“Now, you know, sir, I’m blest if I know how I drove that arternoon. You see, sir, one gets knocked about here, and shoved there, and goes through lots o’ strange things to get a living; but I can’t help thinking as we’re all on us, gentle and simple, made alike, and outer the same stuff. Some on us, too, gets more than our share o’ temper, and softness, and fust one thing, and then another, and you see that’s how it is with me. I’m a rum-looking cove to look at, reg’lar rough one, you know, but then I’ve got a lot o’ softness stowed away about my heart as I ain’t no business with. Now I just ask you now, sir, as a fair judge, what business has a kebman with softness? It ain’t natural. Be as rough as you like, I says, but none o’ that. And yet my stoopid old woman at home she likes it, and says it’s natur. P’rhaps it is, and p’rhaps it ain’t. But then, you see, we don’t live in a state of natur now. Quartern loaves, pots o’ porter, and Dutch cheeses don’t grow on the hedges; and people has to look out precious sharp for enough to fill out their weskits, and I’ve known the time when mine’s been precious slack about the buttons. ’Pon my soul, sir—beggin’ your pardon for being a bit strong—you upper crusters ain’t no idea what shifts we’re put to sometimes for a living, and what hard work it is. I ain’t a grumbling, for only having the missus, and no children, things ain’t so hard as they might be. We gets along right enough, for the wife can scheme wonderfully, and toss you up a sixpenny dinner as would surprise yer. She’s up to a thing or two, an’ can go to first-class butchers and get her threepen’orth o’ pieces—topping meat, you know; twopen’orth o’ taters and some carrots and turnips; and, Lor’ bless you, you’d be surprised as I said afore. Did yer ever go down Leather Lane, sir, or past the Brill at Somers Town, or some parts of Clare and Newport Markets? Perhaps you didn’t. But jest you wait for a stinging hot day, and then go and see what the poor folks is a buying of; and then don’t you wonder no more about fevers, and choleras, and all them sort o’ troubles. There ain’t no wonder in the gin palaces going ahead, when so many poor creeturs flies to ’em to drown their sorrows. It’s this sorter thing as cheers me up; and makes me say a moral bit as I learnt—‘A contented mind’s a continual feast,’ I says to the wife; and really, sir, if you’ll believe me, sooner than I’d live as some of our poor things does I’d try and peg on along with my old mare here. We’d make a subdivision: she should have the chaff, and I’d go in for the oats and beans.
“Now, where had I got to? Oh! I know, sir—about that there poor gal. I don’t know how I drove down that day for softness. It did seem so sad, so pitiful for that fine young creetur to be dragged off in that way. I quite hated mysen, for it was as though I was to do with it, and it was my fault; and at last, when we’d got up to that place where the chap used to hatch his young cocks and hens by steam—Cantelo, I think he called hisself—Pepper-and-Salt says, ‘Turn down here,’ and I turned down, and mighty glad I was when we got to the big old house, where they took the poor girl in, and I thinks to myself, ‘Ah! next time as you comes out, my lass, I’m afraid as it will be screwed down, and with the black welwet a hanging over you!’
“I got werry good pay for that job; but somehow it did not seem to lit, for the soft feeling as I told you of. Every bit o’ money seemed gritty, and I felt gritty, and as I drove Pepper-and-Salt back it was me as wouldn’t talk.
“I bought a haddick and took home to the old ooman for supper, and I toasted it myself, so as it shouldn’t be burnt; and then we had a pint o’ porter made hot, with some ginger and sugar in it; and as I was a-smoking my pipe and watching the haddick, I tells Betsy all about it. But, p’raps you mightn’t believe it, we didn’t enjoy that supper: I felt kinder lonesome like, and I see a big drop go off the missus’s nose more than once into the porter mug, as she sat a-rocking herself backwards and forwards.
“Ah! there’s some rum games a-going on in this here world, sir!”
We jogged on in silence for some little time, when “Hi!” roared Cabby at an old lady crossing the road—producing the excellent effect of making her stand still in the middle.
“I know some o’ them old women ’ll be the death o’ me some day,” said Cabby. “They allus waits till a keb’s a-coming afore they cross the road, and then when they gets knocked down there’s a fuss and a inquest, and a reglar bother, of course.
“Did you ever see one o’ them patent kebs as come up about five-and-twenty years ago?—I mean them with a door opening behind, and a box up in front for the driver. Niste things they was for swindling a poor cove out of his hard-earned suffrins. More nor wunst I’ve had people a-slipping out without stopping on me, and, of course, when I pulls up, if the keb wasn’t empty. Begging of your pardon, sir, it was enough to make a saint swear.
“Coome orn, will yer? Arter you, sir, with the light agen; talking let’s one’s weed out more nor anything. Rum fellows them sailors, sir; there goes two with the name of their ship on their hats, like dogs with their master’s name on their collar. Rum dogs, too—British bulldogs. They ain’t no notion at all o’ what money’s worth; they seem to fancy as it’s only meant to spend—never thinks a bit about saving of it. I took one up wunst at London Bridge, and I opens the door for him, and touches my hat quite civil, for I allus does that to a fare, whosumever he be. Mighty pleased he seemed, too, for he pulls out a tanner—what you calls a tizzy, you know, sir—and he hands it over, and he says—
“‘Give’s hold o’ the rudder-lines, mate, and fetch a glass o’ grog to drink afore sailing.’ And then he gets hold of the reins, and I fetches a glass of rum-and-water, and we drinks it fair atween us; and when I holds the door open agen, he pitches his bundle inside. ‘Clap on the hatches,’ he says, and he bangs to the door, and then, while I was a-staring, up he goes, and put hisself plop atop o’ the roof, for all the world like a tailor, and there he began a-chewing his bacca. ‘Deck’s clear, mate,’ he says, ‘clap on sail;’ and away we goes along Cheapside, and the boys a-cheering and hooraying like all that.