Chapter Twenty Two.
A very Long Chapter, but in which our Hero obtains Employment in a very Short Time.
The preparatory establishment for young gentlemen to which our hero had been sent, was situated on Clapham-rise. Joey did not think it prudent to walk in the direction of London; he therefore made a cut across the country, so as to bring him, before seven o’clock in the morning, not very far from Gravesend. The night had been calm and beautiful, for it was in the month of August; and it had for some time been broad daylight when our hero, who had walked fifteen or sixteen miles, sat down to repose himself; and, as he remained quietly seated on the green turf on the way side, he thought of his father and mother, of the kindness of the McShanes, and his own hard fate, until he became melancholy and wept; and, as the tears were rolling down his cheeks, a little girl, of about ten years old, very neatly dressed, and evidently above the lower rank of life, came along the road, her footsteps so light as not to be perceived by Joey; she looked at him as she passed, and perceived that he was in tears, and her own bright, pretty face became clouded in a moment. Joey did not look up, and after hesitating awhile, she passed on a few steps, and then she looked round, and observing that he was still weeping, she paused, turned round, and came back to him; for a minute or two she stood before him, but Joey was unconscious of her presence, for he was now in the full tide of his grief, and, not having forgotten the precepts which had been carefully instilled into him, he thought of the God of Refuge, and he arose, fell on his knees, and prayed. The little girl, whose tears had already been summoned by pity and sympathy, dropped her basket, and knelt by his side—not that she prayed, for she knew not what the prayer was for, but from an instinctive feeling of respect towards the Deity which her new companion was addressing, and a feeling of kindness towards one who was evidently suffering. Joey lifted up his eyes, and beheld the child on her knees, the tears rolling down her cheeks; he hastily wiped his eyes, for until that moment, he imagined that he had been alone; he had been praying on account of his loneliness—he looked up, and he was not alone, but there was one by his side who pitied him, without knowing wherefore; he felt relieved by the sight. They both regained their feet at the same time, and Joe went up to the little girl, and, taking her by the hand, said, “Thank you.”
“Why do you cry?” said the little girl.
“Because I am unhappy; I have no home,” replied Joey.
“No home!” said the little girl; “it is boys who are in rags and starving, who have no home, not young gentlemen dressed as you are.”
“But I have left my home,” replied Joey.
“Then go back again—how glad they will be to see you!”
“Yes, indeed they would,” replied Joey, “but I must not.”
“You have not done anything wrong, have you? No, I’m sure you have not—you must have been (be) a good boy, or you would not have prayed.”
“No, I have done nothing wrong, but I must not tell you any more.”
Indeed, Joey was much more communicative with the little girl than he would have been with anybody else; but he had been surprised into it, and, moreover, he had no fear of being betrayed by such innocence. He now recollected himself, and changed the conversation.
“And where are you going to?” inquired he.
“I am going to school at Gravesend. I go there every morning, and stay till the evening. This is my dinner in my basket. Are you hungry?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Are you going to Gravesend?”
“Yes,” replied Joey. “What is your name?”
“Emma Phillips.”
“Have you a father and mother?”
“I have no father; he was killed fighting, a little while after I was born.”
“And your mother—”
“Lives with grandmother, at that house you see there through the large trees. And what are you going to do with yourself? Will you come home with me? and I’ll tell my mother all you have told me, and she is very kind, and will write to your friends.”
“No, no; you must not do that; I am going to seek for employment.”
“Why, what can you do?”
“I hardly know,” replied Joey; “but I can work, and am willing to work, so I hope I shall not starve.”
With such conversation they continued their way, until the little girl said, “There is my school, so now I must wish you good-bye.”
“Good-bye; I shall not forget you,” replied Joey, “although we may never meet again.” Tears stood in the eyes of our hero, as they reluctantly unclasped their hands and parted.
Joey, once more left alone, now meditated what was the best course for him to pursue. The little Emma’s words, “Not young gentlemen dressed as you are,” reminded him of the remarks and suspicions which must ensue if he did not alter his attire. This he resolved to do immediately; the only idea which had presented itself to his mind was, if possible, to find some means of getting back to Captain O’Donahue, who, he was sure, would receive him, if he satisfied him that it was not safe for him to remain in England; but, then, must he confess to him the truth or not? On this point our hero was not decided, so he put off the solution of it till another opportunity. A slop warehouse now attracted his attention; he looked into the door after having examined the articles outside, and seeing that a sailor-boy was bargaining for some clothes, he went in as if waiting to be served, but in fact, more to ascertain the value of the articles which he wished to purchase. The sailor had cheapened a red frock and pair of blue trousers, and at last obtained them from the Jew for 14 shillings. Joey argued that, as he was much smaller than the lad, he ought to pay less; he asked for the same articles, but the Jew, who had scanned in his own mind the suit of clothes which Joey had on, argued that he ought to pay more. Joey was, however, firm, and about to leave the shop, when the Jew called him back, and after much haggling, Joey obtained the dress for 12 shillings. Having paid for the clothes, Joey begged permission to be permitted to retire to the back shop and put them on, to ascertain if they fitted him, to which the Jew consented. A Jew asks no questions when a penny is to be turned; who Joey was, he cared little; his first object was to sell him the clothes, and having so done he hoped to make another penny by obtaining those of Joey at a moderate price. Perceiving that our hero was putting his own clothes, which he had taken off; into a bundle, the Jew asked him whether he would sell them, and Joey immediately agreed; but the price offered by the Jew was so small, that they were returned to the bundle, and once more was Joey leaving the shop, when the Jew at last offered to return to him the money he had paid for the sailor’s dress, and take his own clothes in exchange, provided that Joey would also exchange his hat for one of tarpaulin, which would be more fitting to his present costume. To this our hero consented, and thus was the bargain concluded without Joey having parted with any of his small stock of ready money. No one who had only seen him dressed as when he quitted the school, would have easily recognised Joey in his new attire. Joey sallied forth from the shop with his bundle under his arm, intending to look out for a breakfast, for he was very hungry. Turning his head right and left to discover some notice of where provender might be obtained, he observed the sailor lad, who had been in the shop when he went in, with his new purchase under his arm, looking very earnestly at some prints in a shop window. Joey ranged up alongside of him, and inquired of him where he could get something to eat; the lad turned round, stared, and, after a little while, cried, “Well, now, you’re the young gentleman chap that came into the shop; I say aren’t you after a rig, eh? Given them leg bail, I’ll swear. No consarn of mine, old fellow. Come along, I’ll show you.”
Joey walked by his new acquaintance a few yards, when the lad turned to him, “I say, did your master whop you much?”
“No,” replied Joey.
“Well, then, that’s more than I can say of mine, for he was at it all day. Hold out your right hand, now your left,” continued he, mimicking; “my eyes! how it used to sting. I don’t think I should mind it much now, continued the lad, turning up his hand; it’s a little harder than it was then. Here’s the shop, come in; if you haven’t no money I’ll give you a breakfast.”
The lad took his seat on one side of a narrow table, Joey on the other, and his new acquaintance called for two pints of tea, a twopenny loaf, and two penny bits of cheese. The loaf was divided between them, and with their portion of cheese and pint of tea each they made a good breakfast. As soon as it was over, the young sailor said to Joey, “Now, what are you going arter; do you mean to ship?”
“I want employment,” replied Joey; “and I don’t much care what it is.”
“Well, then, look you; I ran away from my friends and went to sea, and do you know I’ve only repented of it once, and that’s ever since. Better do anything than go to sea—winter coming on and all; besides, you don’t look strong enough; you don’t know what it is to be coasting in winter time; thrashed up to furl the top-gallant sail when it is so dark you can’t see your way, and so cold that you can’t feel your fingers, holding on for your life, and feeling as if life, after all, was not worth caring for; cold and misery aloft, kicks and thumps below. Don’t you go to sea; if you do, after what I’ve told you, why then you’re a greater fool than you look to be.”
“I don’t want to be a sailor,” replied Joey, “but I must do something to get my living. You are very kind: will you tell me what to do?”
“Why, do you know, when I saw you come up to me, when I was looking at the pictures, in your frock and trousers, you put me in mind, because you are so much like him, of a poor little boy who was drowned the other day alongside of an India ship; that’s why I stared, for I thought you were he, at first.”
“How was he drowned, poor fellow?” responded Joey.
“Why, you see, his aunt is a good old soul, who keeps a bumboat, and goes off to the shipping.”
“What’s a bumboat?”
“A boat full of soft tommy, soldiers, pipes, and backey, rotten apples, stale pies, needles and threads, and a hundred other things; besides a fat old woman sitting in the stern sheets.”
Joey stared; he did not know that “soft tommy” meant loaves of bread, or that “soldiers” was the term for red-herrings. He only thought that the boat must be very full.
“Now, you see that little Peter was her right-hand man, for she can’t read and write. Can you? but of course you can.”
“Yes, I can,” replied Joey.
“Well, little Peter was holding on by the painter against a hard sea, but his strength was not equal to it, and so when a swell took the boat he was pulled right overboard, and he was drowned.”
“Was the painter drowned too?” inquired Joey.
“Ha! ha! that’s capital; why, the painter is a rope. Now, the old woman has been dreadfully put out, and does nothing but cry about little Peter, and not being able to keep her accounts. Now, you look very like him, and I think it very likely the old woman would take you in his place, if I went and talked her over; that’s better than going to sea, for at all events you sleep dry and sound on shore every night, even if you do have a wet jacket sometimes. What d’ye think?”
“I think you are very kind; and I should be glad to take the place.”
“Well, she’s a good old soul, and has a warm heart, and trusts them who have no money; too much, I’m afraid, for she loses a great deal. So now I’ll go and speak to her, for she’ll be alongside of us when I go on board; and where shall I find you when I come on shore in the evening?”
“Wherever you say, I will be.”
“Well, then, meet me here at nine o’clock; that will make all certain. Come, I must be off now. I’ll pay for the breakfast.”
“I have money, I thank you,” replied Joey.
“Then keep it, for it’s more than I can do; and what’s your name?”
“Joey.”
“Well then, Joey, my hearty, if I get you this berth, when we come in, and I am short, you must let me go on tick till I can pay.”
“What’s tick?”
“You’ll soon find out what tick is, after you have been a week in the bumboat,” replied the lad, laughing. “Nine o’clock, my hearty; good-bye.”
So saying, the young sailor caught up his new clothes, and hastened down to the beach.
The room was crowded with seamen and women, but they were too busy talking and laughing to pay any attention to Joey and his comrade. Our little hero sat some little time at the table after his new acquaintance had left, and then walked out into the streets, telling the people of the house that he was coming back again, and requesting them to take care of his bundle.
“You’ll find it here, my little fellow, all right when you ask for it,” said the woman at the bar, who took it inside and put it away under the counter.
Joey went out with his mind more at ease. The nature of his new employment, should he succeed in obtaining it, he could scarcely comprehend, but still it appeared to him one that he could accomplish. He amused himself walking down the streets, watching the movements of the passers-by, the watermen in their wherries, and the people on board of the vessels which were lying off in the stream. It was a busy and animating sight. As he was lolling at the landing-place, a boat came on shore, which, from the description given by his young sailor friend, he was convinced was a bumboat; it had all the articles described by him, as well as many others, such as porter in bottles, a cask probably containing beer; leeks, onions, and many other heterogeneous matters, and, moreover, there was a fat woman seated in the stern.
The waterman shoved in with his boat-hook, and the wherry grounded. The fat personage got out, and the waterman handed to her a basket, a long book, and several other articles, which she appeared to consider indispensable; among others, a bundle which looked like dirty linen for the wash.
“Dear me! how shall I get up all these things?” exclaimed the woman; “and, William, you can’t leave the boat, and there’s nobody here to help me.”
“I’ll help you,” said Joey, coming down the steps: “what shall I carry for you?”
“Well, you are a good kind boy,” replied she; “can you carry that bundle? I’ll manage all the rest.”
Joey tossed the bundle on his shoulder in a moment.
“Well, you are a strong little chap,” said the waterman.
“He is a very nice little fellow, and a kind one. Now, come along, and I’ll not forget you.”
Joey followed with the bundle, until they arrived at a narrow door, not eighty yards from the landing-place, and the woman asked him if he would carry it upstairs to the first floor, which he did.
“Do you want me any more?” said Joey, setting down the bundle.
“No, dear, no; but I must give you something for your trouble. What do you expect?”
“Nothing at all,” replied Joey; “and I shall not take anything; you’re very welcome; good-bye;” and so saying, Joey walked downstairs, although the woman halloed after him, and recommenced his peregrination in the streets of Gravesend; but he was soon tired of walking on the pavement, which was none of the best, and he then thought that he would go out into the country, and enjoy the green fields; so off he set, the same way that he came into the town, passed by the school of little Emma, and trudged away on the road, stopping every now and then to examine what attracted his notice; watching a bird if it sang on the branch of a tree, and not moving lest he should frighten it away; at times sitting down by the road-side, and meditating or the past and the future. The day was closing in, and Joey was still amusing himself as every boy who has been confined to a schoolroom would do; he sauntered on until he came to the very spot where he had been crying, and had met with little Emma Phillips; and as he sat down again, he thought of her sweet little face, and her kindness towards him—and there he remained some time till he was roused by some one singing as they went along the road. He looked up, and perceived it was the little girl, who was returning from school. Joey rose immediately, and walked towards her to meet her, but she did not appear to recognise him, and would have passed him if he had not said, “Don’t you know me?”
“Yes, I do now,” replied she, smiling, “but I did not at first—you have put on another dress; I have been thinking of you all day—and, do you know, I’ve got a black mark for not saying my lesson,” added the little girl, with a sigh.
“And, then, it is my fault,” replied Joey; “I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, never mind; it is the first that I have had for a long while, and I shall tell mamma why. But you are dressed as a sailor-boy—are you going to sea?”
“No, I believe not—I hope to have employment in the town here, and then I shall be able to see you sometimes, when you come from school. May I walk with you as far as your own house?”
“Yes, I suppose so, if you like it.”
Joey walked with her until they came to the house, which was about two hundred yards farther.
“But,” said Joey, hesitating, “you must make me a promise.”
“What is that?”
“You must keep my secret. You must not tell your mother that you saw me first in what you call gentleman’s clothes—it might do me harm—and indeed it’s not for my own sake I ask it. Don’t say a word about my other clothes, or they may ask me questions which I must not answer, for it’s not my secret. I told you more this morning than I would have told any one else—I did, indeed.”
“Well,” replied the little girl, after thinking a little, “I suppose I have no right to tell a secret, if I am begged not to do it, so I will say nothing, about your clothes. But I must tell mother that I met you.”
“Oh, yes; tell her you met me, and that I was looking for some work, and all that, and to-morrow or next day I will let you know if I get any.”
“Will you come in now?” said Emma.
“No, not now; I must see if I can get this employment promised for me, and then I shall see you again; if I should not see you again, I shall not forget you, indeed I won’t—Good-bye.”
Emma bade him adieu, and they separated, and Joey remained and watched her till she disappeared under the porch of the entrance.
Our hero returned towards Gravesend in rather a melancholy mood; there was something so unusual in his meeting with the little girl—something so uncommon in the sympathy expressed by her—that he felt pain at parting. But it was getting late, and it was time that he kept his appointment with his friend, the sailor boy.
Joey remained at the door of the eating-house for about a quarter of an hour, when he perceived the sailor lad coming up the street. He went forward to meet him.
“Oh, here we are. Well, young fellow, I’ve seen the old woman, and had a long talk with her, and she won’t believe there can be another in the world like her Peter, but I persuaded her to have a look at you, and she has consented; so come along, for I must be on board again in half an hour.”
Joey followed his new friend down the street, until they came to the very door to which he had carried the bundle. The sailor boy mounted the stairs, and turning into the room at the first landing, Joey beheld the woman whom he had assisted in the morning.
“Here he is, Mrs Chopper, and if he won’t suit you, I don’t know who will,” said the boy. “He’s a regular scholar, and can sum up like winkin’.”
This character, given so gratuitously by his new acquaintance, made Joey stare, and the woman looked hard into Joey’s face.
“Well, now,” said she, “where have I seen you before? Dear me! and he is like poor Peter, as you said, Jim; I vow he is.”
“I saw you before to-day,” replied Joey, “for I carried a bundle up for you.”
“And so you did, and would have no money for your trouble. Well, Jim, he is like poor Peter.”
“I told you so, old lady; ay, and he’ll just do for you as well as Peter did; but I’ll leave you to settle matters, for I must be a-board.”
So saying, the lad tipped a wink to Joey, the meaning of which our hero did not understand, and went downstairs.
“Well, now, it’s very odd; but do you know you are like poor Peter, and the more I look at you the more you are like him: poor Peter! did you hear how I lost him?”
“Yes, the sailor lad told me this morning.”
“Poor fellow! he held on too fast; most people drown by not holding on fast enough: he was a good boy, and very smart indeed; and so it was you who helped me this morning when I missed poor Peter so much? Well, it showed you had a good heart, and I love that; and where did you meet with Jim Paterson?”
“I met him first in a slop-shop, as he calls it, when I was buying my clothes.”
“Well, Jim’s a wild one, but he has a good heart, and pays when he can. I’ve been told by those who know his parents, that he will have property by-and-bye. Well, and what can you do? I am afraid you can’t do all Peter did.”
“I can keep your accounts, and I can be honest and true to you.”
“Well, Peter could not do more: are you sure you can keep accounts, and sum up totals?”
“Yes, to be sure I can; try me.”
“Well, then, I will: here is pen, ink, and paper. Well, you are the very image of Peter, and that’s a fact. Now write down beer, 8 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see: duck for trousers, 3 shillings, 6 pence; beer again, 4 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down? Well, then, say beer again, 8 pence. Now sum that all up.”
Joey was perfect master of the task, and, as he handed over the paper, announced the whole sum to amount to 5 shillings, 10 pence.
“Well,” says Mrs Chopper, “it looks all right; but just stay here a minute while I go and speak to somebody.” Mrs Chopper left the room, went downstairs, and took it to the bar-girl at the next public-house to ascertain if it was all correct.
“Yes, quite correct, Mrs Chopper,” replied the lass.
“And is it as good as Peter’s was, poor fellow?”
“Much better,” replied the girl.
“Dear me! Who would have thought it? and so like Peter too!”
Mrs Chopper came upstairs again, and took her seat—“Well,” said she, “and now what is your name?”
“Joey.”
“Joey what?”
“Joey—O’Donahue,” replied our hero, for he was fearful of giving the name of McShane.
“And who are your parents?”
“They are poor people,” replied Joey, “and live a long way off.”
“And why did you leave them?”
Joey had already made up his mind to tell his former story; “I left there because I was accused of poaching, and they wished me to go away.”
“Poaching; yes, I understand that—killing hares and birds. Well, but why did you poach?”
“Because father did.”
“Oh, well, I see; then, if you only did what your father did we must not blame his child; and so you come down here to go to sea?”
“If I could not do better.”
“But you shall do better, my good boy. I will try you instead of poor Peter, and if you are an honest and good, careful boy, it will be much better than going to sea. Dear me! how like he is,—but now I must call you Peter; it will make me think I have him with me, poor fellow!”
“If you please,” said Joey, who was not sorry to exchange his name.
“Well, then, where do you sleep to-night?”
“I did intend to ask for a bed at the house where I left my bundle.”
“Then, don’t do so; go for your bundle, and you shall sleep in Peter’s bed (poor fellow, his last was a watery bed, as the papers say), and then to-morrow morning you can go off with me.”
Joey accepted the offer, went back for his bundle, and returned to Mrs Chopper in a quarter of an hour; she was then preparing her supper, which Joey was not sorry to partake of; after which she led him into a small room, in which was a small bed without curtains; the room itself was hung round with strings of onions, papers of sweet herbs, and flitches of bacon; the floor was strewed with empty ginger-beer bottles, oakum in bags, and many other articles. Altogether, the smell was anything but agreeable.
“Here is poor Peter’s bed,” said Mrs Chopper; “I changed his sheets the night before he was drowned, poor fellow! Can I trust you to put the candle out?”
“Oh, yes; I’ll be very careful.”
“Then, good night, boy. Do you ever say your prayers? poor Peter always did.”
“Yes, I do,” replied Joey; “good night.”
Mrs Chopper left the room. Joey threw open the window—for he was almost suffocated—undressed himself, put out the light, and, when he had said his prayers, his thoughts naturally reverted to the little Emma who had knelt with him on the road-side.