Still the flower-seller was undecided whither to direct his steps. At first he thought of Greenwich Park and a feast of tea and shrimps; but, though Greenwich had attractions, tea had none for him. Next he turned his attention to the Red House, but he knew of no pigeon match that was to come off there that day, so that would not suit him. “Then he made up his mind to pay a visit to the Bower,” and the minute after he changed it in favour of “Lord Effingham’s concerts.” Still, what was he to do with himself till they began? He had it! he wouldn’t go to any of the places—he’d be off that moment to Rosherville—and yet it was getting late in the day for a trip to Gravesend, so he’d take a run down to Hungerford instead, and go on to the roof of the Swan and have a treat of periwinkles and ale. Accordingly he turned round and proceeded in the opposite direction to that on which he was before journeying.
But the flower-seller was too fond of halting at each tavern on the way to get even that far. The money he possessed, as the street people themselves say, “seemed to burn in his pocket;” and the drink he had already taken made him crave for more, so that it would have required greater strength of mind than he was master of to have refrained from entering the next public house he came to. The liquor that he here swallowed served as usual only to increase his thirst for more of the same maddening fluid. So on he went, “dropping in” at every “public” on his way, and standing at the bar drinking, wrangling, or tossing with any one whom he could “pick up.” At length, with the many glasses of raw spirit that he had taken on his road, the drink got to produce so violent an effect upon his temper, that the more respectable of the landlords refused to serve him; but this tended only to make him still more furious, so that at almost every tavern he visited, he was forced to be turned into the street before he could be got rid of. At one house, however, it was found impossible to get rid of him without closing the doors; for each time that he was thrust out, back he came staggering and offering to fight everybody at the bar. Seeing, therefore, that it was useless attempting to enter, he sat himself down on the step and went fast asleep against the door; on being roused by the pot-boy and desired to go about his business, the hawker grew so enraged that he jumped from his resting-place and strove to seize hold of the lad so that he might wreak his vengeance upon him. In the attempt, however, to catch the youth, the flower-seller stumbled and fell heavily on his back beside the kerb, and there he lay unable to raise himself, with a crowd of boys shouting and playing every imaginable trick upon him.
The arrival of the police at length put an end to the whole affair, and the hawker, with a dense crowd after him, was carried off, struggling and bellowing among four of the stoutest of the force, each holding him by one of his extremities. On being searched at the station-house, Mr. Sandboys’ pocket-book was found in the hawker’s possession; in one of its compartments were the cards of address belonging to that gentleman. The authorities, believing these to be the rightful property of the flower-seller, proceeded at once to enter, among the list of offenders of that day, the name of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, of Craven-street, Strand, as having been found drunk, disorderly, and incapable of taking care of himself.
The reader knows the occurrences that followed. A messenger was despatched to the residence of Mr. Sandboys, to apprise that gentleman’s family of his unpleasant position.
Mrs. Sandboys had been gone but a short while, before Cursty, who had been “dropped,” as the idiom runs, by the omnibus, at the top of the street, staggered, half asleep and half awake, up to the door.
He had no sooner set foot on the door-mat, than Mrs. Fokesell, who had espied him from the kitchen window, and run up to answer his knock, threw up her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, in a familiar way, “How in the world did you ever get out?”
The innocent Christopher was unable to comprehend either the cause of the lady’s surprise, or the meaning of her question. “What do’sta mean, woman?” he said.
“Oh!” returned Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye as she nudged his elbow; “you needn’t mind telling me—I knows all about it. There’s been a party up here, and told us of all your goings on.”
“My gangings an!” exclaimed Cursty. “Ye may well say that, for I’ve been half ow’r London.”