‘You say the furniture is second-hand,’ I said; ‘where does he get it from?’
‘Mostly from homes where ruin has stepped in, an unwelcome guest,’ replied Sam solemnly. ‘When a man gets into difficulties, his landlord seizes his furniture, and sells it for rent. Upon these occasions the goods are generally put up by auction, and then Harkaway buys with the rest of the public. But very often the ruined tenant is not only ruined, but a man of bad principles; then he calls in my master, sells everything he has, and goes away with every debt unpaid. These are very profitable transactions, for he generally gets the goods at his own price.’
‘But are not some of these seizures oppressive?’ I asked.
‘Very,’ replied Sam. ‘Some landlords are very harsh, and turn the widow and orphan into the streets without the least remorse.’
‘What becomes of them?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Sam, shaking his head; ‘when you have been in London a year or two, you will have seen enough to guess what becomes of the helpless and unfortunate.’
‘Tell me something about Mr. Harkaway’s family,’ I said; ‘give me an idea of his character.’
‘Call him Harkaway—we have no misters this side of the water,’ replied Sam. ‘So you want an idea of his character and family. Well, here it is. Harkaway is a sordid, grasping man, who has not an idea beyond making money; it is never out of his thought—he dreams pounds, shillings, and pence, I think. His idea of everything is, what is it worth, and what will it fetch? He would die of despair in Paradise, if there was nothing to buy and sell. His wife is just like him, and when a bad bargain is made, which sometimes happens, they mourn together like parents bereaved of a promising family. Jim is their son. Nursed and cradled upon the pounds, shillings, and pence idea, he has no love, no sentiment, no religion—he possesses nothing which helps to make man noble; and I verily believe that, young as he is, he would sell his parents for five shillings, if anybody would be rash enough to buy them. He feels no love or gratitude towards them; he is cold, crafty, and cruel to a terrible degree; he tortures insects, beats dogs, and pinches children like a little ogre; and the day is not far distant when he will prove a thorn in the side of the parents who have made him what he is.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘I cannot precisely tell,’ replied Sam. ‘But such children mostly develop into lovers of low dissipation; they haunt music halls and low dancing saloons, spending, in a manner quite at variance with their sordid nature, the money accumulated by the craft of their parents. I have known many such, and I can see this boy is already in the downward road.’