James Greenwood - The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“’Bout you bein’ back sooner than she”—

“Pish! no, stupid head; about you not lasting longer”—

“Longer than the last lodger? Oh, yes, sir! I remember.”

“You didn’t know what she meant, of course?”

“Course not.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. Our last lodger—about two years older than you he was, and as clever a little fellow as ever turned his hand to diving—he lasted as a lodger of mine only nine weeks. He’s lodging now at Coldbath Fields—getting up the stairs without a landing. Three months of it, and twice privately whipped. Bad for him, isn’t it?”

When Mr. Hopkins spoke of “the stairs without a landing,” he rose for a moment from his chair, and gave a correct imitation (according to the imitations I had seen of the same process as given by the boys under the Dark Arches) of the working of the prison treadmill.

“Should say it jest was bad for him,” I answered. “How did he come to get to Coldbath Fields?”

“Because he was a swindling young whelp, who thought he could give me a chalk in the game I had taught him,” replied Mr. Hopkins, savagely. “It’s like this, Jim Smith. The boys who come to lodge here, and don’t stay, are the boys I trust, and who cheat me. It’s a foolish game for ’em to play, ’pon my word and honour, Jim, it is. You see there’s no mistake about me. To the boy that sticks to me, I’m a brick. Not only do I do by him as I’ve already told you, but if he should be so unlucky as to get hampered, he still finds a friend in me. I get him bail, I get him a lawyer to defend him, and if love or money’ll do it, I get him off. If he can’t be got off, whatever can be done for him while he’s laying by I do, and I’m a father to him the moment he comes out. Only don’t let him fancy that he is cleverer than I am. Money does wonders, you know, Jim. So sure as a boy of mine takes to fiddling, I’d manoeuvre him into quod before he sleeps that night, if I paid five pound an oath against him.”

“And serve him right,” said I, earnestly.

“That’ll do, then. I’ve nothing more to say—at present, at all events. Now you can go for a walk, or to the play—whichever you like—till eleven o’clock. Have you got any money?”

“I’ve got a fourpenny-bit, sir.”

“I’ve some loose silver somewhere. Ah? here’s three-and-sixpence. We mustn’t be extravagant, you know, until we see our way a bit clearer. Be off. Don’t be later than eleven.”

As Mr. Hopkins gave me his parting injunction not to stay out later than eleven o’clock, he shut the door of his house on me, leaving me free to wander whithersoever I pleased.

I never felt so utterly bewildered in all my life as, fingering the three-and-sixpence he had presented me with as it lay in my pocket, I made my way by various short cuts known to me towards Shoreditch Church. I didn’t know what to make of Mr. Hopkins. He seemed earnest enough, else why had he taken the trouble to show me where he lived?—why had he given me three and sixpence? He had revealed enough to me to convince me that he was a rogue—indeed, it was enough for me to remember his unscrupulous appropriation of the pocket-book to convince me of that; but if that was all he wanted, why didn’t he be off with it and leave me, as I so broadly hinted to him that he was at liberty to do? Clearly it was not all he wanted; he wanted me.

But on what terms? I was to be dressed like a young gentleman; I was to be fed on the best; lodged like a duke; and only have to ask for five shillings to be sure of getting it! For what? For doing what I had already been doing for nearly two months, and had grown quite used to. For doing, with all ease and confidence, inspired by the comforting reflection that, come the worst, all that money could do would be done for me, that which I had never yet done without fear and trembling. Why, all the pull was clearly on my side, and it would be a very foolish thing not to take him at his word. There couldn’t be any harm in sticking to him, at all events, while he acted up to the proposed terms; if he ceased to do so, what was to hinder my running away? I could scarcely forbear laughing outright in the street What a fool Mr. Hopkins was, with all his wise words and knowing winks!

I had permission to go to the play, if I chose. By the “play” no doubt Mr. Hopkins meant a regular theatre, but I had never been to a regular theatre. There was a “gaff” near Whitechapel turnpike, and since I had been “on my own hands” I had been there several times; and though the acting there certainly did not come up to the acting at the Shoreditch gaff, it was very good, and I stood still for a moment pondering whether I would go there to-night. It was a long way, however, and I mightn’t get home in time. “I’ll have a turn at the old crib,” I suddenly resolved; “the second performance begins at half-past eight, and it wants full a quarter to that now. I’ll go there, and I’ll go in the boxes. I’ll take some sausage rolls and some oranges in with me, and I’ll enjoy myself reg’ler. What odds if it does cost me a couple of shillings? I can afford it; I can have five shillings whenever I like to ask for it.”

It was a very short distance from Shoreditch Church to the gaff, and within five minutes from when I made up my mind to go there I had bought the sausage rolls and the oranges, and treated myself to half-a-pint of sixpenny ale, and was in the thick of the throng pressing about the gaff waiting for the doors to be opened for the second performance.

The mob was an uncommonly large one, by reason, as I presently discovered, of its being a benefit-night in behalf of Mr. Roshus Fitzherbert, the principal tragedian. Besides singing and dancing, there was a new piece out—“The Seven Steps to Tyburn”—and Mr. R. Fitzherbert was announced to play the part of the leading character. Boys, big and little, were crowding on all sides of me, and just before me was a boy in a corduroy jacket, who stuck his elbows out in such a way that I could feel the pocket in which my sausage rolls were squeezed flat to my breast. I took the liberty of giving him a gentle kick, at the same time informing him of the amount of damage he was the cause of.

“Jigger yer sossidge rolls!” replied he. “Why didn’t yer eat ’em comin’ along, then they couldn’t ha’ got squeezed?”

He spoke without turning his head, but I knew his voice immediately; and, with a joyful exclamation, I laid my hand upon his shoulder.

“Why, you don’t mean to say as how it’s you, Ripston?”

“What, Smiffield! Lord’s truth! this is comin’ to the gaff for summit!” exclaimed my old friend; and, in utter disregard of the personal discomfort of his neighbours, he wriggled round to shake hands with me. The movement, however, cost him his forward place towards the gaff-door, and we were hustled and elbowed until we found ourselves out of the crowd, and, by the light of the great lamp attached to the gaff, we had an opportunity of viewing each other.

“Well, this is a stunnin’ meetin’!” exclaimed Ripston, absolutely collaring me in his excess of gratification. “Why, I’ve been a-thinkin’ on yer as bein’ dead lots and lots of times, old Smiff, since the last time we seed you, and here you are dressed rippin’ and all half a head bigger, if you’re an inch! What a jolly swell you are, too, Smiff. You’ve bin a-crackin a tidy crust since them ’Delphi times I should think, good luck to yer!”

I wasn’t much of a “swell” I had a sound suit of clothes to my back, and sound boots to my feet, and a decent cap on my head, and that was all; nevertheless, my appearance, compared with what it was just at the time when I fell into that fever, had doubtless changed to a degree to justify Ripston in his eulogium.