James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

I could stand it no longer. Were Mr. Belcher and Ned never coming? I would go a little way up the path, and listen if I could hear them. This I did, first taking the precaution to grope amongst the gravel for two big stones to skid the wheels, in case the brown horse should take it into her head to bolt

I could not see three yards before me up the path, and I was obliged to go scraping along with my feet, to make sure that I did not stray off the flagstones that made the pathway. Every few steps I took I paused and listened; but no sound, except the pattering rain, was to be heard. I ventured a little further, bearing in mind Mr. Belcher’s remark, that he wished it was this side the church, and not the other. I was not near the church yet. Creeping along, step by step, my foot presently struck against something that made a swishing sound, and instantly brought me to a standstill. It was nothing alive, for it did not attempt to get out of the way when I kicked it. Finding it so, I mustered pluck to stoop down and feel it, when, to my unutterable surprise, what should it turn out to be but the chimney-sweeping machine! There was a tree close by, and the machine was lying as though it had been placed against the tree, and fallen as I had found it.

My first fear was, that my master and Ned Perks must be in the immediate neighbourhood; that perhaps Ned was only resting a little from his load of soot; and that I should be presently discovered, and very properly get into a row for leaving the horse and cart; and full of this fear, I crouched down and listened with all my might. I could make out no sound, however—not the least; and while I was peering my hardest through the darkness on every side, I suddenly caught sight of a gleam of lantern-light over by the church. It was but a momentary flash, and extinguished at once; but it lasted long enough for me to perceive that it was coming towards me; so without more ado, I scudded back along the path, unskidded the wheels, and took my place at the mare’s head as though nothing had happened.

So long a time elapsed before anything occurred to justify my suspicion that the light betokened Mr. Belcher’s return, that I began to hope or fear (it would be hard to say, in my utter confusion of mind, which it was) that it was a false alarm, when suddenly I made out the two figures coming up the path, and much closer than I would have thought they could have approached without my being aware of it.

“I always know when they’ve had luck, by Ned Perks coming along bending under his sackful, and the gov’nor carryin’ the tools.” So Sam had said; and judging therefrom, they were in luck. Ned was bending under his sackful, and Mr. Belcher was carrying the tools, including the sweeping-machine, which he must have picked up as he came along. They halted at the wicket, and, in a cautious voice, Mr. Belcher inquired—

“Is it all right, Jim?”

“All right, sir.”

“Nobody been past—nobody spoke to yer?”

There was the “exy—what’s-o-name,” but strictly speaking, it had not addressed itself to me; besides, I was in no condition of mind for conversation, so I shortly answered, that since they were away, I had seen or spoken to no one.

“That’s the sort, Jim. Let down the tailboard; and soon as we’ve lifted the soot in we’ll have a wet a-piece, and be off like winkin’.”

I let down the tail-board, and the two men lifted in the soot—a great load of it—such a load, that they were compelled to rest the part where it was tied on the ledge of the cart, and shove it in, both of them pushing at the bottom of the sack. They turned on the light of the lantern a little while they did this, and, to judge from their appearance, you would have thought they had been doing a job at brick-making rather than chimney-sweeping—they were so soiled with clay. Their hands were smeared with it, as were their boots as high as the ankles; even the ends of Ned Perks’s black silk neckerchief were as though they had dabbled in clayey water, and the soot-sack was daubed with clay-stains from top to bottom. When the soot-sack was comfortably stowed, out came the brandy bottle, and they both took a drink out of it, and gave me a drink.

“Drink hearty; it won’t hurt yer, my lad,” said Mr. Belcher, kindly; “and take this, cos you’ve been a good boy—considerin’ it’s the fust time, a werry good boy; the usual is a tanner, but there’s a bob for you.”

And he gave me a shilling, while Mr. Perks showed his appreciation of my good behaviour at a cheaper rate by kindly patting my head.

“How shall we manage ’bout the ridin’?” asked Mr. Perks. “The boy had best sit atween us, hadn’t he?”

“He’ll be drier squattin’ down in the corner, like he did comin’ along, I should think,” replied Mr. Belcher.

“I don’t mind the rain, sir,” said I; “I’m as wet now as I can be; it won’t hurt me, sir.” Somehow, I felt full of a strange dread that was proof even against the preposterous quantity of brandy I had been persuaded to imbibe since we started from home. I didn’t want to sit at the bottom of the cart.

“Ay, ay; but I’ve got one at home now wot it has hurt; I don’t want another laid on my hands with rheumatiz, I can tell yer,” replied Mr. Belcher.

“Think it’s as well for him to sit at the bottom?” asked Mr. Perks.

“Squat down, Jim,” said Mr. Belcher, by way of reply. “There you are. We’ll put the tarpaulin’ over our knees, so that you can kiver over your shoulders with a corner of it” And he pushed me down into the corner of the cart I had previously occupied.

“Don’t you get restin’ your head on that soot-sack,” observed Mr. Perks; “cos it’s wet through, and you’ll get a ear-ache.”

And having taken their seats, Mr. Belcher whipped the brown horse, and away it sprang, as though delighted that it was allowed the use of its chilled limbs.

The strange dread that had beset me since I made the singular discovery in the church path increased more and more. Clearly, sweeping the church flues was not the purport of Mr. Belcher’s visit to Romford: he had not even taken the machine with him to the church, but only a little way up the path, and there left it. He had only carried it with him in the cart and towards the church as a blind. No chimneys had been swept that night, and yet there was the full sack.

Filled with what? “Don’t lay you head on it,” Mr. Perks had cautioned me. No fear; I was afraid to touch it—to turn my head even towards where it was lying. All the talk that had happened between my master and Mr. Perks about cutting off heads, and the caravan giant of Bexley who was bent over at the knees, and of the “dead ’un” with the short pipe stuck between his lips, came back to my recollection with terrible distinctness, along with Ned Perks’s cool avowal, that with him the perpetration of certain horrors was merely a question of having “a tool sharp enough.”

What was in the sack? My dread decreased nothing; but the longer I dwelt on the subject, the hotter grew my yearning to be released from terrible surmise, and know the truth.

How could I learn it?

Cautiously I put out a trembling foot, and, reaching over to where the clayey sack was, felt at it with my toes. It was soft, and it yielded to the touch. Was it soot after all?

I must know somehow, even though I ran a risk, my suspense was so tormenting. I had a clasp-knife in my pocket, and, without pausing to reflect on the rashness of the proceeding, I softly took it out and opened it; and, gently reaching over, slit a hole in the sack with a sudden slash. It would have been a mercy if I had withdrawn my hand as suddenly as I put it forward. This, however, I did not do; and—horror of horrors!—there fell out of the slit, with a lumpish weight, across the hand of mine that still held the knife, a man’s hand, cold as ice, and so white that it showed in the dark like a light!