Фредерик Марриет: The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

He was dragged to the forge, the fire of which glowed under the force of the bellows, and by degrees, as the warmth reached him, he was restored to self-possession. To the inquiries made as to who he was, and from where he came, he now answered as he had before arranged in his mind. His father and mother were a long way before him; he was going to London, but having been tired, he had fallen asleep under the haystack, and he was afraid that if he went not on to London directly, he never might find his father and mother again.

“Oh, then,” replied the shepherd, “they have gone on before, have they? Well, you’ll catch them, no doubt.”

The blacksmith’s wife, who had been a party to what was going on, now brought up a little warm ale, which quite re-established Joey; and at the same time a waggon drove up to the door, and stopped at the blacksmith’s shop.

“I must have a shoe tacked on the old mare, my friend,” said the driver. “You won’t be long?”

“Not five minutes,” replied the smith. “You’re going to London?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Here’s a poor boy that has been left behind by his father and mother somehow—you wouldn’t mind giving him a lift?”

“Well, I don’t know; I suppose I must be paid for it in the world to come.”

“And good pay too, if you earn it,” observed the blacksmith.

“Well, it won’t make much difference to my eight horses, I expect,” said the driver, looking at Joey; “so come along, youngster: you may perch yourself on top of the straw, above the goods.”

“First come in with me, child,” said the wife of the blacksmith; “you must have some good victuals to take with you—so, while you shoe the horse, John, I’ll see to the boy.”

The woman put before Joey a dish in which were the remains of more than one small joint, and our hero commenced his attack without delay.

“Have you any money, child?” inquired the woman.

Joey, who thought she might expect payment, replied, “Yes ma’am, I’ve got a shilling;” and he pulled one out of his pocket and laid it out on the table.

“Bless the child! what do you take me for, to think that I would touch your money? You are a long way from London yet, although you have got such a chance to get there. Do you know where to go when you get there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Joey; “I shall get work in the stables, I believe.”

“Well, I dare say that you will; but in the meantime you had better save your shilling—so we’ll find something to put this meat and bread up for your journey. Are you quite warm now?”

“Yes, thank’ee, ma’am.”

Joey, who had ceased eating, had another warm at the fire, and in a few minutes, having bade adieu, and giving his thanks to the humane people, he was buried in the straw below the tilt of the waggon, with his provisions deposited beside him, and the waggon went on his slow and steady pace, to the tune of its own jingling bells. Joey, who had quite recovered from his chill, nestled among the straw, congratulating himself that he should now arrive safely in London, without more questioning. And such was the case: in three days and three nights, without any further adventure, he found himself, although he was not aware of it, in Oxford-street, somewhat about eight or nine o’clock in the evening.

“Do you know your way now, boy?” said the carman.

“I can ask it,” replied Joey, “as soon as I can go to the light and read the address. Good-bye, and thank you,” continued he, glad at last to be clear of any more evasive replies.

The carman shook him by the hand as they passed the Boar and Castle, and bade him farewell, and our hero found himself alone in the vast metropolis.

What was he to do? He hardly knew—but one thought struck him, which was, that he must find a bed for the night. He wandered up and down Oxford Street for some time, but every one walked so quick that he was afraid to speak to them: at last a little girl, of seven or eight years of age, passed by him, and looked him earnestly in the face.

“Can you tell me where I can get a bed for the night?” said Joey.

“Have you any brads?” was the reply.

“What are those?” said Joey.

“Any money, to be sure; why, you’re green—quite.”

“Yes, I have a shilling.”

“That will do—come along, and you shall sleep with me.”

Joey followed her very innocently, and very glad that he had been so fortunate. She led him to a street out of Tottenham-court-road, in which there were no lamps—the houses, however, were large, and many stories high.

“Take my hand,” said the girl, “and mind how you tread.”

Guided by his new companion, Joey arrived at a door that was wide open: they entered, and, assisted by the girl, he went up a dark staircase, to the second storey. She opened a room-door, when Joey found himself in company with about twenty other children, of about the same age, of both sexes. Here were several beds on the floor of the room, which was spacious. In the centre were huddled together on the floor, round a tallow candle, eight or ten of the inmates, two of them playing with a filthy pack of cards, while the others looked over them: others were lying down or asleep on the several beds. “This is my bed,” said the girl; “if you are tired you can turn in at once. I shan’t go to bed yet.”

Joey was tired, and he went to bed; it was not very clean, but he had been used to worse lodgings lately. It need hardly be observed that Joey had got into very bad company, the whole of the inmates of the room consisting of juvenile thieves and pickpockets, who in the course of time obtain promotion in their profession, until they are ultimately sent off to Botany Bay. Attempts have been made to check these nurseries of vice: but pseudo-philanthropists have resisted such barbarous innovation: and upon the Mosaic principle, that you must not seethe the kid in the mother’s milk, they are protected and allowed to arrive at full maturity, and beyond the chance of being reclaimed, until they are ripe for the penalties of the law.

Joey slept soundly, and when he awoke next morning found that his little friend was not with him. He dressed himself; and then made another discovery, which was, that every farthing of his money had been abstracted from his pockets. Of this unpleasant fact he ventured to complain to one or two boys, who were lying on other beds with their clothes on; they laughed at him, called him a greenhorn, and made use of other language, which at once let Joey know the nature of the company with whom he had been passing the night. After some altercation, three or four of them bundled him out of the room, and Joey found himself in the street without a farthing, and very much inclined to eat a good breakfast.

There is no portion of the world, small as it is in comparison with the whole, in which there is more to be found to eat and to drink, more comfortable lodgings, or accommodation and convenience of every kind, than in the metropolis of England, provided you have the means to obtain it; but notwithstanding this abundance, there is no place, probably, where you will find it more difficult to obtain a portion of it, if you happen to have an empty pocket.

Joey went into a shop here and there to ask for employment—he was turned away everywhere. He spent the first day in this manner, and at night, tired and hungry, he laid down on the stone steps of a portico, and fell asleep. The next morning he awoke shivering with the cold, faint with hunger. He asked at the areas for something to eat, but no one would give him anything. At a pump he obtained a drink of water—that was all he could obtain, for it cost nothing. Another day passed without food, and the poor boy again sheltered himself for the night at a rich man’s door in Berkeley-square.