“Vell, then; mind what you’re arter, and yer fortun’s made. You’ve got your hand crossed with the right bit o’ silver. I squinted over my left shoulder, and seed her a smilin’ at yer when yer brought her the handkercher. Eh? Ah! it’s all werry fine, yer know; but I’m up to yer, young feller. We see some life our way, you know. Nice artful card, you are, you know, now ain’t yer?”
Under the circumstances it seemed best to own to the soft impeachment, which I did, and removed my ribs from Cabby’s rather angular elbow.
“I say, yer know, bimeby, if yer look out, ’stead of ‘Jarge,’ it’ll be ‘Jarge, dear:’ ony don’t you be in too big a hurry—don’t you get a building a castle in the hair without putting any bricks under it, or else some fine morning down it comes atop of yer, and yer finds yerself flat on yer back with all the wind knocked out of yer corpus.”
Then came another facetious nudge of the elbow, almost forcible enough to produce the effect so graphically described.
“Play your cards well, my lad, and you’re a made man; but whatever you do, don’t be rash. Allus make a pint o’ cleanin’ yerself fust thing, and never show yourself to her with yer hair touzled and rough; and, what’s more, allus have a clean shave every morning, for there’s nothin’ a woman hates wus than a man with a rough chin—nayther one thing nor t’other. Arter a bit, some day, when she’s werry civil, and when she’s a-sayin’ ‘Jarge’ this or ‘Jarge’ that, you might, just by accident like, say ‘Yes, dear,’ or ‘No, dear,’ as the case may be; ony mind and see how she takes it; and, as I said afore, don’t be rash. Whatever you do, don’t touch her without she begins fust, or else it’s all dickey with yer. There’s many a good game been spoilt by young fellers like you bein’ too fast, and not havin’ nous enough to wait till the proper time.
“There’s another way, too, you might spoil yerself if yer don’t look out. Like all houses o’ your sort, there’s some niste gals downstairs, and noises allus goes uppards a deal easier than they goes down’ards. Don’t you never let nobody upstairs hear anybody downstairs a-saying, ‘Don’t Jarge!’ or ‘Do a’ done now!’ or ‘Such imperance!’—you know, my lad, ony mind what I say: if them words downstairs is heered by any one upstairs, there won’t be a mossil o’ chance o’ them words upstairs bein’ heered downstairs. But there, I ain’t talkin’ to a flat. When we gets down ter Richmond, and your folks is gone into the Star and Garter, you’ll be standin’ a glass or two, and I can put you up to two or three wrinkles, every word of which you’ll be saving is worth five shillings to yer. Ah! I ony wish I’d half your chance; I’d be riding in a keb of my own before many months was over.
“The missuses a-goin’ to a dinner, of course? Ah, and a niste day for a dinner down there, and a row on the river arterwards. Goin’ to meet some gents, I s’pose? But never you mind that. Play your cards well, and you’ll be right, and can come down to Richmond once a week on your own hook. Don’t you be a-standin’ no nonsense, though, from some o’ them big swells all mustarsh and beard, with rings on their fingers. You’ll have some on ’em callin’ at your house and tryin’ it on, and wanting to cut you out: but you can dodge ’em by running up in the room when the bell didn’t ring, and a-going up with coals, and letters, and sich like; and if that don’t do—don’t let ’em go upstairs at all. The missus’ll thank yer for it arterwards, as it’s all for her good. And them young things is as ignorant as can be as to what’s best for them. I hain’t lived five-and-forty years in this world to learn nothing, I can tell yer. Let’s see, now, you’re about eight-and-twenty, you are, and don’t seem a bad sorter chap; but you’re too tame and quiet-like—looks as if you wus just come outer the country, don’t you see? But there, that’ll all come right in time I dersay.
“I say, you knows, send us a slice o’ cake when it comes off, my lad.”
Upon reaching the Star and Garter I told my Mentor to await our return; gave him a shilling to obtain the glass or two of which he had spoken; and after handing out the ladies, walked off with them to the tune of a low, but long-drawn whistle of astonishment from my self-constituted adviser.
I rode home inside, for the evening was damp and chilly; and upon paying the required tribute to my husky-voiced friend, he favoured me with a long serio-comic look beneath the lamp-post, and then upon placing one foot upon the wheel to reach his perch, he turned his head, winked solemnly and with a peculiar wisdom in his eye, and then Minerva Road knew him no more.