James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“Out you go, you big, bullying coward, you,” he exclaimed; “I tell you, you shan’t ill-use the boy in my house;” and as he spoke he rashly laid a rough hand on my father’s shoulder. Next moment, there were heard the sounds of a smart spank, and then of a dull thud—the first being caused by the sudden visitation of my father’s fist to Mr. Piggot’s face, and the second by the consequent banging of Mr. Piggot’s head against the tap-room door.

My father was in a terrible passion, and stood sparring with his great fists, and glaring and mouthing, like the mad drunkard he was. One good came to me through the landlord’s interference: to enable him to spar, my father was obliged to quit his hold on me, and I was not slow to avail myself of it, and to shuffle from the table to the ground.

“Fetch the police, Peter,” said Mr. Piggot to his potman.

“Fetch ’em! fetch forty on ’em, you infernal old rotten gin-tub,” roared my parent. “Look here; he’s my child, and I’ll do jest what I like with him. I tells you, old Piggot, and I tells every man in this room, that I’m just a-goin’ to begin to welt that young wagabone jest as long and jest as hard as wot I’ve a fancy to. Now, which one of yer is it as says that I shan’t?” And as he spoke, he dealt the table such a tremendous blow with his clenched fist as fairly made even the full quart pots leap.

There was a tremendous stir by this time, and the tap-room door was half open, with half-a-dozen people looking in. I was still crouching under the table, where I had crept out of my father’s way, when the friendly potman stooped down and dragged me out behind the men’s legs; while my father was too busy defying Mr. Piggot, the police, and all the rest of the world, to take notice.

“Now, you cut home as fast as your legs will carry you, young feller, and think yourself lucky to get off so easy.”

And with that, he pushed me out into the street, closing the door after me.

Messrs. Barney and Ike

If any one had observed me as I turned away from the “Dog and Stile,” not knowing the peculiarities of my case, they never would have supposed that I was escaping from some tremendous danger. People escaping from great perils that may easily pursue and overtake them naturally run. I didn’t run. Where was the use? Where was I to run to? If ever there was an outcast boy, surely I was that one. Without a home; without a single friend in the world; with an empty belly, and clothed in worse than rags—inasmuch as the livery I had on was not mine, and fettered my free going almost as much as if the corduroys on my legs and the linsey-woolseys on my arms had been fetters and handcuffs. “Think yourself lucky to get off so easy,” the potman said. Lucky! In what way, I should like to know? It was all over with my hopes and schemes. I was regularly in for it, and didn’t care a button what happened next. I was so altogether cast down, that if, as I skulked along Turnmill Street, I had heard my father coming raging after me up the street, flourishing his waist-strap as he ran, I don’t think that I should have hurried myself in the least to avoid him.

It was by this time fully half-past ten o’clock, and the shops were being closed. Which way I was going was not worth thinking about. All ways were the same to me now; so, with my hands in the pockets of my parish breeches, I went slouching along through the pelting snow, taking the streets as I came to them, as a homeless dog might.

In this manner I jogged along for a quarter of an hour or so, until I found myself in Hatton Garden, with my face towards Holborn. Facing Kirby Street, in that locality, there is another street leading into Leather Lane. This street is not a long one, and is made up of shops. All the shops, however, except one, were closed. The exception was a baker’s shop, and the baker was putting up his shutters.

The shutters were all up but one, and through the bit of corner window yet visible, there was exposed to view a heap of twists and rolls and other sorts of small-sized fancy bread. Had my legs been suddenly deprived of use, I could not have been brought to a more complete standstill. It seemed that my doggish jogging through the snow was not aimless, after all; this was what I was in search of—this bread! One or two of those new and crusty little loaves—the twists preferred, on account of being flat and easy to bite at. How many of those lovely twists could I eat? Which would I choose? That one at the bottom for one, because it was so brown and crispy, and that other one leaning against the window, because—

Whiz! up went the last shutter, shutting in the beautiful bread and the light, and leaving the baker’s shop only one more to add to the dark and dismal row.

It was like waking out of a dream. Since the morning, I had felt no desire for food; I had not even thought of it; but now a sudden sense of faintness beset me, and an indescribable numbness pervaded my inner parts, awakening my stomach and setting it aching for food. I must have something to eat. The painful craving roused my wits, and I was no longer dull and sluggish, but as broad awake as ever I was in my life.

Some food MUST be got.

But how? Should I beg?

Who of? Hatton Garden and Leather Lane are no places for gentlefolks, nor indeed for any other sort of folks, in any number, at eleven o’clock at night How could I beg, dressed as I was in workhouse clothes? Who would give me a penny and pass on, as that good gentleman in Smithfield had done, on the first day of my running away from home, without asking questions as to why I was out so late at night, and why I did not make haste back to the workhouse? Besides, there was no time for begging; by the time I had begged a penny there would be no way of spending it

Was there anything I could steal?

The only open shop in sight was a gin-shop; the only foot passenger in sight a policeman. At least so it seemed, as I glanced up and down the street; but the snow was so blinding that I could scarcely see twenty yards before me. But, presently, I heard footsteps and laughter coming from towards Hatton Wall, and presently could make out two young gentlemen, with cigars and walking-canes. They were so merry, that it seemed quite like Providence sending them this way that I might beg a penny of them. Stealing from them, I declare, never came into my head; nor was it likely that it should, for, as I said before, both young gentlemen carried walking-sticks, and the policeman was as yet in sight.

The closer the two young gentlemen approached, the higher my hopes grew; that they were real rich gentlemen seemed certain, for on the hand that held his cigar each of them had a ring, with a more brilliant stone in it than I had seen since my uncle Benjamin’s time. “P’r’aps they’ll give me a penny a-piece,” thought I; “or, perhaps, if one of them has got a loose sixpence, I shall get that.” It seemed so lucky, too, that one of them should stop at the very doorway where I was to relight his cigar.

“Please, sir, have you got a copper to spare?” I asked this one.

“Ask my friend,” he answered, laughing, as though he thought it rather a good joke. “Barney, give the poor lad a shilling.”

He didn’t say it quite like I have written it down, because (as I knew as soon as he took his nose out of his comforter and began to speak) he was a Jew. “Give the boor lad a shillig!” My heart was in my mouth.

But it didn’t remain there long—no longer, indeed, than it took the other young gentleman to get his nose and mouth free; then it sank to the very bottom of my empty belly, for, observed the young gentleman—