James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“Did you call me, sir?” asked he, turning about, with his hands under his coat-tails.

“Yes, please, sir; I wanted to ask you to get my old clothes and put ’em down here, so that I may put ’em on when I get up in the mornin’. I’m goin’ off in the mornin’, please, sir.”

The master’s eyes quite blazed behind his spectacles as he looked at me; then, turning to the matron, he calmly asked—

“Is that boy right in his head, Mrs. Brownhunter?”

“Quite right, sir—as right as he’ll ever be, the owdacious little rascal!” replied she, meekly.

“And can you account for this extraordinary behaviour, ma’am?”

“On’y that he’s just as wicious as he always has been,” replied Mrs. Brownhunter, spitefully.

“Very good,” said the master, taking out his pencil and pocket-book; “let us see—he’s one of the lot that goes away to-morrow, and his number is”—

“Three-forty-seven, sir,” put in the matron, blandly.

“Thank you; I shouldn’t be surprised, three-forty-seven, if you hear of this little affair again.” And glaring at me once more, he went on his way.

Here, indeed, was a discovery! It was not till many minutes after I had buried my head under the bedclothes that I could bring the fact fairly before my mind; but there it was. I was not free to leave the workhouse! I was a prisoner, and to-morrow would be removed to that frightful place Biles had told me of—to be placed in the black-hole at once, no doubt, for my insolence to the master!

What ever should I do? Which way could I escape from the dreadful fate that awaited me? Even if I found a chance to run away, there were the clothes! Not, I am ashamed to be obliged to confess, that I felt any scruples about running away in clothes which had only been lent to me, but they were such queer-looking clothes—a sort of green baize, with brass buttons; the coat being a bob-tail, and the breeches being corduroy, and coming no lower than the knees, and finishing off with blue worsted stockings, and shoes with brass buckles. Where would be the use of running away in such a rig? Anybody would know me a quarter of a mile off! Still, it was but a very little way from the workhouse to the dark arches; and if I could only reach them in safety, and find my friends Mouldy and Ripston, they might manage somehow to help me out of the mess.

But how to get out of the workhouse was the difficulty, and one that kept me awake hours after all but the nurses were asleep. There was one way—only one—and that not very promising. There was a young woman in the ward, a sort of helper to the nurses—not a regular nurse, but a poor young woman who was a pauper, and who got no more liberty than the other paupers. She was a very pleasant and good-looking young woman, and somebody used to send her letters; sly letters, which the gate-keeper used to take in. Sometimes she used to slip down and take the letters of the gate-keeper herself, but more often she would send one of us boys down, and as she always got us an extra slice of bread and butter for our trouble, we never told of her. The gatekeeper used to get something too, I suppose, for he never told of Jane, but used to keep her letters as artful as could be. I think it was money for tobacco Jane used to give the gate-keeper, for the last time I had gone down to ask him if any letters had come, he gave me one, and said, “Give Jane my respects, and tell her I ain’t had a pipe of ’bacca since yesterday.” My poor chance was to go down without being sent to the gate-keeper, ask him for a letter, and tell him that Jane wanted me to slip out on a little errand for her, and that if he would let me, I was to buy him some tobacco, and bring it in with me. It certainly was a lame sort of plan, and required enough of lying and artfulness to work it out, to make my prospects at Stratford dismal indeed, if it miscarried; but I could think of none better, and resolving to try it in the morning, I went to sleep.

The morning came. Half-past seven was the breakfast-time, and it was the eight o’clock post which generally brought Jane’s letters. I didn’t flinch from my plan; indeed, if my resolution had flagged when I awoke, it would certainly have been spurred to its firmest by the jeers and grins that beset me on every side. How beautifully I should catch it when I got to Stratford! was the only subject of conversation throughout the breakfast-time.

At a quarter-past eight, having managed to stow my cap under the upper part of my trousers, I stole quietly out of the ward, and down the stairs. It was a single flight, and at the bottom was a long passage which led into the yard, at the farther end of which was the gate and the gate-keeper. The window of the sick-ward overlooked the yard; and looking up, there was Jane looking down, and looking, too, as though she couldn’t make out what on earth I did down in the yard at that time in the morning. But I took no notice of her, and marched bravely up to the lobby in which the gate-keeper sat.

“No letter,” said he, as I came up.

“I know, sir,” answered I; “but, please, Jane says would you mind me just runnin’ round the corner for her, to fetch some writing paper, and she says”—

“Cert’n’y not ” interrupted the gate-keeper, fiercely; “and you may tell Jane from me that she’s a-comin’ it a great deal too strong in askin’ such a redicklus thing.”

He looked up at the window as he spoke, and there was Jane shaking her head as hard as she could.

“Ah! it’s all very fine, you makin’ signs—Don’t stop him. I’m bound to stop him. I ain’t a-goin’ to risk my place, just because”—

“And, please, sir,” I broke in, hurriedly, seeing how my chance was failing—“please, sir, Jane said that I was to bring you in half an ounce of ’bacca.”

“Ah! that’s all very fine, too!” said the gatekeeper, his tone becoming more civil, while at the same time he gave another glance up at the ward window, where Jane still was with a very red face, and evidently with a strong suspicion that mischief was brewing, shaking her head this way and that, in the most bewildered manner. “I ain’t to be bribed by Jane buyin’ me ’bacca; if I wants ’bacca, I can buy it. Give us hold of the three-ha’pence. Cut away with you, and if you are gone as long as a minute, see what you’ll catch.”

Give him the three-ha’pence and cut away! Leave to go—the road open and free before me, and the whole business to be baulked for the want of three-ha’pence! Such a cruel thing was not to happen. The Father of lies stuck to me in my extremity.

“I haven’t got the coppers, till I get change, sir,” I said; “I was to bring you tobacco out of this sixpence which Jane gave me—and I fumbled at an imaginary sixpence in my trousers pocket.

“Be off, then,” said he; “you’ve been standin’ a-jawin’ long enough already, to have gone there and back again.”

He slipped back the bolt of the little wicket, and I was free! I should have liked to run my hardest from the instant I set my foot outside the workhouse gate, but for fear anybody might be watching, had to content myself with trotting at a moderate pace till I reached the first street comer. Then I set off at top-speed. It was a bleak bracing morning; the frosty road was hard as iron, and I felt as light as a cork. The neighbourhood was not strange to me; I knew all the short cuts, and in about six minutes had reached the alley in the strand that led down to the dark arches.

As I turned into the alley in the strand that led to the arches, St. Martin’s Church chimed half-past eight.