James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“Catch what?”

“Why, the fever. That’s what Smiffield’s got, and that’s what I don’t want,” replied Mouldy, impressively.

“Send I may live! Yer don’t mean it!” said Ripston, in a tone of great alarm. Then he’ll, die—won’t he, Mouldy?”

“Next door to sure.”

“Sudden Mouldy? Will he die sudden?”

“Not werry sudden; leastways, they don’t in general,” whispered Mouldy. “They does a good deal to ’em afore they dies of fever—shaves their head, and that.”

“What’s that for, Mouldy?” asked Ripston, in an awful voice.

“’Cos they goes cranky, and tears all their hair off if they don’t,” replied Mouldy.

“Lor’! jes fancy poor Smiffield dyin’!” said Ripston, after a few moments’ silence. “Poor old Smiff!”

I could scarcely credit my ears, but there could be no mistake about it—Ripston was crying.

I wasn’t alarmed—I wasn’t even surprised—to hear Mouldy say that I had the fever. Nor did my indifference arise from ignorance. I felt as ill as possible; and “the fever,” being the very worst complaint I had ever heard of, seemed to be exactly the proper name for my ailment. “The fever” was very common in Fryingpan Alley. It was never spoken of any other way than as “the fever,” and when it once made a settlement in the alley, a good time for Mr. Crowl was sure to follow. But even when I thought on my ailment as one which commonly killed those whom it seized—and for an instant the awful, gaping bullfinch, with his spears, appeared to my mind’s eyes—I felt in no dread. I wanted nothing, but to be let alone—not to be moved, or touched, or spoken to. I was glad to hear both Ripston and Mouldy moving to the other end of the van.

Crouching down together, they went on whispering; but I didn’t try to make out what they were saying; I didn’t care. Besides the buzzing of their voices, I could hear all the other sounds,—the laughing, and talking, and swearing of the lads tossing and playing cards; the dull tramping of feet; and the flapping of waggon tail-boards and the clinking of the chains as the lodgers climbed up to their roosts. By degrees, however, these last-mentioned sounds grew less and less, and presently ceased altogether. Still I could hear the low buzz, buzz, of the two boys, and knew that they were not asleep. I was glad of it, for within the last half-hour or so I had grown terribly thirsty, and sorely wanted a drink of water. I called Mouldy.

“You awake, Mouldy?”

“All right, old boy! we won’t go to sleep,” he answered.

“Could you get me a drink of water, Mouldy?”

“There!” whimpered Ripston; “what a jolly fool you are, Mouldy! Now you’ve started him. Why didn’t you do as I nudged yer to, and pretend to be asleep?”

“Could I get you a drink of water, Smiffy! How could I, old boy?” replied Mouldy, soothingly. “Where am I to get it from?”

“Couldn’t you get us a drop from the pump out in the strand, Mouldy—jest a little drop?”

“Cert’in’y I could go to the pump, Smiffy; but what’s the use, when I ain’t got nothink to carry it in—no mug nor nothink? You keep quiet till mornin’—about five, don’t you know—when the waggon chaps come to get their horses out; you shall have a precious lot then—as much as ever you can drink.

Oh! I can’t wait till five, Mouldy. I shall go out of my mind if I have to wait ever such a little while. I feel all scorched up for a drink. Don’t say wait till five, Mouldy.

“Well, I don’t warn’t to say it if you don’t like to hear it, Smiffy; it’s true—that’s wot made me say it.”

“What’s the time now, Mouldy?”

“It’s about one. Don’t you think so, Ripston?”

“Jest about. It’s high tide at one, and I can hear it beatin’ agin the wall. Don’t you hear it, Smiffield?”

I was terribly thirsty; and listening, I could make out the noise of the rising river striking with a full, cold sound against the wall at the bottom. It was a delicious sound. I did not think of the river at night; black and muddy, and bleak, as it really was. I could hear the plashing, and my fevered mind conjured up the picture of the river as I had seen it on the morning following my first night under the dark arches,—the sunshiny, rippling river, with the hay barge lazily floating along. To go down to the brink of it and drink was the consuming thought that suddenly possessed me. Why not? I knew my way, and wanted neither cup nor jug. I could lay down on the wall of the wharf, and bending my head over, drink, and drink as much as I pleased. I got up, and began climbing over the waggon side. It was so dark that my companions could not see me; they could hear me, however, and by the time I had got one leg over the side, Ripston had clutched and was clinging to the other.

“Why, Smiffield!” he exclaimed, in a tightened and half-crying voice, “Hallo, old matey! where was you goin’?”

“To get some water.”

“But there ain’t no water. Oh, jigger the not bein’ waxinated, Mouldy!” cried poor Ripston. “Come and ketch hold on him—there’s a good feller! There ain’t no water, Smiffy.”

“Yes there is,” I replied, struggling to get away from Ripston; “you said so. You said that it was high tide; and I’m goin’ down to the river.”

“Oh no, you ain’t!” whimpered Ripston, tugging frantically at my leg. “You ain’t a-goin’ arter water; you’re a-goin’ down to the river to drownd yerself! You’re a-goin’ out of your mind, just like Mouldy has been sayin’ you would; and you wants to chuck yourself into the river. Do come, Mouldy! Ketch hold on his hand with a bit of my guernsey, if you are frightened; on’y do come, and help me to make him lay down agin.”

But Mouldy was not to be persuaded. It was evident that he thought a great deal either about not being vaccinated, or about the possibility of my being mad, and capable of doing him an injury by biting. Anyhow, he kept his position at the further end of the van, from whence he addressed me:—

“Wot are you up to, Smiffield? D’ yer want to rouse up the whole arches an’ set ’em agin us? D’ yer want to bring the peelers, which ’ll be here directly, pokin’ an’ pryin’ about our wan to see wot’s the matter?”

“I only want some water, Mouldy.”

“Well, and who said as yer shouldn’t have any? leastways, I cert’n’y said so myself, but I didn’t mean it, Smiffield. I will get yer some. You lay down as Ripston wants yer to, an’ I’ll go an’ get yer some water.”

“Oh, ah! I knows yer!” exclaimed Ripston, suddenly suspicious of Mouldy’s motives. “You’re a-goin’ to hook it, that’s what you’re goin’ to do. It’s all rubbish about your goin’ to get water; you’re a-goin’ to leave me to look arter him best way I can.”

I must say that I was much of the same opinion as Ripston; but we both misjudged the honest fellow.

“You wait jest a minnit, an’ you’ll see all about my cuttin’ away an’ leavin’ yer,” said he, dropping over the side of the van.

“But what have yer got to fetch water in?” Ripston called after him.

“It’s all right, I tell yer. You lay down, Smiffield, and I’ll fetch yer a drink in my cap; there!”

I was willing enough. I have thought many times since, that both Mouldy and Ripston no doubt thought that I had a narrow squeak of doing a very horrible thing, and were very thankful in their own minds that they were able to persuade me from going down to the river. True, the cold wind off the water blowing on me when so full of fever might have caused my death as surely as drowning. Then again, I might, while groping in the dark, have slipped in; and if I had, it would have been all over with me, for when the river is full there is enough water under the wall there to have drowned me had I been ten feet high instead of barely four; so, considering everything, my thanks that I am still in the land of the living may be due to my two poor little ragamuffin partners, after all.