My shopman told me that he had been in a difficulty; he could not find a pair of boots large enough for one young widow. He searched his store, and found a pair—size eleven—that he had had by him for some years; but, alas! size eleven was not big enough. He offered to procure a last of sufficient proportion and make a pair of boots for her, kindly saying that he would not charge anything extra for size. I told him to get a proper last made for the young woman, who took "twelves." This he did, so now a poor blouse-maker, who keeps an aged and invalid mother, has her boots made to order, and built upon her own "special last." When I had made this arrangement, I was puzzled to know in what way she had previously obtained boots, so I asked him: "What boots was she wearing when she came to your shop?" He laughed, and said: "A very old pair of men's tennis-shoes—of large size, too." I had known her for many years, and had admired her cleanliness and neatness. I had known, too, how miserable her earnings were, and how many demands her aged mother made upon her. She was upright in carriage, and of good appearance; self-respecting, and eminently respectable, she carried her secret nobly, though the dual burden of size twelves and men's tennis-shoes must have been very trying. I told her of our arrangement about the last, but, of course, made no reference to the dimensions of her feet; but I often wonder how she felt when she put on her new boots.
CHAPTER XIII JONATHAN PINCHBECK, THE SLUM AUTOLYCUS
It was application time in a London police-court. All sorts of people, with all sorts of difficulties, had stepped, one after another, into the witness-box, and had put all sorts of questions to the patient magistrate. They had gone away more or less satisfied with the various answers the experience of the magistrate suggested, when, last of all, there stepped in front of him a quaint-looking elderly man. Below the average size, with a body somewhat bent, grey hair, and a bristly white moustache, together with a complexion of almost terra-cotta hue, he was bound to attract attention. When looked at more closely, other characteristics could be noted: his lips were full and tremulous, his eyes were strained, and there was a look of pathetic expectancy over his face.
He handed a paper to the magistrate, and said: "Read that, your Worship." His Worship read it. It was an order from the relieving officer to the manager of the "stone-yard" for Jonathan Pinchbeck to be given two days' work. "Jonathan Pinchbeck! is that your name?" said the magistrate, looking at the quaint old man. "Yes, that's me." "Well, what do you want? Why don't you go and do the work?" "Well, your Worship, it is like this: I have been to the stone-yard, and they have got no work to give me." "Well," said the magistrate, "I am sure that I have no stones for you to break." "But I don't want you to give me work! I ask you for a summons against the Vestry for four shillings," he said. "Surely they are bound to find me work or give me the money. I am out of work, and my wife is ill."
The magistrate told him that the matter could not be decided in a police-court, and that he had better go to the County Court. Very dejectedly the old man stepped down, and silently left the court. I followed him, and had some conversation with him. He was a dock-labourer, but had grown old, and could no longer "jostle," push, and fight for a job at the dock gates, for younger men with broader shoulders stepped up before him. He gave me his address, so in the afternoon of the same day I went to Mandeville Street, Clapton Park. The landlady told me that Pinchbeck was not at home, but that he occupied with his wife one room "first-floor front," and that his wife was an invalid.
I was about to leave when a husky voice from the first-floor front, the door of which was evidently open, called out: "Is it a gentleman to see Jonathan? Tell him to come up." I went up. I shall not forget going up, for I found myself in the queerest place I had visited. I was in Wonderland. The owner of the voice that called me up, Mrs. Pinchbeck, sat before me—huge, massive, and palpitating. She was twenty stone in weight, but ill and suffering. Asthma, dropsy, and heart disease had nearly done their work. It was a stifling day in July, and she drew breath with difficulty.
She sat on a very strongly-made wooden chair, and did not attempt to rise when I entered the room. The chair in which she was sitting was painted vermilion red, and studded with bright brass nails. Every chair in the room—of which there were four—the strong kitchen table, the strong wooden fender, and the powerful bedstead, were all vermilion red, embellished with brass nails. One directing mind had constructed the lot. When my surprise was lessened, I sat down on a red chair beside the poor woman, and entered into conversation. Her replies to my questions came with difficulty, but, despite her illness, I noticed that she was proud of her quaint husband, and especially proud of the furniture he had made for her, for the household goods were his workmanship.
"He had only a saw, a hammer, and some sandpaper," she said, nodding at the furniture, "and he made the lot."