James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

I had not long to wait; indeed, the two policemen seemed to have been talking about me while I was outside.

“Oh! here he is,” remarked one of them, as I entered the parlour; “you’d best keep close by us, young gentleman; you’ll have that chap with the gun after you else.”

This was supposed to be a joke, so the other policeman and the gamekeepers laughed.

“You’ll be glad to get home again and out of danger, my lad, won’t you?” one of the men asked.

It was clear that to express a disinclination to going home would be to increase the anxiety of the police to convey me thither carefully, according to his worship’s directions.

“I shall be very glad indeed; I wish I was there now,” I answered. “I’ll take jolly good care never to run away again.”

“Do you know your way home from here?”

“Very well indeed, sir,” I eagerly replied. “Can I go at once, please?”

“You mustn’t go till I’m ready to take you,” answered the policeman; “and that won’t be till after the court rises at four this afternoon. You ain’t obliged to stay here, though. You ain’t a prisoner, you know, you’re a witness. You can go down to the station and sit down there, or you can walk about a bit, so long as you don’t go far.”

I could scarcely restrain an exhibition of my delight at hearing the officer express himself in this way. I wasn’t a prisoner, I was a witness, and was free to take a little walk!

“Thanky, sir,” I replied, and strolled out of the parlour, saying no more, and leaving the police uncertain as to which of the proffered indulgences I intended to avail myself.

Avoiding all appearance of hurry, I walked down the Ilford road, which, as the reader is probably aware, is in a direct line with the principal highway at the east of London, Bow and Stratford lying between. It will be remembered that on depositing the sack of “soot” in the cart at the churchyard at Romford, Mr. Belcher had presented me with a shilling, which I had carefully transferred from the pocket of my wet rags to a similar receptacle in the dry and comfortable clothes which were supplied me at the police station. It was my rapidly-formed intention to expend this shilling, or part of it, in feeing the first driver of an available vehicle that might happen to pass that way to give me a lift Londonwards. But by good luck I was spared this extravagant expenditure. I had barely struck into a bend of the road that hid me from the court-house, when there came bowling along at a handsome rate a pair-horse carriage, with a convenient and unspiked splinter-board behind. Such a splendid opportunity was not to be lost, and in half a minute I was seated on the end of one of the carriage-springs, holding on to the board, and whisking along at the rate of ten miles an hour.

My carriage ride continued through Great and Little Ilford, through Bow and Stratford as far as the Mile End Road, and even then it was only brought to a premature close through the malicious conduct of a boy about my own age, who, desirous of a gratuitous lift down the road, and disappointed at finding no room for him at the back of my barouche, appealed to the coachman to “cut me down behind” in so energetic and pertinacious a manner, that at last the coachman (who was engaged in deep conversation with the footman by his side, and not at all obliged, I am sure, to the villain for his interruption) was compelled to hear him, and to act on his suggestion. It was a rash thing for a fugitive to do, but I don’t think I could have resisted the satisfaction of punching that boy’s head, even if the terrible beak of the law himself with the green spectacles had at the same time appeared coming down the road.

It was yet early in the day, however, (it did not take long to settle with my envious young friend,) and by two o’clock I had reached Whitechapel. It was not until I saw “Whitechapel Road” written up against a wall that I knew where I was, and the discovery gave me considerable satisfaction. Personally, I knew nothing of that part of the metropolis; but I had, during my Dark Arches’ experience, made the acquaintance of several boys who originally came from Whitechapel, and they one and all agreed in declaring it the “slummiest crib anywheres.”

A “slummy” place—a hole-and-corner court-and-alley neighbourhood—was exactly the place for me in the position in which I then found myself, my great first and foremost desire being seclusion until such time as the unlucky body-snatching affair had blown over; and then—.

Bother about “then”—“now” was the time. In an hour or so the Ilford policemen would be growing uneasy about me, and there would probably be a search that must, if possible be evaded. I turned into Cutler Street, and wound in and out of a dozen of the narrowest and ugliest thorough-fares I could find, and finally anchored at a delightfully “slummy” soup-shop, where I invested fourpence of my shilling in food. The soup-shop keeper let beds at the rate of fourpence each, as I found on inquiry; so, with his permission, I sat in a corner until the evening, when, after having another pen’orth of soup for supper, I was shown upstairs and stowed away for the night.

I was tired enough to have dropped to sleep immediately, and I daresay I should have done so had my mind been as weary as my body, or even had I been beset by only one difficulty, whatever its magnitude. On the contrary, I was in a perfect adder’s nest of difficulties. I could not bring myself to believe in the terrible fix I was in, until, by a tremendous effort, I shut the gate of my mind, as it were, on my flock of troubles, and let them in again singly for review; and then they made themselves known to an extent that completely bewildered and stunned me. The most provoking part of the business was, that my difficulties had grown out of my “escapes.” I had escaped from the cart in the first instance, and thought myself lucky; I had escaped from Mr. Perks, when with murderous intent he was raging after me, which beyond question was matter for congratulation; I had escaped from the Ilford constabulary in the most extraordinarily fortunate manner; and, after all, how did my run of “good luck” leave me? Worse than it found me a hundred times. My father would be set on my track again; Mrs. Winkship, the only real friend I had in the world, would be justly incensed against me for betraying her; Mr. Belcher was at large, and hungering to catch me and serve me “as he said he would;” and the law—the last refuge for a fellow whom all the world are vengefully pursuing—was provoked against me, and would doubtless instruct its officers to lay violent hands on me wherever I might be met. Well, so things were, and what had best be done? What could be done? Nothing, absolutely nothing, but hide as I could, and wait and see.

With this thought I fell asleep, and with this thought I awoke next morning, and went down to the shop and spent my remaining threepence in some breakfast. With no other thought in my mind, I skulked about the live-long day, confining my walks to the lowest and shadiest parts, and avoiding the police with fear and trembling. This state of things of course could not last. So my old enemy, Hunger, suggested when, as the evening fell, he reminded me that I had not yet dined, and wasn’t likely to sup.

“It is ridiculous to talk about ‘waiting and seeing;’ you must do something,” said Hunger.

“How? How can I move without making matters worse?”

“ Can they be made worse?”

“Jigger’d if I can see how they can be made much worse; I’m sick of this, anyhow. It’s bad enough to be afraid to turn a corner for fear a policeman should grab hold on me, without going hungry all the time. If I was near the market, bless’d if I would go hungry, neither. What do I care? Everybody’s agin me.”