James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“Come on, Smiffield!” exclaimed Mouldy, as I approached, and speaking in a voice quite different to that in which he had before addressed me; “come along, old boy! I’ve seen quite enough to tell me the sort of cove you are! You a green hand! You tell that to fellers as don’t know what’s o’clock. Here, ketch hold of the puddin’; I wish it was double as big.”

I didn’t think I had done anything like a clever thing till Mouldy made such a fuss about it; and that he was in earnest was certain, more from his manner than his speech. As I walked by his side, he scarcely once took eyes off me the whole time I was devouring the pudding, but kept on jerking his head as though his admiration was too deep to be expressed in words.

“I couldn’t have done it half as clean—nor yet a quarter,” said Ripston.

“ You! ” replied Mouldy, laying a stress on the word which must have been very hurtful to his friend’s feelings; “you ain’t bad in your way, Ripston; but when you sets up to be a quarter—ah! or a half a quarter—as clever at nailin’ as Smiffield has showed hisself, it on’y shows what a bounceable sort of cove you must be. Why, I couldn’t have pinched them almonds as clean as Smiffield did—not if you give me a week to practise in! Not but what there are things,” continued Mouldy, afraid, I suppose, that he might lead me to think too much of myself, “which I dessay I could beat his head off at.”

It was all very well while the daylight lasted, and the comfortable inward sensation derived from a bellyful of pudding continued to make itself felt, (the almonds that I stole fetched twopence of the man in Coal Yard;) but when night set in, and I once more found myself lying in the dark van with nothing to do but to go to sleep, I began to feel most acutely the stings of conscience consequent on my evil behaviour through the day.

I was now a thief! There was no use in endeavouring to evade or mitigate the terrible truth—I was a thief! I had deliberately stolen a pint of almond nuts—stolen, run away with, sold them, and spent the money they fetched! Mouldy was “pillow” on this occasion, and as a tribute, I suppose, to my skill, I was allowed to “pick my part;” so I lay with my head on Mouldy’s breast, whilst Ripston occupied his legs’ end.

But despite this great advantage, I couldn’t sleep. All my pulses seemed to beat to the mental utterance of that dreadful word “thief!” Thief! thief! thief! thief! My heart, my temples, my hands and feet equally complained of it, and I could get no rest at all

“A thief!” I at last involuntarily whispered.

I had thought that Mouldy was asleep, but he was not.

“Who’s a thief?” he asked.

The abruptness of the question startled me considerably, but I was too full of the woeful theme to be started away from it; indeed, in my bitter remorse I think that I felt rather glad than otherwise of an opportunity of accusing myself.

“I’m a thief, Mouldy,” I answered.

“Well, who said that you warn’t?” replied Mouldy, snappishly.

“But I am, Mouldy; I am.”

“’Course you are. No need to be so jolly proud on it, Smiffield. You are a thief, if it’s worth while callin’ such jobs as we seed you doin’ to-day, thievin’; which I don’t.”

“But I never was a thief before, Mouldy,” I replied, earnestly. “I never was; and that’s as true as I’m layin’ here alive. It’s that wot makes me so precious miserable.”

“Gammon!”

The word was uttered by Ripston, who, it seemed, like Mouldy, was lying awake.

“It isn’t gammon, Rip; it’s quite true,” I sorrowfully replied. “I wish it was gammon.” “You’re afraid to say ‘Strike me dead if it is!’” said Ripston.

“I am not,” I replied. And I said it.

“’Course he can say it,” observed Mouldy; “and so he can say ‘Strike him dead if he is,’ even now, if anybody asks him.”

“I should be afraid of bein’ struck dead if I did, Mouldy,” I replied.

“Why would you?”

“Because now I am a thief.”

“Oh, no, you hain’t,” said Mouldy, shaking his head, as though his opinion on the subject was deeply rooted. “What you did to-day wasn’t thievin’; not by a werry long ways.”

“’Course it wasn’t,” chimed in Ripston, with equal earnestness.

“Well, then,” said I, “what was it?”

“Well, I don’t know ’zactly what it’s called; all I knows about it is, that it ain’t reg’ler out-and-out thievin’.”

I shook my head doubtingly, and I suppose that Mouldy felt the movement.

“Don’t believe me; arks the law,” he continued. “When did ever you hear of a case like yours bein’ put in the newspapers?”

“That’s how to look at it,” pursued Ripston. “When did anybody ever hear of a cove bein’ took afore the beaks at Bow Street for it? It’s the beadle wot settles it. And wot’s a beadle when the law looks at him? Why, he’s frightened of a p’liceman hisself. ’Taint likely as the law would let a beadle settle thievin’ cases—now, is it?”

“Then what’s the beadle put there for?” “What for? Why, I’ve told you what for. To settle things—things wot ain’t right, to come to the rights on it—and wot ain’t thievin’. That’s wot he carries that cane for.”

“Takin’ what ain’t yours is thievin’; at least that’s what I’ve always heard say,” I replied.

“I knows all about that,” replied Mouldy, raising his head on his hand, the more conveniently to discuss the interesting subject; “they do say so, but that’s their iggerance; they never tried it, so they can’t be ’spected to know any better. Look here, Smiffield, it lays this way—If a cove walked into one of them shops in Common Garden market, and helped hisself out of the till, and they caught him a-doin’ of it, that ’ud be thievin’; if he dipped his hand into the pocket of any lady or gen’lman wot come to buy flowers and that, and they caught him a-doin’ of it, that ’ud be thievin’; and so the beak as you was took afore ’ud jolly soon give you to understand. But if a feller—a hard-up feller, don’t yer know—as has been tryin’ to pick up his ’a’pence in a honest sort of a manner, if he is found with a few apples or nuts as doesn’t happen to belong to him, the salesman wot they do belong to gives him a clout or a kick, else he calls the beadle, and he lays into him with his cane, and then lets him go. Why, if the beadle was to take one of us afore the beak, he’d get pitched into for takin’ up the beak’s waluable time, and p’r’aps get the sack.”

Without doubt, Mouldy spoke as though he meant what he said; or if he did not, it was very kind of him to pretend so earnestly in order to make my mind easy. It was equally kind of Ripston for so heartily backing him; but, somehow, all that they said didn’t lift the new and strange weight off my conscience. It may have padded it a bit, so that it sat easier; but lift it off it certainly did not.

“Well, if takin’ things—nuts and that—isn’t stealin’, what is it?” I asked of Mouldy.

“Oh, all sorts o’ things: prowlin’, sneaking, makin’.”

“Pinchin’ findin’, gleanin’, some coves calls it,” put in Ripston; “but, Lor’! wot’s the odds how yer call it?”

“’Spose now a p’liceman was asked,” I urged, “what name would he give it?”

“Oh, ah! who’d think of arstin’ such jolly liars as wot the perlice is?” replied Ripston.