James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“Come on,” said Ripston, looking over his shoulder, “we’re nearly there.”

This remark cheered me considerably. Since we had turned into the Strand, I had been thinking what a beautiful part of the town Mouldy and the other boy lived in, or at least near, and how much I should like to live there too; but then followed the alarming thought that my companions were going “home”—home to their lodgings. They had told me so. I had not been invited to come with them; I had accompanied them voluntarily, and could expect nothing better than that they would presently turn into the house where they lodged, leaving me to get on as best I could. But Ripston had said, “Come on; we are nearly there.” Nearly at his lodgings that meant, of course; and I was invited to come on.

I had lagged behind a good bit, partly because I was so very tired, and partly because a minute or so before somebody had trod on my left heel; but I responded to Ripston’s invitation as cheerily as possible, and put my best leg foremost.

All of a sudden, however, I missed both of them; they had vanished as completely as though they had melted.

Where were they? Perhaps I had run past them. It seemed hardly likely, careful as I had been to keep my eyes on them; but there was no other solution to the mystery.

I turned back a few paces, calling out their names, but nobody answered. I hurried on twenty yards or so, and called out “Ripston” as loud as I was able. Still no reply, and not a trace of them to be seen.

The depression that had fallen on me so heavily while we were making our way through the courts and alleys, and which the glare and liveliness of the highway had nearly dispelled, now returned with greater force than before. My dismal conviction was, that the boys had designedly given me the slip. They didn’t like my company, and finding themselves so near home, they had not scrupled to cut me in this unceremonious manner. Perhaps even they had altogether misled me in telling me that they were going near to Covent Garden Market; for all I knew to the contrary, Covent Garden might be altogether another road—I might be miles farther away from it than when I started!

This last reflection was of so overwhelming a character, that I could no longer control my grief.

I stepped off the path, and looked disconsolately this way and that down the long endless-looking road, and then I brought up. against a lamp-post and began to give vent to my sorrow to a tune which, no doubt, had it been long persisted in, would speedily have brought a mob round me.

Suddenly, however, to my great joy, a well-recollected voice saluted my ears.

“Smiffield! where are you?”

Smithfield was not my name, but that was the place where my two friends had encountered me, and no doubt they gave me that name from knowing no other. Besides, it was Mouldy’s voice, unmistakably.

“Here I am,” I replied. “Where are you?”

“Here; don’t you see?”

I did not see. The voice seemed to come out of one of the private doorways by the side of the shops just opposite to which I was standing, but which I could not for my life make out. Besides, that was the last place I should have thought of looking, not dreaming that my friends were respectable enough to occupy such splendid lodgings.

Presently, however, a boy darted out of one of the said doorways, for so it seemed, and seized me by the arm.

“Is that you, Mouldy?” I asked.

“’Course it’s me,” replied he, impatiently, and giving me a jerk forward. “Come on, if you’re a-comin’.”

I speedily discovered that it was not a private house into which Mouldy had pulled me, but a low and narrow passage, with a paving of cobblestones, just such as Fryingpan Alley was paved with. The air of the place blew against my face, damp and deadly cold, and it was so pitchy dark that to see even a foot before you was impossible. After permitting myself to be led into the frightful passage for a few yards, my terror brought me to a stand-still.

“Is this—this where you live, Mouldy?” I asked.

“Down here,” answered he; “down here a good step yet. Come on; what are you frightened of?”

“It’s so dark, Mouldy.”

“I dessay—to coves wot always gets reg’lar wittles, and burn wax candles in their private bed-rooms; but we ain’t so pertikler in these parts. Come on, or leave go my hand, and let me go.”

I had him by the hand as tight as I could hold him. I didn’t know what to do. Mouldy must have felt my arm tremble, I think.

“Lor’, there’s nothink to funk about, young ’un,” said he, in almost a kind voice. “If we make haste we shall find a wan or a cart, with a good bit of dry straw to lay on. That hain’t to be sneezed at, don’t you know, on a cold night.”

Thus encouraged, I allowed myself to be led farther into the dark, damp passage, which was so very steep and slippery with wet, that if I had had shoes on, I should have slipped forward a dozen times. What Mouldy meant by his allusion to carts and vans, and dry straw, I could not at all understand. If such things were to be found at the bottom of the. dismal alley we were descending, they were not to be despised by a poor boy in want of a lodging; and, without doubt, I did want a lodging. Besides, it was very good on Mouldy’s part to offer me, quite unsolicited, a share of his bed, humble though it was, and it would seem very unkind to refuse him. So screwing up my courage as I went, I kept up with Mouldy. Down and down, each moment the wind blowing in our faces colder and fouler. Presently we overtook Ripston, who began to growl at a fine rate at the long time we were in coming, and to prognosticate that every cart and van would be full.

The pavement under our feet grew colder and muddier, and the wind more and more foul.

“Well, I d’n know,” spoke Ripston, in the dark, “but it smells to me werry much like spring tides.”

“Get out, you fool l” replied Mouldy; “spring tides is all over for this year. Don’t you know the smell of a low tide from a high ’un? You oughter by this time.”

“Ah! well, I s’pose it’s the mud I smells,” said Ripston.

“Where are we going?” I asked. “Where does this lead to?”

“Into the river, if we keep straight on,” replied Ripston laughing.

“Into the river!”

“What do you want to funk him for?” interposed Mouldy, kindly. “Yes, Smiffield, it do lead into the river if we keep straight on; but we hain’t a-goin’ to keep straight on; we ’re goin’ to turn off presently.”

I was full of fright, and now only allowed myself to be led on, because had I turned to go back I would never have found my way. Besides, it was so dreadfully dark, and if I went back it would be alone. Mouldy still held my hand, and Ripston came on behind, singing a bit of a comic song he had heard that night in Shoreditch probably, and as unconcerned as though he was treading the most clean and cheerful of paths. By and by we turned out of the passage, and down a flight of steps; and when we had reached the bottom, Mouldy said—

“Here we are. Now, you take his t’other hand, Rip, or else he’ll be runnin’ agin something, and breakin’ his legs.”

“Lift your feet up, Smiffield,” said Ripston; “if you kicks agin anything werry soft and warm, don’t you stoop to pick it up, thinkin’ it’s a lady’s muff or somethink; ’cos if you do, it’ll bite yer.”

“What will bite me?” I asked, most earnestly, wishing in my heart that I had remained all night in the pig market.

“Why, a rat,” replied Ripston, maliciously enjoying my terror. “Bless you, they runs about here big as good-sized cats—don’t they, Mouldy?”

“Don’t you b’lieve him, Smiffield,” said his friend; “’course there is rats, but they ’re jolly glad to get out of the way if they’ve got the chance, when they see you comin’.”