WHERE MR. PRINGLE WENT TO.
It has been notified in a previous chapter that Mr. Pringle was in
some mental anxiety touching the acquisition of a certain twenty
pounds which he required for immediate disbursement. This position he
held in common with many of his colleagues at the Tin-Tax Office, and
indeed with most junior clerks in the Civil Service. "The truth is,"
says Captain Smoke, in Douglas Jerrold's comedy, _The Bubbles of the
Day_, "I want a thousand pounds." "My dear Smoke," says his friend,
"there never was a man yet that did _not_ want a thousand pounds." The
truth of the axiom is undeniable; only in the Civil Service the amount
is much diminished. Twenty pounds, familiarly known as a "twentyer,"
is generally the much-desiderated sum among the junior slaves of the
Crown; and it was for a "twentyer" that Mr. Pringle now pined. A
hosier who some two years before had sued for Mr. Pringle's custom,
nor sued in vain,--who had supplied him with under-linen of fine
texture and high price, with shirts of brilliant and variegated
patterns, with boating jerseys and socks so vivid in stripe that his
legs resembled those of the functionary in the opening of the
pantomime who by the boys in the gallery is prematurely recognised as
the future clown, owing to the resplendent beauty of his ankles,--at
length, after repeated transmissions of his "little account," and
after mystic hints that he had not yet seen the colour of Mr.
Pringle's money, brought into action the terrible engines of the law,
and summoned his debtor to the County Court.
It was at the very latter end of the quarter when this legal ukase was
placed in Mr. Pringle's hands, and that gentleman, examining his
capital, found it consist of thirty-seven shillings, a silver
threepence, and a penny,--which sums were to provide his dinners,
cigars, and general pleasures for a fortnight. Clearly, then, out of
this no compromise could be effected; he could not even go through
that performance so dear to the hard-pressed debtor, which is
temporarily so soothing and in the end so futile, known as paying
"something on account." A five-pound note has the same effect on a
tradesman to whom twenty pounds are owing as a wet brush on a very bad
hat,--it creates a temporary gleam of comfort, _but nothing more_. Mr.
Pringle had not even this resource: if he were summoned to the County
Court, and if the investigation were reported, as it was sure to be,
in _The Dalston Dreadnought and De Beauvoir Town Looker-on_, he should
get horribly chaffed by his comrades, perhaps pitched into by the
Board, and it would bring all his other creditors down on him. So
something must be done, and cash must be raised at once. Mr. Pringle
did not know where to turn: he had never been a borrower, and hated
the idea of asking money favours from his friends; moreover, in real
truth, he would not have known whom to turn to, had he been so
minded. Prescott, his Pylades, was by no means overburdened with
money--indeed, Kinchenton's income only sufficed for the keeping up of
his modest establishment and for the schooling of Percy; while Dibb,
Crump, Boppy, or any of the other office men, were utterly
impracticable in such a case. Finally, he determined that he must "do
a bill;" an act of which he had hitherto been innocent, and towards
the proper accomplishment of which he thought it best to take the
advice of Mr. Rittman.
In nearly every Government office there is one impecunious black
sheep,--one clerk who is always hovering on the edge of the precipice
of insolvency, over which he finally tumbles, to creep out with life
indeed, but with scars and bruises which last him during the remainder
of his official existence. This character was in the Tin-Tax Office
played by Mr. Rittman, who for years had been "in difficulties," and
was thoroughly versed in every species of money-borrowing, were it the
loan-simple from a friend, the loan-complex on a bill with a friend's
name, the life-insurance facile, the loan-office ruinous, the bill of
sale advertised, or the pawnbroker low. As yet no learned Commissioner
had sat in judgment on Mr. Rittman's pecuniary transactions, but he
had been in sponging-houses, in Whitecross Street, and in the Queen's
Bench; and though his end was rapidly approaching (for he had a couple
of sons verging on manhood, and apparently inheriting all their
father's frailties), he was never despondent, but maintained a
creditable appearance and a cheerful manner. To him Mr. Pringle had
gone, on the day before that on which we first made his acquaintance;
and Mr. Rittman, from the young man's manner on entering the room, at
once guessed the object of his visit.
"How do, Rittman?" commenced Mr. Pringle.
"Good morning, my dear sir--good morning!" said the gentleman
addressed, laying down his pen and bowing pleasantly. He had on a
voluminous white waistcoat, a great show of shirt-wristband, and
before him, in a tumbler, stood some choice flowers. "Seldom you
come down to this part of the building; keep to the more aristocratic
end--eh?" and Mr. Rittman smiled, and showed a good set of teeth.
"No! I don't know--the truth is--I want some advice, and I think
you're the man to give it to me."
"My dear sir, I shall be delighted. What is it?" (this thrown off at a
tangent to a messenger who appeared in the doorway, saying, "Ere's
Brown's man agen, Mr. Rittman"). "Ah! Brown's man; well, you'd
better say I've not yet returned from Jersey, but you expect me on
Tuesday.--And now, my dear sir; you were saying--some advice?"
"Well, the fact is, Rittman, I'm hard up, and I want to borrow some
money; and I thought you could--"
"Not lend you any? that would be almost too delicious, my dear sir.
You didn't think I could lend you any?" and Mr. Rittman screamed with
laughter at the absurdity of the idea.
"No, no, of course not; but I thought you might tell me where I could
get it."
"Oh, that's a totally different thing; of course I can. I rather pique
myself upon knowing more about such matters than most men. Of course I
can. Now, let me see--what security can you give?"
"Eh?" asked Mr. Pringle.
"Security for the repayment? If you borrow from the Rainy. Day or
Amicable Nest-Eggs Insurance Office, you must give two sureties,
householders, and insure for double the amount of the loan. If you go
to the Helping Hand or the Leg-up Loan Office, you must give three
sureties, householders, and pay a lot for office-fees and inquiries,
which are made by a dirty-faced man at a pound a week. If you give a
bill of sale on your furniture--"
"My good sir," said Pringle testily, "I've got no furniture. And
surely all this bother can't be necessary for the sum I want--only
twenty pounds."
"Twenty pounds! twenty pounds! a fleabite, a mere fleabite!" said Mr.
Rittman (he had three and sevenpence in his pocket at the moment, and
did not know in the least where to turn for more). "I hoped you were
going to call my generalship into play; for I may say, without
boasting, that when it's not for myself, I am fertile in resources.
But--twenty pounds--I'll give you the address of a man who'll let you
have it at once."
"There won't be any names wanted, or any thing of that sort, will
there?" asked Pringle, rather doubtful of this promptitude.
"Nothing of the kind; merely your acknowledgment. Here's the
address--Scadgers, Newman Street. You'll find Mr. Scadgers a curious
man, but very pleasant; and when you say you come from me, he'll be
very polite. And, Mr. Pringle, let me give you one word of advice--Be
firm in the matter of Madeira."
"In the matter of Madeira?"
"Yes, awful; you can't stand it. Ostades are bad enough, or a
Stradivarius fiddle; and perhaps, as you're a single man in
apartments, a key-bugle mightn't do, as likely to be objected to by
the other lodgers--but any of them rather than the Madeira."
In the middle of Newman Street stands a paintless door, in the centre
of which gleams a brass-plate, bearing the word "Scadgers," in fat
Roman capitals. Nothing else. No "Mr.;" no description of Scadgers'
profession; nothing to break the charm. "Scadgers" stands an oasis of
shining brass in a desert of lustreless deal, and winks knowingly at
the double-faced portrait, one half dirty, the other half clean, at
the picture-restorer's over the way. Scadgers' door differed from its
fellows in having but one bell-handle; for Scadgers had quite enough
business to occupy the whole house, and to demand ramifications in the
neighbourhood. All we have to do, in the course of this story, is to
deal with Scadgers as Scadgers; but my private belief is that Scadgers
was the Universal Philanthropic Man's a Man for a' that Loan Office,
held at the Blue Pig and Toothache in Wells Street; that he was "Cash
promptly advanced on furniture without removal, freehold and leasehold
property, legacies, reversions, warrants, and all other securities.
Sheriffs' executions and rent-distraint immediately paid out" (_vide_
advertisement);--that he was "Methuselah's Muffin-Powder, or Never say
Die" patent medicine, and proprietor-in-chief of "The Hob," a domestic
Miscellany, which commenced with weak romance, and failed, but has
since achieved an enormous success for itself, and a fortune for its
spirited proprietor, by the publication of "Baby Clarence; or, My Life
at Brompton." Certainly you could not have guessed Scadgers'
occupation from the outside of his residence, which looked like a
dirty lodging-house, like a third-rate boarding-house, like those
melancholy houses occupied by those most melancholy people on earth,
third-rate piano-sellers; like a house let in rooms to people who
lithograph fashion-plates; like any thing but what it was--a house
where more money was made than in nine-tenths of the houses in London.
When Mr. Pringle arrived on the Scadgerian steps, he looked for a
knocker, and finding none, he pulled the Scadgerian bell. A responsive
click and the partial unlatching of the door invited him to push; the
door yielded, and he found himself in a large and empty hall, on one
side of which was a glass door, with the word "Office" in faded gilt
letters on a white ground. This glass-door being open, Mr. Pringle
walked straight through, and found himself in the "office." He had
seen a good many offices in his time, but never one like this. He had
never seen an office with musical instruments in it before; and here
were four or five pianos standing ranged against the wall, to say
nothing of harps in leather cases leaning drunkenly in corners, and a
few cornets-à-piston in green boxes, and a guitar or two with blue
ribbons to hang them round your neck by, just as if they had come
fresh from the necks of Spanish _donnas_. And there were
slack-baked-looking old pictures in heavy Dutch-metal frames--fine
specimens of old masters--saints with skulls and Bibles in front of
them, and very ascetic cheek-bones and great phrenological development
of talent and courage; Dutch boors standing on one leg and drinking
glasses of ale, and yawning youths with an effect of shaded
candlelight on their faces. There were modern pictures, too,
of lakes and Thames scenery, and girls with fair hair, which, when
compared with the old ones, looked as if they had been painted in
milk-and-water; and there were three driving-whips in one corner, a
set of harness across a chair, and the leather cushions of a brougham
under it. There was a bronze umbrella-stand, formed by a dog holding a
whip in his mouth, a big French clock, and a couple of chemist's
bottles, red and green; and in the midst of all this confusion stood a
little shrivelled old man, with very white hair and a very red face--a
dirty little old man dressed in a rusty suit of black, who addressed
Mr. Pringle in a rusty creaking voice, and wanted to know "his
pleasure."
"I--I wish to speak to Mr. Scadgers," said Mr. Pringle, with a modesty
and hesitation altogether strange to him.
"Ah!" said the little old man; "deary me! yes!" and then he seated
himself on the edge of a wine-hamper, and began to count his fingers
with great interest, as though not quite sure of the number he really
possessed.
"Mr. Scadgers!" said Pringle, after a minute or two.
"Ah, yes! I'll call him," said the little old man, and rang a bell
which lurked in the corner of the chimney-piece.
A great creaking of uncarpeted stairs under heavy boots followed this
bell-ringing, and presently Mr. Scadgers entered the room. Mr.
Scadgers' appearance partook of the charming amenities of the
prize-fighter and the undertaker: his hair was black and
close-cropped, his face white, his nose red, one eye was considerably
larger than the other, and one corner of his mouth had a peculiar
upward twist. He was dressed in black, with a pair of dull leather
boots reaching half-way up his thighs; and as he came through the
door, he took a red silk pocket-handkerchief from the crown of his
hat, and mopped his head.
"Servant, sir!" said Mr. Scadgers, surveying Mr. Pringle with his
gleaming black eyes, and reckoning him up in a moment. "What may you
want?"
"Well," said Mr. Pringle, "I wanted a few minutes' conversation; but
private, if you please--"
"Oh!" interrupted Mr. Scadgers, "don't mind Jinks; he's safe
enough--knows all my affairs--thoroughly to be trusted."
"Well, then," said Mr. Pringle, hesitating; then, with a desperate
rush, "look here!--fact is--want money!"
"Ah!" said Mr. Scadgers, with something like admiration in his tone,
"got it out with a rush, didn't you? That's the only way! Who told you
to come to me?"
"Mr. Rittman, of the--"
"I know--Tin-tax Office. Do you belong to it? Thought so. Wretched
office; lost a mint of money in that office. What salary do you get?"
Mr. Pringle mentioned that he was in the receipt of ninety pounds
a-year.
"Ah! twenty-one eighteen and nine on the 5th of every third month--I
know all about it! Now" mopping his head, "how much do you want?"
"Twenty pounds."
"Lor' bless me! and when do you want it?"
"At once!"
"Can't be done, sir! can't be done!" Violent mopping. "Haven't got any
money in the house. Can't you look in next week, and I might let you
have ten?"
Mr. Pringle roundly asserted that this would not do at all, and turned
round towards the door.
"Stop, sir!" shouted Mr. Scadgers, making tremendous play with
the red-silk handkerchief. "What a hasty young man you are! Look
here,"--taking out his purse,--"here's a ten-pound note that I
promised to young Stephens of the Wafer Office; he was to have been
here by two; now its getting on for three, and he's not come. I might
let you have that!"
"But that's only ten!" said Mr. Pringle.
"_Only_ ten! what a way to speak of money! Wait, sir, wait; let us see
what we can do. Any one likely to look in this afternoon to pay any
interest, Jinks?"
"Too late now!" said Jinks, with brevity.
"Ah! too late--I dessay! Just look in the cash-box, Jinks, and see
what's there; though I'm afraid it's not much. I should say there
wasn't more than three pounds, Jinks!"
Mr. Jinks peered into a little cash-box on the desk before him, and
answered, "Just three pound!"
"Ah! bring 'em out, Jinks; give 'em here. Let's see--ten and three's
thirteen; and that only leaves me seven-and-six to go on with till
Monday! Never mind: you could have thirteen, Mr.--"
"But I want twenty!"
"Ah, so you do! Pity you don't want some wine! I've got some Madeiry
as would--but wine ain't money, is it? There's a splendid picture,
now--a Murillo: you might take that."
"Pictures are not more money than wine; are they?"
"Ain't they? That Murillo's worth ten pound, and any one would give
you that for it. Ain't there no one you could sell it to? You see
you're in such a hurry for the money, or you might offer it to the
National Gallery, or some swell collecting of pictures might buy it,
but you're so pressed. Tell you what you might do, though," said Mr.
Scadgers, as though struck by a sudden inspiration: "you might pawn
it."
"How the deuce could I go lugging that picture about the streets to
pawn it?" said Pringle testily.
"No, to be sure! Stay, look here! I dare say Jinks wouldn't mind
pawning it for you. Jinks, look here; just run with this round the
corner, will you? Get as much as you can, you know." And without more
ado, Mr. Jinks put on a reddish-black napless hat, tucked the picture
under his arm, and started off.
While he was gone, Mr. Scadgers asked Mr. Pringle what his name was,
how long he had been in the office, where he lodged, and other
home-thrusting questions; and presently Mr. Jinks returned without the
picture, but with three sovereigns and a printed ticket, which he
delivered to his master, saying, "Wouldn't do no more than three."
"Three!" said Mr. Scadgers. "Well, that's nearer to twenty than we
was, isn't it? Now, Mr. Pringle,"--taking a slip of stamped paper from
his pocketbook--"just you sign your name at the bottom here. All
correct, you see. Fifth of next month,--promise to pay,--value
received,--and all the rest of it; and I'll hand you over sixteen
pounds and the ticket; and when you get that picture out, you'll have
a treasure."
"Oh, curse the picture!" said Pringle ruefully.
"Ah," said Mr. Scadgers, grinning, "that's what they all says. Cuss
the picture! Well, if that ticket ain't any use to you, I don't mind
giving you half a pound for it."
"I thought you had only seven-and-sixpence left?"
"No more I have, myself; but I might borrow half a pound from Jinks.
What do you say? Ah, I thought so. Here, Jinks, put this little
dockyment along with your other valuables. Here's the half pound, sir.
Now let's look at your signature. George Townshend Pringle! Very nice.
No relation to Mr. Townshend, of Austin Friars--the great Townshend?"
"He's my uncle," said Pringle. "I'm named after him."
"Indeed! named after him A very capital connexion. Good morning, sir!
good morning! I'll look in upon you on the fifth."
But after Mr. Pringle had gone, Mr. Scadgers still stood with the bill
fluttering between his fingers, muttering to himself: "Sing'ler that!
very sing'ler! For years I hadn't seen the Runner until yesterday,
when I came across him in Cheapside; and now to-day I hear of him
again. I wonder," added Mr. Scadgers, with a very sinister smile,
"whether that little account between me and the Runner will ever be
wound up? I've owed him one this many a year."