hurried along the street, to
catch one more sight of the bright pitying little angel; but she was
gone, and at last, making sure that she had gone into one of the houses,
I walked slowly back to the churchyard.

When I got there the people were beginning to come out of the big
church: carriages were drawing up; from out of the open doors there came
the rolling sound of the organ; and as I stood there against the
railings, watching the happy-looking crowd, it seemed to me that I must
be a sort of impostor, for to see how folks were dressed there couldn't
be such a thing as misery in the world.

All at once I started, and took hold of the railing, for I heard a voice
that put me in mind of the time when I was started from the Great
Central line.  Just in front of me, and coming towards a carriage that a
lad held open, were a lady and gentleman dressed tip-top, and he was
laughing and chatting to her.  But I only just saw that she was very
handsome, for I was watching the gentleman's eyes--bright, piercing blue
eyes, such as you seldom see; and in a regular state of muddle in my own
mind, and wondering about where those eyes had come across me before, I
leaned forward right in the way, staring fixed-like at him.

"Stand back, my good fellow," he says, and then, just as the lady
lightly stepped into the carriage, he stops short, fixes those eyes of
his on to mine, and then, with his hand playing with his big brown
moustache, he burst out laughing, when I knew him in a moment.  It _was_
him; and as I thought of the misery of the past year that he had caused,
something seemed to rise up in me, and for a moment I felt as if I could
have knocked him down.  But the clenching of my fist made me feel that
penny, and that brought up another face, when turning dejected once
more, I turned aside, saying--

"Ah! it's fun for you, but pretty nigh death for me;" but before I'd got
two steps off, he had his hand on my shabby blackened moleskin jacket,
and he says--

"Gently, my friend, I must introduce you;" and before I knew what he was
about, he had me at the door of the carriage, and he says--"Look,
Marian, here's our honest charioteer, the Vulcan who drove us down to
Moreton;" and then he whispered something that made the lady smile, and
a bright colour come all over her handsome face.  "Do you drive the mail
now?" he says, turning to me.

"_Never_ touched a handle since, sir," I says.  "They had me afore the
board two mornings after, and discharged me."  And then the thoughts of
it all seemed too much for me, and I turned husky and choky, and
couldn't speak for a minute, when I says, with a sort of gulp:--

"Can't help it, sir; I've been werry hard drove since--wife--children--"
and then I choked again as I shunted off what I was saying.

"Stand back a bit," says the gentleman to his servant, and then, in so
kind and gentle a way, he says to me--"Why, my poor fellow, I wouldn't
have had this happen on any account;" and then I saw a tear or two in
his lady's beautiful eyes, and they both stopped talking to me a good
quarter of an hour, free as could be, telling me that they had me to
thank for much happiness, as theirs was a runaway match.  And at last,
when they drove off, nodding and smiling at me, I had the gentleman's
card, so as to call on him next morning, when he said his father, being
a railway director, I should be took on the line at once; and, what was
more to the purpose then, there were five sovereigns in my hand.

I didn't know what to do, whether to laugh or cry; and I'm sure I must
have looked like a madman as I tore through the streets, and rushed
upstairs into our room, when the first thing I did was to scrape up
every bit of coal at the bottom of the cupboard and put it a-top of the
fire.

"Lay the cloth, my lass," I says, seizing a dish; "and, Lord bless you,
look alive!"  The children stared, and then laughed and clapped their
hands, while I rushed out to the cook's shop in the lane, looking like a
wolf.

There was a roast goose just up, and cissing away in the big pewter dish
all amongst the gravy, with the stuffing a smelling that rich, it was
enough to drive you mad.

Just as I slipped into the door, the waiter--red-nosed chap--with a
dirty white wisp of a handkercher round his neck, looking like a seedy
undertaker--the waiter says: "Two goose--apple sauce--and taters;" and
the master sticks his fork into the buzzum, and makes a cut as sent the
stuffing all out of a gush.

"Hold hard," I says, "that's mine;" and ketching hold of one leg, before
he knew what I was up to, it was on my dish.  "Now then, ladle on that
gravy," I says, "and let's have the setrers;" and saying that, I dabs a
sovrin down on the edge of the pewter.

I think they were going to send out for a policeman, but the sight of
that little bit of metal settled it, and five minutes after I was
carrying the change--not much of it neither--the goose under a cover,
and the waiter following behind with a tray, with vegetables, sauce, and
aside the great wedge of pudding, a pot of half-and-half.

When the waiter had gone out of the room, and the little ones were
hooraying and tapping with their knives, I got to the top of the table,
the wife went to the bottom, and I began to say grace, when our eyes
met, she ran to me, and then for a good ten minutes she was a sobbing in
my arms; while I--there; that's private, and I think I've confessed
enough.

There; I don't care whose it was, or where it was, all I know is this,
that there wasn't such a dinner eaten or enjoyed anywhere that day
throughout the length and breadth of our old country; and though
sometimes it was hard to see where I stuck the fork, or cut with the
knife, I was smiling all the time.  As for the wife, she would keep
breaking down till I shouted at her, when she went at it and helped me
keep the young ones going; and at last of all I'd have taken a shilling
for what was left of the goose, and whoever bought it wouldn't have been
the best off in the bargain.

The very next week I was took on the London, Highshare, and Ploughshare
railway, and that through the gent who got me discharged from the Great
Central, which happened this way.

The Christmas-Eve afore what I've told you was one of those yaller,
smoky, foggy times, when trains are all later than they should be, even
worse than might be expected at Christmas-time.  The lamps were burning
in the booking offices all day, while the steam hung like a cloud in the
roof of the terminus.  I was sitting in the engine-shed on our horse--
steam-horse you know--waiting to run the mail down to the north, when
Ben Davis, my stoker, says:

"There they goes again, `bang, bang,' I wonder what it's cost the
company to-day in fog signals;" and then as I didn't say nothing, he
says, "Ah! this is just such a night as it was four years agone, when
poor Tom Harris was cut up the night afore the pitch in,"--smash you
know.  "Poor Tom; he knowed it was a-comin' to that, and he told me all
about it; for I stoked him."

Just then time was up, and all hot and hissing, I runs out to the
switches, and comes back on to the down line, where we were coupled on
to the train, when Ben goes on: "Poor chap; he'd been outer sorts for
some time, and I do think he took more than he should; but one way and
another, he was horribly low-spirited, and would quite upset you with
the way he'd talk.  The last night as I stoked him, he got telling me
his reg'lar tale, about a run down he had, and one as he had never
forgotten about, being on full swing in a terribly dark foggy night, he
heard a whistle, and looking back he could see a train coming on at an
awful rate just behind him, when of course he put on more steam.  But
that didn't seem no good; for coming round the curve, he could see the
train closing up fast; and at last, when half mad with fear, and ready
to jump off, he saw that the train was on the up line, and the next
minute it was alongside his; and there they two were racing abreast of
each other; when he slackened, the other slackened; and when he did
t'other, they did t'other.  Same length train; same size engine; same
lights; and fire door open like his; so that he could see the driver's
face; and he says, says he, `I nearly dropped; for it was me as was
driving that 'tother train.'  On they goes together into the tunnel, and
out they goes together.  When he looked back, there was all the
carriages lit up, and all just as if it was his own train; but whistling
at the short stations when he did, and keeping an exactly same pace.  It
was like being in a cloud, the fog was so heavy; while the steam from
both funnels mixed together.

"It was Christmas-eve, just like this; and yet cold as it was, he said,
poor chap, the water dripped from his face as they rushed on.  He knew
it couldn't last long, for there'd be an up-train directly, and then
there must be a fearful smash; but yet something seemed to tell him as
there wouldn't; and watching as they went by station after station, he
stood trembling at his post.  All at once he could see the up-train
coming; and then he put on a spurt so as to be ahead when the smash
came; but that was no use, for the train kept aside his, and then all at
once there was a shriek, and a rush, and the up-train was right behind;
while along side his, there was that same engine just in the same place,
and him a-driving it.  Poor Tom used to make me creep when he told that
tale, and he didn't live long arter; for one night there was something
wrong in front of our engine, when he wouldn't wait till we stopped, but
got along as we were going, and when I was expecting him to come back,
and looked--for I'd been putting on more coal--there was some blood
splashed all about the screen, and when I stopped and run back, there
was poor Tom lying all to bits in the six foot.  And they do say as he's
been seen by some of the chaps a running a ghost engine along the line
at express rate, sometimes one line, and sometimes the other; and when
he meets another train, there's a whistle and shriek, and he's gone."

"That's werry pretty," I says.  "I'd have that put in a book, if I was
you;" and just then there was a bit of door banging, the second bell
rang, the guard's whistle chirrupped, and then with a scream we started,
the steam puffing out of the funnel in round white balls, and slowly
spreading overhead till it came faster, and hanging over us like a plume
of white feathers, it streamed back over the train.

Such a night: thick as thick; and every now and then it was "bang, bang"
as we went over the fog signals, and had to pull up and go very slowly,
so that we were a good ten minutes going the first half-mile; and then
past the first short station we went very slowly.

Thirty-five miles down was our first stoppage, where we took in water,
and then another forty took us to Moreton, which was our next stoppage.
By degrees we got on faster and faster, but the darkness was something
terrible; while the signal lights at the short stations were almost
useless, for I couldn't see them till we were close up, so being already
very late through its being Christmas-time I pushed her along, trusting
to the line being all clear.

"Ah!" says Ben all at once, "we're jest a-coming to the spot where poor
Tom was cut up.  Poor old chap," he says; "and it was just here as he
first saw that train running by his side."

Now, of course, I knew well enough that it was all gammon; but Ben
talked so serious that it give me quite a shiver, and as we came
suddenly upon the lights of a station, and raced through, my heart gave
a jump, for it almost seemed as if a train was aside us; and even after
passing the station, I looked out, for there was the train lights
reflected on the fog on each side; but directly after I laughed at
myself.

"It was just about here as he must have gone down," says Ben to me--
shouting in my ear, for we were going fast; "and they do say as
sometimes he mounts an engine and--_Yah-h-h_!" cried the poor fellow,
falling down upon his hands and knees; while regularly took aback, I
shrunk trembling up in the corner of the screen, and there stopped
staring at a horrible looking figure, as seemed to start all at once
into the light just as if he'd rose out of the coals.  And then he came
right up to me, for poor Ben had fainted.

As we were staring at one another I could see as the figure was buttoned
up in an oilskin coat, while a close fur cap covered its head, and a
handkercher was round the lower part of the face, so that I could see
nothing but a pair of fierce bright eyes; and there it stood with one
hand holding the side of the screen.

As long as I kept quiet it never moved; but directly I tried to get to
my place it motioned me back.  At last, half-desperate, I faced it; for
a bit of thinking told me it must be a man, though Ben's story had a bit
upset me.

"Here's Richford close here," I shouts, "where we stops;" but in a
moment I saw the barrel of a pistol flashing in the light of the fire,
and then I shrunk back again into the corner.  If he would only have
turned his back for a moment I should have pinned him, but he only
glanced round once, when Ben shuffled back into the far corner of the
tender; and there we were five minutes after rushing through Richford at
full speed.

"Now," he says, leaning down to me, "rouse up, and push on faster; and
don't you dare to stop till we get to Moreton:" and when a man says this
to you with a pistol in his hand, why, what else can you do but mind.

"Now," thinks I, "this is a pretty go;" and then I kicks up Ben to come
and stoke; but he wouldn't move, and what wanted doing I had to do
myself; and so we raced on, for he made me put on more steam, seeing
through my dodge in a moment, when I slackened instead; and on we went,
with the night seeming to grow darker every moment.  But it was race on,
past station after station like a flash; and, one way and another, I
began to grow excited.  The guard had been letting go at the gong, but
of course I could take no notice; no doubt, too, he had screwed down his
break, but that seemed to make very little difference, with the metals
in such a greasy state with the heavy frosty mist; and we raced along at
such a rate as I've never been at since.

More than once, I made sure we should be crash into the tail of some
goods-train; but though we passed several coming up, nothing was in our
way, and at last, after the wildest ride I ever had, we began to get
near Moreton, just as the water was beginning to get low.  "And now," he
says, fiercely, "draw up just this side of the station;" and I nodded:
but, for all that, I meant to have run right in, but he was too quick
for me, and screwed down the brake so that we stopped a good fifty yards
short of the platform, when he leaped down, and I was going to follow,
but a rough voice said, "Stand back," and I could see some one in front
of me; while, by the lights of the train, I just saw a carriage next the
tender opened, and some one hurried off to where a couple of lights were
shining; and I could hear horses stamping; and then--it all didn't take
a minute--there was the trampling of hoofs and the rolling of wheels,
and the man who stopped me from getting down was gone.

"Get up," I says to Ben, as we run into the station; "it warn't a
ghost:" but Ben seemed anything but sure on that point.  While, as we
finished our journey that night, I put that and that together, and made
out as this chap, who must have been a plucky fellow, got from the next
carriage on to the tender while we were crawling through the fog just
outside London; and all to prevent stopping at Richford, where, no
doubt, somebody had telegraphed for him to be taken; while, though the
message would perhaps be repeated to Moreton, it was not sure to be so,
and his dodge of stopping short where a conveyance was in waiting made
that all right.

I drove the up-mail next day to town; but that was my last on the Great
Central, for, when summoned before the Board, it was pay off, and go;
and that, too, without a character.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.

"You want to go to sleep?  Well you shall directly, but I want to say
just a word about next week and Christmas-Day."

"Well say away," I said very drowsily.

"Well, dear," said Mrs Scribe, "You see mamma's coming."

"Sorry to hear it," I said in an undertone.

"For shame," said Mrs S.  "How can you talk in that way, when you know
what interest she takes in you, and how she praises all you write.  No,
now, it isn't gammon, as you so politely call it.  Well, and if she did
say you always introduced `the wife,' or `the missus,' so often, what
then?  You would not have her flatter you, and say what she didn't mean,
would you now, dear?"

I couldn't help it, for the wind was easterly and I was very tired, so I
only said, "Bother!"  But there, I dare not commit to paper all that was
said to me upon the subject.  A word or two will suffice upon a matter
familiar to every Benedict.

"Ah, sir," said Mrs S, "you did not say `bother' after that walk when
we gathered cowslips, and I gave you leave to speak to mamma.  What did
you say then?"

"Too long ago to recollect," I said.

"No it is not, sir.  You said--"

"There, for goodness sake, don't be casting all one's follies in one's
teeth," I exclaimed.

"Well then, just listen quietly to what I was going to say about mamma
coming."

"Go on then."

"Now don't be a cross old goose, and--"

"Gander," I suggested.

"Now don't be so stupid and tiresome, dear, but just listen.  Now, Mrs
Parabola's furniture is going to be sold to-morrow, and you'd better go
and pick up a few things."

"Pick up," I said, "why they won't let you have anything unless you pay
for it."

"Dear me, how exceedingly witty," said Mrs S.  "Have you quite
finished, sir?"

I felt scorched, so held my tongue, and submitted to the scolding.

"Now I see that Jane has completely ruined that dinner-service: the
vegetable-dish covers are all broken but one, and that has no handle;
the soup tureen has a great piece out of the side; there are only five
soup plates left, while as to the dinner plates, they are that cracked
and chipped, and--"

"If you want a new service, why don't you say so, and not go dodging
about and beating the bush in that way?"  I exclaimed viciously.

"Then you know, dear," continued Mrs S, without noticing my remark, "we
want some more glass, and I'd get one of those nice wool mattresses Mrs
Parabola was so proud of, and we must have a fresh carpet in the
dining-room, for ours is perfectly disgraceful.  What? people come to
see us and not our carpets?  Well I suppose they do, but we need not
disgrace them by making believe to be so poor.  And let's see, there's a
very pretty china tea-service that I certainly would get, dear, and a
few of those damask table-cloths and napkins."

"`Those damask table-cloths and napkins?'"  I said.  "Why, how the
dickens do you know anything about them?"

"Why, I went to see, of course, and the auctioneer's men were very civil
and let us go over the house."

"Humph," I said.  "Anything else you would like?"  When if she did not
keep on talk, talk, talk for a good hour about the odds and ends, as she
called them, that it would be advantageous to buy.

Now, it so happened that when I married I thought I had properly
furnished my house; but year after year I have gone on finding out that
this was a complete mistake, while now, at the end of some thirteen
years, it seems to me to be as far from perfect as ever.  But here, in
this case, as Mrs Scribe's mamma was coming down to spend Christmas, I
could of course say nothing, so after faithfully promising that I would
visit Mrs Parabola's during the three days' sale, I was allowed to go
to sleep.

"Going to the sale, Retort?"  I said the next day to a friend.

"Well, no," was the stammered reply; "I never buy at sales."

"Never mind, walk there with me."  Mr Retort consented, and we strolled
on together to where a gaily-patterned hearthrug hung out of a window,
bearing one of the auctioneer's bills.  Men were hanging about with
porters' knots, and mostly wearing head coverings composed of Brussels
carpet; Abram was there, Isaac was there, Jacob was there, and the whole
of the twelve patriarchs, all looking hook-nosed, unctuous, unsoaped,
and evidently revelling in the idea of what a glorious "knock out" there
would be after the sale.  The dining-room was set apart for selling
purposes; the long table stood, with all the leaves in, while its
telescopic principle was so put to it that in places it was quite out of
focus, and the leaves did not meet.  The "elegantly-designed genuine
Turkey carpet" was ingeniously folded, so that all the worn parts were
hidden, and the brighter and unworn portions prominently spread out upon
the long table.  The scroll fender stood upon the chimney-piece, the
plated-ware upon the sideboard, while ranged along the walls were the
bureaus and wardrobes out of the bedrooms; at which innovation, or
rather intrusion, the large portraits upon the walls gazed down most
ferociously.

"Porter, sir?" said a man, touching his carpet-cap to Retort.

"No, thank you, my man," said my friend, politely, "I never take beer."

"No, sir, I mean to carry home what you buy," said the man.

"Oh, dear me, no," said Retort, "I never purchase at sales."

The man thrust a ribald tongue into his long lank cheek, while, at the
same moment I was earnestly examining the aforesaid Turkey carpet, and
wondering whether it would be an improvement upon the one in our own
room, when a man, whose name must have been Isaacs or Moss,
insinuatingly offered me a catalogue.

"Thank you," I said: "I have one."

"Shouldn't recommend it, sir," said the new-comer.  "The drawing-room
carpet would just suit you, for it by rights should have been laid in a
dining-room."

"Thanks," I said, "but don't let me detain you."

No detention in the least.  Mr Isaacs was a broker, and for the usual
trifling commission he could secure anything in the sale for me at a
considerable reduction in the price I should have to give.

"For you see," said Mr Isaacs, see-sawing the edge of a leaf of the
catalogue between two of his excessively dirty teeth, "if you attempt to
bid for yourself the brokers will consider that you are taking the bread
out of their mouths, and combine against you, and run things up.
Couldn't secure a thing yourself, I assure you, sir."

"Isn't this a public auction?"  I said, in what was meant to be a
dignified way.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Mr Isaacs; "but you see, sir, these sort of
things are always managed for gentlemen by brokers.  Gentlemen never bid
for themselves."

I left Mr Isaacs under the impression that I was not a gentleman, since
I fully intended to bid for myself, and steadfastly refused to pay
attention to the various eligible lots he kept introducing to my notice
as I passed from room to room of the mansion, gradually getting better
filled with visitors bound on bargain-seeking errands.

"Why, you'll pay dear enough for what you buy, depend upon it," said
Retort.  "What with brokers and buyers, I don't see much chance for
you."

"Perhaps not, but look here," I said.  "This is how I manage: I get, say
in a corner, where I can just see the auctioneer's face, and then taking
care not to make much movement or to do anything that will take the
enemy's attention, I give him a quiet nod for my bid each time, while
seeing that I am a buyer, he always looks out for my nods.  Don't you
see?"

"Just so," said Retort, "a capital plan, no doubt."

The sale began, and having obtained a pretty good place, I bid for
several little things.  Two or three times over I saw that the brokering
clique were running them up, but by a judicious bit of management I let
them run on, and then left my friends with the last bid, so that they
were quite satisfied and let me bid and buy as I liked.

I had secured, as the day wore on, several undoubted bargains, amongst
which was some of the damask linen which had taken Mrs Scribe's fancy;
but the room was insufferably hot and stuffy, and evidently too much for
poor Retort, who disappeared.

At length the dining-room Turkey carpet came on, and in spite of various
shabby parts, I made up my mind to have it for divers reasons, among
which I might enumerate its probably going for a song; secondly,
durability; thirdly, its eminent respectability, for no one could find
fault with a dining-room covered by a Turkey carpet.

"Five pun'," said one of the brokers, after the auctioneer's
introductory remarks.

I nodded.

"Five ten--five ten--six--six ten--seven--seven ten--eight ten--nine
ten.  Nine ten," said the auctioneer, drawing bid after bid from
different parts of the room, while, forgetting my nodding system in the
excitement of the moment, I stood confessed.  Now I had set ten pounds
down in my own mind as the price I would go to, and was rather surprised
to find how quickly it had reached to "nine ten," as the auctioneer
termed it.  However, seeing that the carpet was pretty good, and my room
large, I thought I would go a little farther, for I must confess to
feeling a little spite against the party of Jews who now seemed to be
running me up again.  So on went the bidding again, till it had reached
to fourteen pounds.

"Let the gentleman have it," said Mr Isaacs, with a grin.  But, no,
"fifteen pounds" was bid from somewhere else--evidently by a
confederate.

"Sixteen," I formed with my mouth.

"Seventeen bid," cried the hammer-man.

"I will have it," I muttered, "in spite of the scoundrels, for it would
cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there's no wear in them."

"Going at seventeen--seventeen--_sev-en-teen--sev-en-teen_.  Going at
seven-_teen_.  `Eighteen.'  I thank you, sir.  Eighteen--eighteen--
eighteen.  Nineteen is bid," said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned
and chuckled.

"Not half its vally yet, sir," cried Mr Isaacs.  "Don't give it away,
sir.  Orter make fifty pun', at the least."

"Thou villainous Shylock," I muttered to myself, "but I can afford a few
pounds sooner than be beaten."

"This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman's mansion, now stands
at nineteen pounds," cried the man in the rostrum.  "Say another pound
for you, sir!"

I nodded.

"Twenty pounds--twenty--twenty--guineas--twenty-one pound is offered.
It's against you, sir, at twenty-one pounds."

I nodded again.

"Twenty-two pounds," cried the auctioneer.  "Twenty-two pounds.  Any
advance upon twenty-two pounds," he continued, amid much chuckling,
when, as there was no further reply to the challenges, I became the
fortunate owner of the carpet at double its worth.

"Name," cried the auctioneer, and then catching my eye, he nodded, and
went on with the next lot.

"I'll keep out of sight again, I think," I muttered, and returned to my
corner, feeling very hot and bristly, as I determined to reopen the
knocking-out discussion in the morning papers, for it was evident that I
was the victim of a conspiracy.

But I was warm in temper as well as body, and therefore determined not
to be driven away, so I purchased an elegant set of card and occasional
tables at about double their value; gave six pounds ten for the damaged
dinner-service; seven pounds for the china; five guineas for a wool
mattress, and found myself at last bidding twelve shillings an ounce for
some of the plate.

The Jews seemed frantic with delight, but I knew all the while it was
only to conceal their anger and annoyance; and, though I kept carefully
out of sight, I knew the bolts and shafts of their coarse allusions were
being directed at me, while their hidden confederate on the opposite
side of the room bid furiously.  Once or twice I felt disposed to leave
off, and let the high-priced lots be knocked down to the Israelitish
villain.  "But no," I said, "I'll have what I want in spite of them, and
cunning as they are;" for the rascals kept sending their chaff flying at
their confederate as well.

"What a good job Retort has gone!"  I muttered; "I shall never have the
face to tell anyone what I have given."  And now, as it was fast getting
dusk, and our Jewish friends were beginning to be sportive and indulge
in such little freaks of fancy as bonneting the porters, and
accidentally causing articles of furniture to fall against their
fellows, all of which tended to make the confusion worse than before, I
left the auctioneer hurrying through the last of that day's lots, and
made the best of my way out; when, to my surprise, I found Retort in the
hall.

"Ah, well met!"  I exclaimed, hurriedly following his example; and
thrusting my pencilled catalogue into my pocket, feeling very desirous
not to talk of the day's purchases until a little softened down by
dinner and a glass or two of sherry.  However, Retort did not seem at
all disposed to speak upon the subject; and, after a little pressing,
the touchy bachelor consented to dine with me and take pot luck.

But pot luck that day was nothing to be grumbled at, for Mrs Scribe had
exerted herself to have everything snug, as she afterwards told me, in
consequence of my having been "a good boy," and undertaken to get the
few things she wanted before mamma came down.  So pot luck that day
consisted of some well-made ox-tail soup--not at all burnt--caught, as
our queen of the kitchen terms it--a nice flakey bit of crimped cod with
oysters; boiled fowls and tongue; two species of kickshaws; Stilton and
celery.  The bottled ale was good, the sherry pleasant, and Mrs S
amiability itself; so that by degrees the creature comforts acted like
anodyne or unguent to my raw temper; and when my smiling partner left us
over our wine, I leaped out of my chair, opened the door, and earned the
smile tendered for my acceptance.

"Hem!" said Retort, as soon as we were alone.

"Come, fill your glass, Tom," I said; "that's a capital glass of wine,
even if it isn't one of your wonderful vintages.  I call that Pantheon
Port--fit drink for all the gods--ruby Ambrosia."

"Hum," said Retort very superciliously--"Gilbey's, eh?"

"Now, I do call that shabby," I said, "to sneer at a fellow because he
frankly offers you a cheap glass, and isn't above owning to it.  Now, if
you had dined with old Blunkarn, he'd have given you a worse glass, and
vowed it was '20 port."

"But how did you get on at the sale?" said Retort hastily, so as to
change the subject.

"Rascally!"  I exclaimed, firing up.  "Those confounded Jews!"

"Wasn't it scandalous," said Retort.

"The most iniquitous affair I ever saw!"  I exclaimed.

"The scoundrels ought to be indicted for conspiracy," said my friend.

"_I'll_ show them up, my boy," I said.  "I'll send columns to the papers
if they'll only put them in."

"Ah, do," said my companion.  "Now, you see, I bid for a thing or two."

"You," I said; "why, what for?  Bachelor in lodgings?"

"Well--er--er--yes," said Retort, stammering, "er--er at present, you
know--at present."

"Why, you don't mean to say--" I burst out.

"Hush, my dear fellow! don't speak so loud."

"That you've proposed to Miss Visite?"

"Well--er--yes, my dear sir, I have," simpered the great booby.

"Then I congratulate you," I exclaimed.  "Here, Nelly," I said, running
towards the door.

"No, no, no--don't, don't, there's a good fellow," cried Retort,
dragging me back towards the table; "don't call Mrs Scribe.  Let me
break it to her gently some other time.  I'd rather do it myself."

"Just as you like," I said, good-humouredly; and then I toasted the
future Mrs Retort's most honoured name.

"Well," continued Retort, drawing forth his catalogue, "I was telling
you that I bid for a few lots, but those fellows run them up so, that I
couldn't get a thing."

"Yes, it was too bad," I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my
catalogue, to find that I had left it in the coat I had taken off.

"Here, Emily," I said, when the maiden answered the bell, "fetch that
catalogue out of my coat-pocket in the dressing-room.  Don't show it to
any one else.  Bring it straight here;" for I was rather alarmed lest
Mrs Scribe should see the figures made beside the lots I had secured.

Emily soon returned, and then, with a somewhat darkened brow, I began to
refer to the different items.

"What did you bid for, Tom?"  I said to my friend, who was poring over
the list, evidently deep in for furnishing.  "But I never thought of
your getting married, old chap; though I did half fancy that you were
sweet after Miss V."

"Why, you don't suppose I should have wasted a day at a sale if I had
not wanted things, do you?"

"Never gave it a thought," said I.  "And so you didn't buy anything
after all?"

"No," said Retort.  "Did you?"

"Well--er--er--um, ye-e-es; a few things--a few."

"Things went dear, though, didn't they?"

"Well, yes, on the whole, they did.  But what did you bid for?"

"Oh, I thought that Turkey carpet would just suit us; and as you were
going in for the drawing-room Brussels, why, I bid for it; but those
Israelitish villains run it up to twenty-two pounds."

I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn't speak.

"Then," continued my dear friend, "I wanted those card and occasional
tables, but couldn't get them; they bought the dinner-service, too, at
six ten, and the china for seven pounds.  Then I took a strong fancy to
that wool mattress, but of course I wasn't going to give five guineas
for it.  It certainly was a beautifully soft and thick one, but one
could buy it new for the money, or less."

"Did you bid for any of the plate?"  I gasped in husky tones.

"Well, 'pon my word, old chap, I'm half ashamed to own it, but I really
was stupid enough to go as far as eleven and sixpence an ounce for it--
which is an absurd price, you know.  But there, thank goodness!  I've
escaped, for I haven't bought a single lot."

I did not speak for quite five minutes, for the simple reason that I
could not.  What was I to do, or what was I to say?  I wanted to call
him names, and take him by the collar to shake him till his teeth
chattered.  But who could so treat a guest?

"Let's go up and have some tea," I said at last, very hoarsely; and
then, recovering myself, I stopped him, for I felt sure he would begin
talking upstairs, while Mrs Scribe, on the subject being broached,
would ask--what as yet she had not had opportunity for--what I had
secured.

"Stop a minute, Tom," I said.  "Don't say a word about the sale
upstairs."

He looked at me strangely, and kept his counsel as well as mine--and not
a single word has since passed our lips; but in after days, when dining
at our house in company with his wife, I have seen his eyes wander from
the Turkey carpet to the dinner-service, and again, in the drawing-room,
from the occasional tables to the china tea-cups and saucers; and then
he has glanced darkly at me, with the look of a found-out conspirator,
and I have looked darkly at him.  But, no, not even to the wife of my
bosom have I ever unburdened myself respecting the prices I paid for the
new acquisitions to our furnishing department.  While as to that
five-guinea wool mattress, I could almost swear that, whoever stuffed
it, stuffed in the miserable sheep's trotters and bones, for whenever by
chance we have slept in the visitors' room, upon airing principles, I
have always felt lumps right through the feather bed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"No, my love, the price has nothing to do with you," I said, while being
cross-questioned.  "You have the things, so you ought to be satisfied."

"So I am, and it's very good of you," said Mrs Scribe; "and now you'll
be good, too, and not tease mamma--now, won't you!"

"All right."

"And I say, dear."

"Well!"  (from under the counterpane).

"Don't, now--same as you did last time--don't ask poor mamma how long
she means to stay."

"All right," (very muffled in tone).

"No, dear, it isn't all right if you ask her such a thing.  It looks as
if you meant that you wanted to get rid of her again."

"So I do," (this time so smothered that it was audible only to self).

"Good-night, dear."

"Goonight."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What a nice, comfortable, pleasant-feeling, long-napped carpet, George.
I do like a Turkey carpet above all things; it is so warm and
aristocratic-looking, and then, too, so durable.  Now, I'm sure, my
dear, I am right in saying that you picked it up a bargain at a sale."

"Yes, that he did, mamma dear," said Mrs Scribe; "but he won't tell me
what he gave for it.  Do tease him till he tells you."

"Now, how much was it, sir?"

"Another slice of turkey, Mrs Cubus?"

"Well, really, my dear, I don't think--er--er--well, it really is a
delicious turkey.  Oh! half that, George.  And why don't you say mamma?
Yes, just the least bit of stuffing, and--er--a chestnut or two.  That's
quite enough gravy, thank you.  Now, what did you give for the carpet?"

"Oh," I said, "it's Christmas-time, so I shall make a riddle of it.
Guess."

"Well, let me see," said Mrs S's Mamma.  "You gave--what shall I say?
About eighteen feet square, isn't it?"

"Very good--that's it exact."

"Well, then, my dear, as you bought it a bargain, I should say you gave
five pounds for it--or say guineas--but, no, I'll say pounds."

"Capital!"  I said, with the most amiable smile I ever had upon my
countenance; "I did give five pounds for it."

"_Plus seventeen_," I whispered into my waistcoat.

"What, dear?"

"Merry Christmas to you," I said, bowing over my glass of sherry.

And that was my last bargain-hunt.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE ICE-BREAKING.

  Down by the woods in the rocky valley,
  Where the babbling waves of the river sally,
      Where the pure source gushes
      And the wild fount rushes,
      There's the sound of the roar
      That is heard on the shore,
  Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;
      For down from each hill
      With resistless will,
  The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,
  And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,
  Dash'd at the North to the Ice-king's rout;
      Then off and away,
      For the livelong day
  Has rush'd through the woodlands--no longer gay,
      Splitting the branches;
      While avalanches
      Of melting snow
      Bend the pine-boughs low,
  And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.

      And now once again
      Comes the pitiless rain,
  Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;
  Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,
  And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous sounds
      On the wintry breeze,
      Louder and louder by rising degrees.

  The Ice-king is routed--his reign is past,
  And the frost-bound river is rending fast;
  And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,
  And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.
      Splitting and rending,
      The ice unbending,
      As with mighty burrow,
      It carves out a furrow
      Of churning wreck;
      While, as if at its beck,
      The foam-capped streams
      Loose the Ice-king's beams,
  And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,
      Now sinks--now rises,
      As each stream still prises,
  Till the loosen'd river in fury rolls
  Away through the valley; while icy scrolls
  Are swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,
  And snow-drift and ice joins the West's rude levy;
      Which at barrier scouts,
      At each rock mound shouts;
  Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,
  Tingeing the waters with many a stain;
  Foaming along in an eddying sweep,
  And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,
  Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,
  And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.

      Away tears the river
      With an earthquake's speed,
      Over the snow-cover'd lowland mead,
      Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,
      As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,
      Whirling along on its bosom the reed
      And the sharp, jagg'd ice and the harmless bead,
      With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,
  Till the hills where it passes quiver.

  Away and away, and still onward away,
  And there's ruin and havoc in lowland this day;
      For the waters brown
      In their rage tear down,
  Menacing shipping and threatening the town;
      They've beat down the weir,
      And dash'd at each pier,
  And swept o'er the bank to the widespread mere,
      Whose icy sheet,
      As though torn by heat,
  Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;
      While now for the bridge,
      There's an icy ridge
      On the river's breast,
      Swept along by the West,
  Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,
      Till the bridge goes down,
      By the flooded town,
  Where the lowing kine and the penn'd flocks drown.

      But the damm'd stream rages,
      For naught assuages
      Its thirst for ruin;
      And again undoing
      The toil of years,
  It hurries along till the rocks it wears.

  And now there's a crash and a mighty rattle
  As a stalwart mound gives the river battle;
      And soon engaging,
      The waves leap raging,
      Where the mound is gash'd,
      By the churn'd ice dash'd,
      While from out of the dam,
      With the force of a ram,
      Comes each huge, strong beam,
      On the breast of the stream,
      With the speed of an arrow,
      Where the banks are narrow;
      But the rocky face
      Stays the furied race,
  As round it the waters in madness enlace;
      Lashing and tearing
      With rage unsparing,
      To beat down the stay
      In the deadly fray;
  And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;
      But the hill stouthearted
      The water has parted,
      And away in a sever'd stream they tear
      Like famish'd lions fresh from their lair,
      Devouring, destroying, and bearing away
      Each barrier, bank, or each timber'd stay;
      Till they slacken their race by the sandy verge
      Of the parent sea, whose wild, restless surge
          Lashes the shore.
      Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,
      Lost in the billows that hurrying rise
      To welcome the treasures they pour.



CHAPTER TEN.

A HORROR OF HORRORS.

"Very, very glad to see you, my boy," said my friend Broxby, as I
reached his house quite late on Christmas-eve, when he introduced me to
his wife, a most amiable woman of an extremely pleasing countenance; to
Major and Mrs Major Carruthers, a very pimply-faced gentleman, with a
languishing wife troubled with an obliquity of vision, which worried me
greatly that evening from her eye seeming to be gazing upon me, while
its owner wore a perpetual smile upon her lip.  Mrs Major Carruthers'
brother was also there, a young man, like myself, of a poetic turn, and
troubled with headaches, besides several others, ladies and gentlemen,
who occupied divers relative distances in connection with my friend
Broxby and his charming wife.

"Why you're as nervous and bashful as ever, my boy," said Broxby, in his
rough, good-natured way, and I tried to laugh it off, particularly as it
was said before so many people in the well-lit drawing-room; but even
before the fearful shock my nerves received I always was of a terribly
nervous temperament, a temperament which makes me extremely susceptible.

As I am now forty I have given up all hopes of ever getting the better
of it, even as I have felt compelled to give up the expectation of
whiskers, curling hair, and--well no, not yet, for, as the poet says,
"We may be happy yet," and some fond, loving breast may yet throb for me
in the future.  I may add that my hair is fair, my face slightly
freckled, and that I have a slight lisp, but it is so slight that you do
not notice it when you get used to me.

After a long, cold ride down by train to Ancaster, and a six miles' ride
in Broxby's dog-cart from the station, where I was met by his groom, the
well-lit drawing-room seemed so cheering and comfortable, and as I grew
a little more at home I began to be glad that I had left my chambers to
their fate for the time, and come down to bask awhile in the light of so
many lustrous orbs.

I was just feeling somewhat confused from the fact of Mrs Major
Carruthers having rested her eye upon me and smiled sweetly, when as a
matter of course I felt bound to do either one thing or the other, look
angry and suppose that she was laughing at me, or smile sympathetically
in return.  I did the latter, when, as I said before, I became confused
to see that Major Carruthers was frowning fiercely at me, while his face
looked quite currant-dumplingified from the fierce hue assumed by his
pimples.  But just at that moment a servant announced something to my
host, who came forward, slapped me on the shoulder, and I followed him
out of the room into his study, where a small table was spread expressly
for my delectation.

"You see we dined two hours ago, Augustus, so I'm going to chat and have
a glass of sherry with you while you freshen up.  I thought it would be
more snug for you here in my study, so cut away."

I must confess to having felt hungry, and I directly commenced the meal,
while my friend chatted pleasantly about the party I had met in the
drawing-room.

"Why, we must find you a wife, one of those fair maidens, my boy.  A
good, strong-minded, lovable woman would be the making of you.  Good
people, those Carruthers, only the Major is so fearfully jealous of his
wife--simple, quiet, good-hearted soul as ever breathed.  And oh, by the
bye, I have to apologise to you for something really unavoidable.  I
would not trouble you if I could help myself, but I can't.  You see the
Major is a first cousin of my wife's, and we always ask them to our
little gatherings, while it so happened that Mrs Major's brother was
staying with them, when, as it was either bring him or stay away
themselves, Laura, my wife you know, thoughtlessly said `Bring him,'
never stopping to think that every bed in the house was engaged.  What
to do I could not think, nor where to put him, till at last I said to
myself why Gus Littleboy will help me out of the difficulty, and
therefore, my lad, for two nights only I have to go down on my
inhospitable marrowbones and ask you to sleep double.  We've put you in
the blue room, where there's an old four-poster that is first cousin to
the great bed of Ware, so that you can lie almost a quarter of a mile
from each other, more or less you know, so you won't mind, will you old
fellow, just to oblige us you know?"

Of course I promised not to mind, and a great deal more, but still I did
mind it very much, for I omitted to say that, er--that er--I am
extremely modest, and the fact of having a gentleman in the same room
was most painful to my feelings.

We soon after joined the party in the drawing-room; and, feeling
somewhat refreshed, I tried to make myself agreeable, as it was
Christmas-time, and people are expected to come out a little.  So I
brought out two or three conjuring tricks that I had purchased in town,
and Broxby showed them off while I tried to play one or two tricks with
cards; but, somehow or another, when Mrs Major Carruthers drew a card,
I had forgotten the trick, and she had to draw another card which she
dropped; and, when it was on the carpet, we both stooped together to
pick it up; and you've no idea how confusing it was, for we knocked our
heads together, when I distinctly heard some one go "Phut" in precisely
the same way as a turkey-cock will when strutting; when, to my intense
dismay, I again found that the Major was scowling at me fiercely.

"Then I should go to bed if I were you, Timothy," I heard Mrs Major say
soon after; and, on looking across the room, I saw that she was talking
to her brother, but her eye was upon me, and she was smiling, so that I
felt perfectly horrified, and looked carefully round at the Major; but
he was playing cards, and did not see me.

So Mr T Peters left the room, and Broxby did all he could to amuse his
visitors, till the ladies, one and all, declared they must retire, when
the gentlemen drew round the fire; and a bright little kettle having
been set upon the hob and a tray of glasses placed upon the table, my
friend brewed what he called a night-cap, a portion of which I left four
of them discussing when Broxby rang for a candlestick, and told the maid
to show me the bedroom.

"Did you have my portmanteau taken up?"  I said to the maid.

"Yes, sir."

"And carpet-bag?"

"Yes, sir."

"And writing-case?"

"Oh yes, sir; all there--that's the door, sir; you'll find everything
well-aired, and a nice fire;" and then the maiden tripped off and
disappeared at the back.  But I had left my skin rug in the hall; and,
as it was so excessively cold, I went down the broad staircase once
more, and fetched it; returned to the bedroom door, opened it to make
sure I was right--not a doubt of it: nice fire--the great four-post
bedstead with the great blue hangings.  No; they were green, and I was
about to start back, only a heavy breath from the bed told me that I was
right; and, besides, I recollected that blue always looked green by
candle-light; and this was the case, too, with the paper I observed.

"Most extraordinary people that Major and his wife," I thought; and then
I wound up my watch, laid it upon the chimney-piece, carefully locked
and bolted the door, and then, drawing a chair up to the fire, sat down
to give my feet a good warm.  The room was most comfortably furnished,
and the chair soft and well stuffed; when, what with the heat of the
fire, the cold wind during my ride, and, perhaps, partly owing to the
night-cap I had partaken of, I fell into a sort of doze, and then the
doze deepened into a sleep, in which I dreamed that the Major had called
me out for endeavouring to elope with his wife, when it was that strange
eye of hers which had run away with me, while her set of false teeth
were in full chase behind to seize me like some rabid dog.

The horror became so great at last that I started from my sleep, kicking
the fender as I did so, when the fire-irons clattered loudly.

"What's that?" cried a familiar voice, which sounded rather softly, as
if from beneath the clothes.

"Only the fire-irons, my dear sir," I said, blandly--"I kicked them."
The next moment an exclamation made me turn sharply round; when, horror
of horrors! there was a set of teeth upon the dressing-table, and from
between the curtains of the bed Mrs Major's eyes fixing me in the most
horrifying way.

"Monster!" cried a cracked voice, which sent me sprawling up against the
wash-stand, whose fittings clattered loudly; while at one and the same
moment I heard the voice of the Major talking, and the loud, hearty
laugh of Broxby upon the stairs.

I was melting away fast when more of Mrs Major appeared through the
curtains; in fact, the whole of her head, night-cap, papers and all, and
the cracked voice shrieked--

"Monster, there's help at hand!--Alfred, Alfred, help! help!" and then
the head disappeared; when I heard from inside the curtains a choking,
stifling noise; and then came a succession of shrieks for aid.

"For pity's sake, silence, madam!"  I cried, running to the door; but
the next moment I ran back.

"Open this door, here!--open!" roared the Major, kicking and thundering,
so that the panels cracked.  "Matilda, my angel, I am here."

"Don't, don't; pray don't scream, ma'am," I implored.

"Oh! oh! oh! help, help, help! murder!" shrieked Mrs Major.

"Here, hi! oh! villain!  A man's voice!  Break in the door; smash it off
the hinges.  I am here, Matilda, I am here.  Broxby, what is this?"
roared the Major; and then the door cracked and groaned beneath the
blows thundered upon it.

"Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked Mrs Major.

"What shall I do?"  I muttered, wringing my hands and trembling like a
leaf.  I ran to the bed to implore Mrs Major to be still, but she only
shrieked the louder.  I ran to the door, but fled again on hearing the
thunderings and roarings of the Major, who beat frantically, louder and
louder.

"Sir, sir," I cried, "it's a mistake."

"Oh! villain," he shrieked.  "Here, here, a poker; my pistols.  Broxby,
there'll be murder done."

"Madam, oh! madam," I cried, in agony, "have pity, and hear me."

"Oh! oh! oh! help! help!" shrieked the wretched woman; when I heard the
door going crack, crack; the panel was smashed in, and the sounds of the
hubbub of voices entered the room, wherein I could detect that of the
Major, more like a wild beast than anything, when, dashing to the
window, I pushed back the fastener, threw up the sash, and crept out,
lowered myself down till I hung by my hands, when, with my last look, I
saw an arm reaching through the broken panel, the bolt slipped, the key
turned, and a rush of people into the room; when, losing my hold, I fell
crash into a tree, and then from branch to branch to the ground, where I
lay, half-stunned, upon the cold snow.

"There he is," shouted a voice from above me, whose effect was like
electricity to my shattered frame, for I leaped up, and gaining the
pathway, fled to the road, and then on towards the station, only pausing
once to listen for the sounds of pursuit and to tie my handkerchief
round my head to screen it from the icy breeze.  I ran till I was
breathless, and then walked, but only to run again, and this I kept on
till I had passed the six miles between Broxby's Beat and Ancaster,
where I arrived just before the night mail came in, at a quarter to
four.

One of the porters was very civil, and, supposing that my hat had been
blown off and lost, sold me a very dirty old greasy cap for five
shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a
carriage, and felt that we were going towards London at the rate of
forty miles an hour.  But I did not feel thoroughly safe until I had
gained entrance, in the cold dark morning, to my chambers by means of my
latchkey, and having barricaded the door, tried to forget my sorrows in
sleep, but I could not, while, as my laundress supposed that I should be
away for a week, everything was in a most deplorable state, in
consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on
Boxing-day.

I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my
health's sake, putting my feet in hot water, and taking gruel for the
bad cold I caught; but for that, and the nervous shock, I was not hurt,
though my clothes were much torn.  It was about eight days after that a
letter arrived while I was at breakfast, bearing the Ancaster post-mark,
directed to me in Broxby's familiar hand; but I had read it twice, with
disgust portrayed on every lineament, before I perceived that my late
friend had evidently written to his brother and to me at the same
sitting, when, by some hazard, the letters had been cross-played and put
in the wrong envelopes, for the abominable epistle was as follows:--

  "Dear Dick,--You should have come down.  Such a spree.  My ribs are
  sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it.  I sent old Gus
  Littleboy an invite.  Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering.
  The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact.  Gus was to sleep with
  Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major's room while he was down
  with me finishing the toddy.  Murder, my boy.  Oh! you should have
  been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on.
  He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not
  sent for his traps yet.  For goodness sake contrive for the Major to
  meet him at your place when I'm up next week.  It will be splitting,
  and of course I can't manage it now.

  "Yours affectionately,

  "Joe Broxby."

I need scarcely tell a discerning public that I refused the invitation
sent me by Mr Richard Broxby, of Bedford Square, when it arrived the
next week; while when, some months after, I encountered the Major and
his wife upon the platform of the Great Nosham, Somesham, and Podmorton
Railway, I turned all of a cold perspiration, for my nerves will never
recover the shock.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CABBY AT CHRISTMAS.

Rather cold outside here, sir; but of course, if you like riding on the
box best, why it's nothing to me, and I'm glad of your company.  Come
on.  "Ony a bob's worth, Tommy," says that chap as drove Mr Pickwick,
him as set the old gent and his friends down as spies.  The poor chap
must have had a bad day, you see, and got a bit raspy; and I've known
the time as I've felt raspy, too, and ready to say, "Ony a bob's worth,
Tommy."  You see ours is a trade as flucterates a wonderful sight, and
the public's got it into their heads as we're always a-going to take 'em
in somehow or other; so jest like that American gal in the story,
"Don't," says Public.  "Don't what?" says we.  "Don't overcharge," says
Public.  "Well, we wasn't a-over-charging," says we.  "No, but aint you
going to?" says Public.  Puts it into our heads, and makes us charge
extra through being so suspicious.  You see we're poor men, but not such
a bad sort, considering.  Public servants we are, badged and numbered,
bound to do work by fixed rule and charge, so what I say is that you
should treat us accordingly.  "Civil and pleasant," says you--"Civil and
pleasant," says we.  "Drawn swords," says you--"Drawn swords," says we.
Peace or war, which you likes, and the Beak for umpire.  There's a werry
good sorter clay underneath some of our weskets, if you only takes and
moulds it the right way, when you'll find all go as easy as can be; but
make us ill-tempered and hot, why of course we turns brittle and cracks;
while, you know, if you goes the other way too far, and moistens our
clay too much, why--Well, human natur's only human natur, is it? and of
course the clay gets soft and sticky, and a nuisance.  Keep half-way,
you know, and then you're all right, and will find us decent working,
when you moulds us up and brings out a model cabby.

You see you calls them black fellows men and brothers, but I'm blest if
I think some people thinks as we are; for, instead of brothers, they
treat us as if we was werry distant relations indeed, and then sets to
and fights it out with us for every sixpence we earns.  Don't believe a
word we say, they don't, and as to thinking we're honest--bless your
heart no, not they!  "Oh, they're a bad lot, kebmen," says Mrs John
Bull, and she says as the straw's musty, the lining fusty, and the
seat's dusty, and then grumbles at the horse, and blows up the driver
and flings dirt at him.

"You rascal--you scoundrel!  I'll summons you; I'll put you on the
treadmill; I'll have the distance measured; I'll--I'll write to the
_Times_ and have your rascality exposed.  Drive me to Bow Street--no to
Great Marlbro' Street--or--there--no, take your fare, but mind I've
taken your number, and I'll introduce the subject in the House this very
night."

"I'll--I'll--I'll," I says to myself.  "Nice ile yours 'ud be to grease
the wheels of Life with."  And that was Mr MP, that was; for it was
over a mile as he rode.  And only think of wanting to put a Hansom
driver off with sixpence.  Then, again, I drives a gent to the rail, and
his missus with him, and when he gets out he sorter sneaks a shillin'
into my hand, and then's going to shuffle off, when "Wot's this here
for?"  I says.

"Your fare, my man," he says, werry mildly.

"Hayten-pence more," I says.

"Sixpence a mile, my good man," he says, "and Mogg's guide says that--"

"Mogg's guide doesn't say that kebs is to be made carriers' waggons on
for nothing," I says; and then the porters laughed, and he gives me the
difference of the half-crown; and only nat'ral, for I'll tell you what
there was.  First there was three boxes--heavy ones--on the roof; two
carpet-bags and a portmanty on the seat aside me; a parrot's cage, a
cap-box, a gun-case, and a whole bundle o' fishing-rods, and umbrellys,
and things on the front seat; and him and his missus on the back.  And
arter the loading up and loading down, and what not, I don't think as it
was so werry dear.  I sarved him out, though, for I took and bit every
blessed bit o' silver, making believe as I didn't think 'em good, and
stood grumbling there till the porters had got all the things in, and
Master Generous had put hisself outer sight.

You see, sir, it ain't us as has all the queer pints; there's some as I
knows on, if they was brought down to kebbing, 'stead of being swells,
they'd be a jolly sight worse than we.

Didn't know Tom Sizer, I s'pose?  No, you wouldn't know him, I dare say.
Out an out driver, he was, poor chap.  But what was the use on it to
him?  Just because he was clever with the reins, and could do a'most
anything with any old knacker of a 'oss, the guv'nor sets him up the
shabbiest of any man as went outer the yard.  There he was, poor chap,
with the wust 'oss and the wust keb, and then being only a seedy-looking
cove hisself, why he turned out werry rough.  But that didn't matter;
Tom allus managed to keep upsides with the guv'nor, and was never
behind.  Being a quiet sorter driver, yer see, he'd got some old ladies
as was regular customers, and one way and another he made it up.  And it
was always the guv'nor's artfulness, you know: he had old 'osses and a
old keb or two, and if he'd sent some men out with 'em they'd ha'
brought back a'most nothing.

A regular sharp, teasing winter came on; rain, and freeze, and blow; and
then our pore old Tom he got dreadful shaky at last, and his cough
teased him awful, so none of us was surprised when we found one day as
he warn't come to the yard; nor we warn't surprised next day when he
didn't come; nor yet when a whole week passed away and his keb stood
under the shed, and his 'oss kep in the stable, for they was such bad
'uns none of our chaps'd have anything to do with 'em; and more'n once I
see the guv'nor stand with his hat half-raised in one hand, and
scratting his head with t'other, as he looked at the old worn keb, as
much as to say, "I shall never make anything outer that any more."

Christmas arternoon comes, and I thinks as I'll go and have a look at
Tom.  So I tidies up a bit, puts on a white choker, and ties it
coachman's fashion, and fixes it with a horse-shoe pin, as my missus
give me when we was courting.  Then I brushes my hat up, and was just
going off, when the missus says, "Wot d'yer want yer whip for?" she
says.  "Wot do I want my whip for?"  I says, and then I stops short, and
goes and stands it up in the corner by the drawers, for it didn't seem
nat'ral to go out without one's whip, and it ain't often as we goes out
walking, I can tell you.

Well, I toddles along, and gets to the place at last, where Tommy held
out: tall house it was, just aside Awery Row, and opposite to a mews;
werry pleasant lookout in summer-time, for the coachmen's wives as lived
over the stables was fond of their flowers and birds; but even in winter
time there was allus a bit o' life going on: chaps cleaning first-class
'osses, or washing carriages, or starting off fresh and smart to drive
out shopping or in the park.  Fine, clean-legged, stepping 'osses, and
bright warnished carriages and coachmen in livery; and all right up to
the mark, you knew.

So I goes on upstairs, for I knowed the way to his room, along of having
had supper with him one night--mussels and a pot of stout we had--so I
didn't ring three times like a stranger, but walks up one pair, two
pair, three pair stairs, and then I stops short, for the door was ajar,
and I could see a gentleman's back, and hear talking; so I says to
myself, "That's the doctor," I says, and I sets down on the top stair to
get my wind, and then I turns quite chilly to hear poor old Tom's voice,
so altered and pipy I didn't know what to make of it, as he says.

"There, sir, don't stand no more; set down.  Not that chair, 'cos the
leg's broke.  Try t'other one.  Well," he says, "I takes this as werry
kind of you to come and see a poor fellow as is outer sorts and laid
up--laid up!  Ah! it's pretty well knacker's cart and Jack Straw's
castle with me.  The missus there's been cleaning and a-tidying up, and
doing the best she could; but, in course, with me in it, the bed can't
be turned up, and so the place can't look werry decent.  I do take it as
werry kind of a gent like you climbing up three pairs o' stairs o'
purpose to come and see me--it quite cheers me up.  Not as I wants for
visitors, for I has the 'spensary doctor, and there's four sorter
journeymen preachers comes a-wherretin' me; till, as soon as I sees one
on 'em coming in all in black, I thinks it's the undertaker hisself.
The doctor came half an hour ago--two hours, was it? ah, well, I've been
asleep, I s'pose; and then time goes.  He's left me a lot more physic
and stuff, but I ain't taken it, and I ain't a-going to; for what's the
use o' greasing the keb wheels when the tires is off and the spokes is
all loose and rattling, and a'most ready to tumble out.  'Tain't no use
whatsomever, whether they've been good ones or bad ones.  It's all up;
and you may wheel the keb werry gently through the yard under the shed,
and leave it there, and wot odds; there's fresh 'uns a-coming out every
day with all the noo improvements, so what's the use o' troubling about
one as is worn out and out.  There ain't no use in trying to patch when
all the woodwork's worm-eaten, while the lining's clean gone; what with
bad usage and bad weather; and, as to the windys, they ain't broke, but
they're grown heavy and dull, and I can't see through 'em; and you'll
soon see the blinds pulled down over 'em, never to come up no more--
never no more!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Then there come a stoppage, for the pore chap's cough give it him awful,
so as it was terrible to listen, and I'd ha' slipped away, ony I felt as
I should like to have just a word with my poor old mate again.

"There," he says, "I've got my wind again; you see it's up hill, and
this cough shakes a fellow awful.  Never mind, though; I hope there's
rest up a-top for even a poor fellow like me; and, do you know," he
says, quite softly, "I begins to want to get there, though it does grit
me to think as I can't take Polly on the box with me; but that's a hard
thing to understand--that about life, and death, and 'ternity--for ever,
and ever, and ever.  That's what the youngest parson as comes talks to
me about.  Nice fellow he is; I like him, for he seems to want to light
one's lamps up a bit and clear the road--seems fond of one like, and
eager to give one a shove outer the block.  But there; I ain't lived to
six-and-sixty year without having my own thoughts about religion and
that sort of thing.  I know as we're all bad enough, and I s'pose a-top
of the hill there it will all be reckoned against one, and kep' account
on, good and bad.  As I sez to Polly, after that chap had been here as
is so fond of hearing hisself speak, and allus calls me `my friend;'
`Polly,' I sez, `it's no manner of use; I ain't a-going to turn king's
evidence and try to shirk out of it that way: what I've done wrong will
go to the bad, and what I've done right I hope will go to the good,
while I'm sure no poor fellow could be more sorry than me for what's
amiss.'  When we goes afore Him as judges up there, sir, it will all be
made light, and there won't be no feeling as justice ain't done.  There
won't be no big fellows in gowns and wigs a-trying to swear a chap's
soul away--making a whole sarmon out of a word, and finding out things
as was never before thought on at all.  I've been before 'em, and
examined and cross-examined, and twisted about till you don't know what
your a-saying of.  And so, when I thinks of all this lying still in the
night, listening to the rumbling of the kebs--kebs as I shall never
drive no more; why, I feels comfortable and better like; don't seem to
see as it's so werry serious, as my number's been took, and I'm
summoned; `Done my dooty,' I says, `and kep' home together as well as I
could; and it would ha' been all the same if I'd ha' been born a dook, I
must ha' come to it same as I'm a-coming now.'  Of course I should ha'
had a finer funeral; but there, lots of fellows as I knows on the rank,
chaps as is Foresters, they'll drive behind me with their windy-blines
down, and a little bit o' crape bow on the ends o' their whips; they'll
smoke it at night in their pipes, and take it werry much to 'art when
they thinks on it, and puts their blines right again--but mine won't
open no more now."

"Nigher I gets to the top of the hill," he says, "slower I goes; but
slow and sure I'm a-making way, and shall be there some time: not
to-day, p'raps, nor yet to-morrow, but some time afore long, for I knows
well enough how my number's been took, and my license is about gone.
Well, sir, I drove a cab thirty year, and it was never took away afore;
and so I ain't a-going to complain."

"Going, sir?" he says: "Then I'll take it as a favour, sir, if you'll
just see that young genelman--the parson as I likes, and ast him to
come.  He left his card on the chimbley there for me to send for him
when I felt to want him, and he seems to be the real doctor for my
complaint.  I was to send if I wanted him before he came again, and I'd
rather not see them others too.  That first one helps me on a bit, and
somehow, I seem to want to be a-top of the hill now, and he's
first-class company for a pore chap on a dark road.  Nothing like a real
friend when you're in trouble, and he seems one as will help."

"Good bye, sir," he says, werry softly.  "The warnish is all rubbed off,
and the paint chipped and showing white and worn; the bottom's a-falling
out, and the head's going fast; so once more, sir, good bye, for the old
keb'll be broke up afore you comes again.  Good bye, sir; you'll tell
him to come here, as told of mercy and hope."

And then some one stepped softly by me, and went down the creaking
stairs, and I got ready to go in; but, not feeling in a bit of a hurry,
for there was something seemed to stick in my throat, and I knew I
shouldn't be able to speak like a man when I got into the room, so I
stops outside a bit longer; and then, when I made sure as it was all
right with me once more, I steps softly in, and then stops short, when I
turned worse than ever; for there, kneeling down by his bed, was poor
Mrs Sizer sobbing, oh, so bitterly! and then I thought of how he said
he'd like to take her on the box with him.  And there, you'll laugh, I
know, at calling it a beautiful sight to see them pore, plain,
weather-and-time-worn people taking like a last farewell of one another;
and it was no good; I daren't speak, but slowly and softly backed out,
thinking about the years them two had been together working up hill, up
hill always; and then it didn't seem so strange that, when one of these
old folks dies, the other goes into the long, deep sleep, to be with
him.  And then a-going down the stairs softly and slowly, I says to
myself, "there's a deal o' rough crust and hard stuff caked over us, but
a pore man's heart's made of the real same material as God made those of
better folks of;" and Lord bless you, sir! use him well, and you'll find
the way to the heart of a cabby.

Poor Tom! he was a-top of the hill nex' day, and I never saw him again.
But he was a good sort, was Tom.  Thanky sir, much obliged; merry
Christmas to you!



CHAPTER TWELVE.

DRAT THE CATS.

Dumb animals would be all very well, no doubt, and I don't suppose I
should have much objection to keeping one, but then where are you going
to get 'em?  That's what I want to know; I never come across anything
dumber yet than old Job Cross's donkey, while that would shout sometimes
awful, and rouse up the whole neighbourhood.  No; I've got no faith in
keeping dogs and cats, and birds and things in a house, and sets them
all down as nuisances--sets my face against 'em regular, and so would
any man who had been bothered as I have with cats.

Pussy--pussy--pussy--pussy; puss--puss--puss.  Oh, yes, it's all very
fine.  They're pretty creatures, ain't they? sleek and smooth, and furry
and clean, and they'll come and rub up against you, and all so
affectionate.  Bother! why, they never do it unless they want to be fed,
or rubbed, or warmed in the nice warm glow of the fire, or in somebody's
lap.  Why, see what savage little brutes they are to one another, and
how they can spit and claw, and swear and growl, while their fur's all
set up, their tail swelled out like a fox's, and their eyes round and
bright enough to frighten you.  No; I know what cats are--pretty dears.
Who licks the top of the butter all over, and laps up the milk--eats my
bloaters, steals mutton bones off the table, pretending to be asleep
till you leave the room for a moment, when she's up on the table and
tearing away like a savage at your dinner or supper?

"Poor thing; it was only because it was hungry," says my wife.  Perhaps
it was, but then I didn't approve of it: so I gave the poor thing away.

Now, I daresay, most men's wives have got some failings in them.  I
mean--ain't quite perfect.  You see mine ain't, and though, I daresay,
she's no worse than other women, yet, she has got one of the most
tiresome, aggravating, worrying ways with her that any one could come
across.  I don't care whether its spring, summer, autumn, or winter, or
whether it's all on 'em, or none on 'em, it's allus the same, and she's
no sooner got her head on the pillow, than she's off like a top--sound
as can be.  'Taint no good to speak--not a bit--you may just as well
spare your breath, and almost the worst of it is, she mends wrong way,
and gets sleepier and sleepier the longer she lives.  But that's only
"almost the worst" on it; not _the_ worst of it, for the worst of it is,
that she will be so aggravating, and won't own to it.  Say she can't
help it; well, then, why don't she own it, and tell me so--not go
sticking out, as she'd only jest shet her eyes, and was as wide awake as
I was.

Now, I'll jest give you a sample.  We live in a part where there's cats
enough to make the fortunes of five hundred millions o' Dick
Whittingtons.  The place is alive with 'em; scratching up your bits of
gardens; sneaking in at your back doors, and stealing; making Hyde Parks
and Kensington Gardens of the tops o' your wash-houses and tiles of your
roof; and howling--howling--why, no mortal pusson would believe how them
cats can howl.  They seem to give the whole o' their minds to it, and
try it one against another, to see who's got the loudest voice, and
setting up such a concert as makes the old women cry, "Drat the cats."
But that ain't no good: they don't mind being dratted, not a bit of it;
and if you go out into the back garden, and shy bricks, why, they only
swear at you--awful.

Well, you see, we live in a very catty part, and it seems to me as if
the beasts warn't fed enough, and do it out of spite, for no sooner does
it get dark, than out they come, tunes their pipes, and then you can
hear 'em.  No matter where you are, back or front, there they are,
a-going it, like hooroar, till I'm blest if it ain't half enough to
drive you mad.  Why, there's one old black Tom, as you can hear a mile
off, and I wouldn't bet as you couldn't hear him two, for he's got a
werry peculiar voice of his own.  I think it's what musical people calls
a tenner, though it might be a hundreder for the noise it makes.

He's an artful old brute, though, is that Tom; and I've tried to come
round him scores of times, but it ain't no use, for he won't believe in
me.  I've taken out saucers of milk and bits of fish, all got ready on
purpose for my gentleman, but do you think he'd come?  No, thank you.
And as soon as ever he ketches sight of me, he shunts, he does, and goes
off like an express train in front of a runaway engine.

But I was going to tell you about my wife.  Now, nex' Monday's a
fortni't since I come home werry tired and worn out--for porter's work
at a big terminus at Christmas ain't easy, I can tell you; while, when
we are off night dootey, it's only natural as one should like a quiet
night's rest, which ain't much to ask for, now is it, even if a man does
only get a pound a week, and a sixpence now and then, as swells make a
mistake, and give you through not having read the notice up on the walls
about instant dismissal, and all that?  Well, tired out regularly, and
ready to sleep through anything a'most, I goes to bed, and as I lays
down I thinks to myself--

You may howl away, my beauties, to-night, for I can sleep through
anything.

And really I thought I could, but I suppose it was through having a
hyster barrel on my mind, that I couldn't go off directly--for there was
one missing, and a fish hamper, both on 'em.  No doubt, having been
stolen by some one in the crowd on the platform; while I got the blame;
and I put it to you, now, could a railway porter, having a pound a week,
and Sunday dooty in his turn, have his eyes every wheres at once?

So I didn't go to sleep right off, but some one else did, and there,
just outside the window, if one o' them cats didn't begin.

"Wow-w-w, wow-w-w, wow-w-w, meyow-w-w," and all such a pretty tune,
finished off with a long low swear at the end.

I stood it for ten minutes good, turning first one side, and then
another, pulling the clothes over my ear, and at last ramming my head
right under, with my fingers stuck in my ears, but there, Lor' bless
you, that was no good, for I'll warrant the song of one of them pretty,
soft, furry nightingales to go through anything, and at last I finds
that I was only smothering myself for nowt, and I puts my head out of
the clothes again, and give a great sigh.

"Me-ow-ow-ow," says my friend on the tiles.

"Hear that, Polly?"  I says.

No answer.

"Me-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow," says my friend outside.

"Hear that, Polly?"  I says, for there warn't no fun in putting up with
all the noise yourself, when there was some one else in the room to take
half share.  "Polly," I says, giving her a nudge, "hear that?"

"Eh!" she says; "what say?"

"Hear that?"  I says.

"Yes," she says; "what?"

"Why, you were asleep," I says.

"That I'm sure I warn't," she says.

"Well, then, did you hear that?"  I says.

"Yes; what was it?" she says.

"What was it?"  I says.  "There; go to sleep again," I says; for I felt
quite rusty to think anybody else could sleep through such a row, while
I couldn't.

"Meyow--meyow--wow--wow-w-w-w," goes the music again.

"Two on 'em," I says, as I lay listening, and there it went on getting
louder and louder every moment, both sides and over the way, and up and
down the street, till I'm blest if I could stand it any longer.

"Oh, you beauties," I says; "if I only had a gun."  And then I lay
there, listening and wondering whether I mightn't just as well get up
and have a pipe; and at last of all, because I couldn't stand it any
longer, I gets up, goes to the window, opens it softly, and says--

"Ssh!"

Lor' bless you! you might just as well have said nothing, for there they
were a-going it all round to that degree, that it was something awful,
and I stood there half dressed, and leaning out of the window, wondering
what was best to be done.  There was no mistake about it; there they
were, cats of all sorts and sizes, and of all kinds of voices--some was
very shrill, some very hoarse, and some round and deep-toned, and
meller.  Now and then some one would open a winder, and cry, "Ssh," same
as I did, but as soon as they smelt what a sharp frost it was, they shut
them down again, and at last I did the same, and made up my mind as I
crept into bed again, as I'd go where there was no cats.

Yes, that was a capital idea, that was--to move to a place where there
was no cats, and on the strength of that determination, I went off fast
asleep.

Next morning over my breakfast, I got thinking, and come to the
conclusion, that I'd cut myself out a bit of a job.  Where was I to get
a little house or lodgings where there was no cats, for were not the
happy, domestic creatures everywhere?  No; that was of no use, but I
warn't going to stand having my rest broken night after night in that
way; so I mounted a trap, for I'd made up my mind, that out of revenge,
I'd have a full-sized railway rug lined with scarlet cloth, while the
rug itself should be of _fur_.

First night I sets my trap, I baited it with a bit of herring.  Goes
next morning and found the herring had been dragged out at the side, and
the trap warn't sprung.  Sets it next night, baited with two sprats;
goes next morning to find 'em gone, but no pussy.  And so I went on,
week after week, till I got tired out, and tried poison, which hit the
wrong game, and killed our neighbour's tarrier dog.  Then I thought I'd
try an air-gun, but somehow or another there was a fault in that gun,
for it wouldn't shoot straight, and I never hit one of the nuisances.  A
regular powder-and-shot gun I couldn't try, because it would have spoken
so loud, that all the neighbours would have heard and known who was
killing the cats.

Last of all, one moonlight night I

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