James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“That’s it That’s just the old play-acting rubbish over again; enough to make a cat sick. He stayed sprawling at home, the lazy hound, taking the last bit of bread from the old woman, too good to do anything naughty until she starves and dies, and when it’s too late he takes to prigging! It would have been a —— sight more to his credit if he had stirred himself a bit earlier. So he would if it was real instead of play-acting: any fool must see that. Go on.”

I related step the third.

“That’s a rich touch,” laughed he; “he puts himself to the trouble to make a purse, and he brings it in and throws it down for anybody to pick up to pay for a pot of beer! His next ‘step’ ought to have been to St. Luke’s in a strait waistcoat Go on, Jim.”

So I went on, and at every “step” he had some derisive comment to make. He laughed and made a good joke about the “ringlet;” he pointed out clearly enough the impossibility of his getting a pardon in the manner described; he sneered at the ghost and made fun of her placard; in fact, after his peculiar manner, he turned the entire drama inside out as it were, and tore it into such ridiculous shreds that I became altogether astonished that I could ever have seen anything the least affecting in it, and I would no more have confessed to Mr. Hopkins that it had made me cry, than I would have explained to him my fancied discovery of similitude in some of the features of the drama with my own private and domestic experience. Indeed, for fear that he should have suspected how much the representation of “The Seven Steps to Tyburn” had worked on my disturbed conscience, I affected a keener appreciation and relish for his humorous criticism than I felt, and laughed longer and louder even than he did. We were capital friends. Presently, however, Long George referred to his watch.

“Hallo! we’ve sat it out prettily! Why, it’s twelve o’clock! There’s one thing, we don’t rise very early in this establishment. Toddle off to bed, Jim, never mind about leaving me in the dark. Take the candle and call out when you’re in bed, and I’ll come and fetch it. Your room is the back one a’top of the stairs.

So, bidding him good-night in tones that must have convinced him how much my opinion of him had improved since we came home to supper, and how entirely I was now disposed to devote myself to his service, I took the candle as directed and made my way to the bedroom he had directed me to. He had informed me that I should find it pretty comfortable; but in my eyes it was many, many degrees beyond that. It was beautiful. I had never in my life seen such a bedroom. The bedstead in it was of the tent pattern, and hung about with chintz curtains that half-shut in the snowy bed, making it snug and downy-looking as a bird’s nest There were dimity hangings to the window, a warm carpet on the floor, a washstand and a lovely white towel hanging close by, a chest of drawers, and a looking-glass a’top of it I put my head in at the door bold enough; but when I saw the interior I drew back in amazement, and looked out to make quite sure that this really was the only back room a’top of the stairs. There was no mistake about it, however; so, afraid almost to breathe too hard in such a paradise, I ventured in, pulling my boots off instantly, out of respect for the spotless red and green carpet Only that I was aware that Mr. Hopkins was left in the dark in the parlour, there was so much to investigate in that wonderful room that I should have possibly spent a quarter of an hour very agreeably before getting into bed; as it was, however, I made haste to undress, and when the process was completed I went to the door to call out to that effect.

“Will you come and fetch the candle, please?”

Nobody answered; so I put my head out to call a little louder. I could make out two voices raised to a high pitch, so high, indeed, that, although the parlour door was shut, the subject of the conversation in progress between Long George and the young woman who had opened the door for us in the early part of the evening, and who had treated me so unceremoniously, could be made out with tolerable distinctness.

“—I’m to ask you, then, I suppose, when I’m to go out and when I’m to come home! it’s likely, ain’t it? I’m the right sort.”

“You’re a —— bad sort, George! By G—d, I’ll find out how bad. I’ll follow you, if you kill me.”

“Don’t I tell you it’s business?”

“It’s always business; the night before last, and again to-night, business! It’s a lie, George; you know it’s a lie.”

“It’s good enough for a —— like you, if it is a lie, if it comes to that; I’m going, that’s enough.”

There was a pause in the quarrel now.

“Will you fetch the light, please?” I called once more, loud enough for them to hear, and almost before I could hop into bed up came Long George; and, without a word, carried the candle away. Almost immediately afterwards I heard the street-door bang.

There was nothing much to trouble me in the fag-end of the altercation I had heard between Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins. He wanted to go out, and she wanted him to stay at home, and he had gone out; that seemed to be all about it, and it was probably the novelty of my situation, rather than thinking about the squabble, that kept me from going to sleep as quickly as probably I otherwise should; at all events, I did lie awake for a quarter of an hour, I daresay, and was then comfortably dropping off to sleep when a rap at the bedroom door disturbed me.

“Who’s there?” I asked.

“Get up and dress yourself, and come downstairs, my boy; I want to speak to you.”

It was the young woman that spoke, and opened the door just wide enough to set a lighted candle within the room. Without another word she went down-stairs.

It was not for me to dispute Mrs. Hopkins’s authority in her own house, or to question her right to order me out of bed if she chose to do so; since Mr. Hopkins was my master his wife must be my mistress, so although much puzzled and not a little alarmed as to what this singular proceeding on the part of Mrs. H. might portend, I simply replied, “Yes ’m” to her command, and prepared immediately to obey it. I was for dressing myself fully, boots and all, as she must have heard, for she tilled out from the foot of the stairs—

“Never mind your boots, leave them up there.”

It raised quite a load from my mind to hear her say this; as the reader is aware she had not shown herself at all pleased to receive me as a lodger, and while I was dressing it occurred to me that she might possibly intend to turn me out to spite Long George. She couldn’t very well turn me out without my boots.

When I got down stairs, I found her sitting in the parlour all alone, looking very pale, and with her eyes puffy and red as though she had not long ago been crying. She was standing with her face towards the fire-place (the fire had gone out) as I entered the doorway, but I could see her in the glass over the mantel-shelf.

“Come in, can’t you?” said she sharply, as I hesitated at the threshold; “come inside and shut the door.”

Feeling each moment more perplexed and frightened, I did as she told me.

“Come here,” said she, “I’ve barely seen you yet: set the candle on the table and let me have a look at you.”

I don’t know what she thought of me, but as she stood looking me in the face so earnestly with her red and swollen eyes my decided opinion was that she was intoxicated. I was altogether mistaken, however, as the reader will presently see.

“Sit down,” said she, proceeding to question me—her scrutiny proving satisfactory I suppose—“Now what sort of boy are you?”