L. Meade - Scamp and I - A Story of City By-Ways

Before the morning came the weary life was ended, and Dick and Flo were really orphans.

Then the undertaker’s men came, and a coffin was brought, and the poor, thin, worn body was placed in it, and hauled up by ropes into the outer world, and the children saw their mother no more.

But they remembered her words, and tried hard to fight out an honest living for themselves.

This was no easy task; it sent them supperless to bed, it gave them mouldy crusts for dinner, it gave them cold water breakfasts; still they persevered, Flo working all day long at her cobbling, while Dick, now tried a broom and crossing, now stood by the metropolitan stations waiting for chance errands, now presented himself at every shop where an advertisement in the window declared a boy was wanting, now wandered about the streets doing nothing, and occasionally, as a last resource, helped Flo with her cobbling.

But the damp, dark cellar was unendurable to the bright little fellow, and he had to be, as he himself expressed it, a goodish bit peckish before he could bear it. So Flo uncomplainingly worked in the dismal room, and paid the small rent, and provided the greater part of the scanty meals, and Dick thought this arrangement fair enough; “for was not Flo a gel? she could bear the lonely, dark, unwholesome place better’n him, who was a boy, would one day be a man, and – in course it was the place of womens to kep at ’ome.” So Flo stayed at home and was honest, and Dick went abroad and was honest, and the consciousness of this made them both happy and contented.

But about a month before this evening Dick returned from his day’s roaming very hungry as usual, but this time not alone, a tall boy with merry twinkling eyes accompanied him. He was a funny boy, and had no end of pleasant droll things to say, and Dick and Flo laughed, as they had not laughed since mother died.

He brought his share of supper in his pocket, in the shape of a red herring, and a large piece of cold bacon, and the three made quite merry over it.

Before the evening came to an end he had offered to share the cellar, which was, he said, quite wasted on two, pay half the rent, and bring in his portion of the meals, and after a time, he whispered mysteriously, he would go “pardeners” with Dick in his trade.

“Why not at once?” asked Dick. “I’d like to be arter a trade as gives folks red ’errings and bacon fur supper.”

But Jenks would neither teach his trade then, nor tell what it was; he however took up his abode in the cellar, and since his arrival Flo was much more comfortable, and had a much less hard time.

Scarcely an evening passed that some dainty hitherto unknown did not find its way out of Jenks’s pocket. Such funny things too. Now it was a fresh egg, which they bored a tiny hole in, and sucked by turns; now a few carrots, or some other vegetables, which when eaten raw gave such a relish to the dry, hard bread; now some cherries; and on one occasion a great big cucumber. But this unfortunately Flo did not like, as it made her sick, and she begged of Jenks very earnestly not to waste no more money on cowcumburs.

On the whole she and Dick enjoyed his society very much. Dick indeed looked on him with unfeigned admiration, and waited patiently for the day when he should teach him his trade. Flo too wondered, and hoped it was a girl’s trade, as anythink would be better and less hard than translating, and one day she screwed up all her courage, and asked Jenks if it would be possible for him when he taught Dick to teach her also.

“Wot?” said Jenks eagerly; “you’d like to be bringin’ carrots and heggs out o’ yer pocket fur supper? Eh!”

“Yes, Jenks, I fell clemmed down yere, fur ever ’n ever.”

Then Jenks turned her round to the light, and gazed long into her innocent face, and finally declared that “she’d do; and he’d be blowed ef she wouldn’t do better’n Dick, and make her fortin quite tidy.”

So it was arranged that when Dick learned, Flo should learn also. She had never guessed what it meant, she had never the least clue to what it all was, until to-night.

But now a glimmering of the real state of the case stole over her. That supper was not honestly come by, so far things were plain. Once in his life Dick had broken his word to his dying mother, once at least he had been a thief. This accounted for his forced mirth, for his shamefaced manner. He and Jenks had stolen something, they were thieves.

But perhaps – and here Flo trembled and turned pale – perhaps there were worse things behind, perhaps the mysterious trade that Jenks was to teach them both was the trade of a thief, perhaps those nice eggs and carrots, those red herrings and bits of bacon, were stolen. She shivered again at the thought.

Flo was, as I said, a totally ignorant child; she knew nothing of God, of Christ, of the Gospel. Nevertheless she had a gospel and a law. That law was honesty, that gospel was her mother.

She had seen so much pilfering, and small and great stealing about her, she had witnessed so many apparently pleasant results arising from it, so many little luxuries at other tables, and by other firesides, that the law that debarred her from these things had often seemed a hard law to her. Nevertheless for her mother’s sake she loved that law, and would have died sooner than have broken it.

Dick had loved it also. Dick and she had many a conversation, when they sat over the embers in the grate last winter, on the virtues of honesty.

In the end they felt sure honesty would pay.

And Dick told her lots of stories about the boys who snatched things off the old women’s stalls, or carried bread out of the bakers’ shops; and however juicy those red apples were, and however crisp and brown those nice fresh loaves, the boys who took them had guilty looks, had downcast faces, and had constant fear of the police in their hearts.

And Dick used to delight his sister by informing her how, ragged and hungry as he was, he feared nobody, and how intensely he enjoyed staring a “p’leece-man” out of countenance.

But to-night Dick had been afraid of the “p’leece.” Tears rolled down Flo’s cheeks at the thought. How she wished she had never tasted that ’ot roast goose, but had supped instead off the dry crust in the cupboard!

“I’m feared as mother won’t lay com’fable to-night,” she sobbed, “that is, ef mother knows. Oh! I wish as Dick wasn’t a thief. S’pose as it disturbs mother; and she was so awful tired.” The little girl sobbed bitterly, longing vainly that she had stayed at home in her dark cellar, that she had never gone with Dick to Regent Street, had never seen those fine dresses and feathers, those grand ladies and gentlemen, above all, that in her supposing she had not soared so high, that she had been content to be a humble hearl’s wife, and had not wished to be the queen; for when Flo had seen the great queen of England going by, then must have been the moment when Dick first learned to be a thief.

If ever a creature possessed the knowledge which is designated “knowing,” the dog Scamp was that creature. It shone out of his eyes, it shaped the expression of his countenance, it lurked in every corner and crevice of his brain. His career previous to this night was influenced by it, his career subsequent to this night was actuated by it.

Only once in all his existence did it desert him, and on that occasion his life was the forfeit. But as then it was a pure and simple case of heart preponderating over head, we can scarcely blame the dog, or deny him his full share of the great intellect which belongs to the knowing ones.

On this evening he was reaping the fruits of his cleverness. He had just partaken of a most refreshing meal, he had wormed himself into what to him were very fair quarters, and warmed, fed, and comforted, was sleeping sweetly. By birth he was a mongrel, if not a pure untainted street cur; he was shabby, vulgar, utterly ugly and common-place looking.