James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

So, by good luck, I discovered a deepish doorway nearly opposite to the house in which I was almost sure the two Jews resided, and there made myself as comfortable as under the circumstances was possible. Dozing, or lying awake thinking, I passed the night till about seven o’clock in the morning, when the shopkeeper on whose premises I was trespassing opened his door and drove me off.

I took care, however, not to go far, and somewhere about nine o’clock I had the satisfaction of seeing emerge from the house I suspected two young fellows, with black bags hanging over their arms. They were dressed altogether different from the two cigar-smoking, swaggering young men I had met on the previous night; indeed they were of almost shabby appearance, having coarse old great-coats on, and greasy caps. Nevertheless, I felt so sure the one was Mr. Ike and the other Mr. Barney, that I made no scruple of making straight up to and accosting them.

“I say, sir,” said I, touching the one whom I took to be Mr. Barney on the arm, “I left my shillin’ in the pocket of them corderoys. I wish you’d give it to me.”

“Eh! what shilling? what corderoys?”

“The ones I sold you last night, you know; the ones you bought along with the bobtail and that. It’s quite right what I say; just you go back and feel if you don’t believe me.”

The young man I took to be Mr. Barney stared at me in comical surprise.

“What does he mean?” he exclaimed, turning to his companion; “do you know the lad, Mr. Wilkins?”

“Never saw him in my life till this moment,” answered Mr. Wilkins, who, however, was wonderfully like the gentleman who last night had spit in my hand.

“It’s all a mistake, you see, my good lad,” observed Mr. Barney, blandly. “What is the name of the person you want?”

“I didn’t hear their full names,” I answered; “but one was Ike and the other was Barney. I thought you was Mr. Barney.”

“Barney, my dear boy? oh, no. My name is Wilkins—William Wilkins,” replied Mr. Barney, trying to speak like a Christian, but utterly failing; indeed, his reply as it above stands, is by no means as he gave it. What he said was—”Bardey bi tear boy! oh, doe. Bi dabe is Wilkids—Wilyab Wilkids.”

“Do you mean to say that you ain’t the two as bought my work’us things last night?” said I, more and more convinced that I was not mistaken; “do you mean to say that you don’t live in that house, and that you ain’t got a ware’us full of old hats and old clothes?”

“I mean to say that you’re a very impudent lad to ask such questions,” replied Mr. Barney. “Me and my friend know nothing about old clo’; we’re in the French-polishing line.”

“It’s all gammon,” I cried, driven to tears by rage and bitter disappointment; “you’ve got my shillin’, and I mean to have it. Here comes a p’liceman—I’ll talk to him about it.”

There was a policeman at some distance down the street, and he was coming towards us. Finding it was so, the two French-polishers glared at me in a very savage manner, and were for moving off at a brisk walk.

“Come on; what’s the use of stopping to listen to that young beggar’s cheek,” observed Mr. Ike, as they were hurrying away.

“You’d better stop—I’ll call ‘Stop thief!’ if you don’t. You give me my shillin’.”

“I’ll give you a clout over the head if you don’t hook it,” exclaimed Mr. Ike, pale with rage.

“What do you want following us? Why don’t you beg of them as can afford it? Give you a shilling, indeed! Here’s tuppence—now be off before you’re made.”

“I shan’t be off,” I replied, taking the twopence and pocketing it; “I’ll have the lot, or else I’ll tell the perlice.”

“What’ll you tell the police?” inquired Mr. Barney, suddenly facing round, as though suddenly inspired with a bright idea.

“I’ll tell ’em that you bought my clothes, and cheated me out of the money,” I replied.

“What sort of clothes?” said Mr. Barney, his eyes twinkling.

“My work’us clothes—all my workus’ suit, and my boots and stockin’s.”

“Oh, indeed! that’s it, is it? You’ve been running away from some work’us, and selling the clothes you ran away in. Come on; you shall have enough of the police, since you’re so fond of ’em.”

And so saying, Mr. Barney collared me by the jacket as though it was his honest intention to drag me off to the police-station straight. It was a brilliant stroke, and worthy of the cunning rascal who had tempted me with the hunch of bread the night before. My defeat was sudden and complete. With a desperate wriggle I released myself from his grasp (he didn’t hold me very tight) and ran away, never stopping until I reached the Bagnigge-wells Road. My escape, however, cost me my cap. As I ducked under Mr. Barney’s arm my cap came off, and giving a hasty look round to see if I was followed, I saw the blackguardly young Jew pick it up and say something to his companion, with a grin, as he stuffed it into his bag. If the observation he made was not “That makes that tuppence square,” I’ll wager it was one that carried the same meaning.

Looking back to that time, it is always a wonder to me that I did not feel more miserable than I did. Surely, no boy ever had more cause to feel completely wretched—with twopence only in my pocket, twopen’orth of rags to my back, and nobody in the wide world that cared a button for me. It may appear an odd sort of argument, but I have no doubt of its truth, that the last-mentioned fact—the being without a friend in the world—kept me up under the circumstances rather than otherwise. If I had known anybody who cared for me, I should naturally have cared for them, and fell to funking and grieving as to what would be their feelings if they came to know my deplorable plight; as it was, however, I had nobody but myself to care for, and this I did to the full extent of my ability. Availing myself of the shortest cuts, I made my way out into Holborn, and so through Great Turnstile and Drury Lane into Covent Garden Market, where I invested my twopence in bread and coffee at the old familiar stall.

The remainder of that day I spent in and about the market, searching high and low for my late partners, and with a sharp eye for a job. But in both respects I was quite unsuccessful. Mouldy and Ripston were not to be found. I made myself known to one or two of my old market acquaintances, and was by them informed that neither of the lads I inquired after had been seen or heard of since the frost set in about Christmas time—now nearly two months since. Work there was none to be obtained. I had hoped that, dressed altogether differently from when I last plied in the market, and being thinner and taller, I might pass as a stranger, and do very well—the market men preferring to give jobs to strange boys rather than to old and artful hands; but, to my great disappointment, wherever I showed my face it was remembered. “What! you out again, young gallus? Be off, you young hound. I recollect you; take your gaol-crop somewhere else, or you’ll be made.” They all mistook it for a gaol-crop, and, owing to the unlucky loss of my cap, it was fully exposed to view. I couldn’t earn a single ha’penny. It didn’t snow that day; but the frost was sharp, and the wind bitterly cold.

I plied the market all day, hanging on and off as it were, until it grew dusk, and the shopkeepers in the arcade began to light up. My firm resolution in the morning was to work, and to keep my hands from picking and stealing, though even of so mild a character as my old partners had declared fruit and nut-snatching to be. But at the time the good resolution was made, I was in the enjoyment of the warmth and comfort conferred by a cup of coffee, and filled with hope. Now, alas! I was empty of both. There is much truth in the proverb that “a hungry belly has no conscience.” I was all hungry belly, and I had no conscience. I came out of Tavistock Street about five o’clock, fierce as a wolf in winter, with a steady determination to walk once more through the market—once only—and not to come away empty handed. Two minutes afterwards, I was scudding towards Drury Lane with a booty of a magnificent pineapple.