I fall in with Timothy.
About a month after this, I heard a sailor with one leg, and a handful
of ballads, singing in a most lachrymal tone,
"Why, what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping? A tear is a pleasure,
d'ye see, in its way"--
"Bless your honour, shy a copper to Poor Jack, who's lost his leg in the
sarvice. Thanky, your honour," and he continued,
"It's nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping, But they who can't
pity--why I pities they. Says the captain, says he; I shall never forget
it, Of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham,"
"Back your maintopsail, your worship, for half a minute, and just assist
a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars--"'Tis a furious
lion.' Long life to your honour--'In battle so let it--'
"'Tis a furious lion, in battle so let it; But duty appeased--but duty
appeased--
"Buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on
his knee in the dog-watch--
"But duty appeased'tis the heart of a lamb."
I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the
English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence
of his country. I always have, and as I heard the poor disabled fellow
bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or
execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some
halfpence to give him. When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he
entered the shop. "Here, my good fellow," said I, "although a man of
peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;" and I put
the money to him.
"May your honour never know a banyan day," replied the sailor; "and a
sickly season for you, into the bargain."
"Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others," replied I.
The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for,
until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.
"What are you looking at?" said I.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed he. "It is--yet it cannot be!"
"Cannot be! what, friend?"
He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came
in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. "Japhet--I have found
you at last!" exclaimed he, faintly.
"Good Heaven! who are you?"
He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it,
and I beheld Timothy. In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in
his arms. "Is it possible," exclaimed I, after a short silence on both
sides, "that I find you, Timothy, a disabled sailor?"
"Is it possible, Japhet," replied Timothy, "that I find you a
broad-brimmed Quaker?"
"Even so, Timothy. I am really and truly one."
"Then you are less disguised than I am," replied Timothy, kicking off
his wooden leg, and letting down his own, which had been tied up to his
thigh, and concealed in his wide blue trousers. "I am no more a sailor
than you are, Japhet, and since you left me have never yet seen the
salt water, which I talk and sing so much about."
"Then thou hast been deceiving, Timothy, which I regret much."
"Now I do perceive that you are a Quaker," replied Tim; "but do not
blame me until you have heard my story. Thank God, I have found you at
last. But tell me, Japhet, you will not send me away--will you? If your
dress is changed, your heart is not. Pray answer me, before I say
nything more. You know I can be useful here."
"Indeed, Timothy, I have often wished for you since I have been here,
and it will be your own fault if I part with you. You shall assist me
in the shop; but you must dress like me."
"Dress like you! have I not always dressed like you? When we started
from Cophagus's, were we not dressed much alike? did we not wear
spangled jackets together? did I not wear your livery, and belong to
you? I'll put on anything, Japhet--but we must not part again."
"My dear Timothy, I trust we shall not; but I expect my assistant here
soon, and do not wish that he should see you in that garb. Go to a small
public-house at the farther end of this street, and when you see me
pass, come out to me, and we will walk out into the country, and
consult together."
"I have put up at a small house not far off, and have some clothes
there; I will alter my dress and meet you. God bless you, Japhet."
Timothy then picked up his ballads, which were scattered on the floor,
put up his leg, and putting on his wooden stump, hastened away, after
once more silently pressing my hand.
In half an hour my assistant returned, and I desired him to remain in
the shop, as I was going out on business. I then walked to the appointed
rendezvous, and was soon joined by Tim, who had discarded his sailor's
disguise, and was in what is called a shabby genteel sort of dress.
After the first renewed greeting, I requested Tim to let me know what
had occurred to him since our separation.
"You cannot imagine, Japhet, what my feelings were when I found, by your
note, that you had left me. I had perceived how unhappy you had been for
a long while, and I was equally distressed, although I knew not the
cause. I had no idea until I got your letter, that you had lost all your
money; and I felt it more unkind of you to leave me then, than if you
had been comfortable and independent. As for looking after you, that I
knew would be useless; and I immediately went to Mr Masterton, to take
his advice as to how I should proceed. Mr Masterton had received your
letter, and appeared to be very much annoyed. 'Very foolish boy,' said
he, 'but there is nothing that can be done now. He is mad, and that is
all that can be said in his excuse. You must do as he tells you, I
suppose, and try the best for yourself. I will help you in any way that
I can, my poor fellow,' said he, 'so don't cry.' I went back to the
house and collected together your papers, which I sealed up. I knew that
the house was to be given up in a few days. I sold the furniture, and
made the best I could of the remainder of your wardrobe, and other
things of value that you had left; indeed, everything, with the
exception of the dressing-case and pistols, which had belonged to Major
Carbonnell, and I thought you might perhaps some day like to have them."
"How very kind of you, Timothy, to think of me in that way! I shall
indeed be glad; but no--what have I to do with pistols or silver
dressing-cases now? I must not have them, but still I thank you all
the same."
"The furniture and everything else fetched £430, after all expenses were
paid."
"I am glad of it, Timothy, for your sake; but I am sorry, judging by your
present plight, that it appears to have done you but little good."
"Because I did not make use of it, Japhet. What could I do with all that
money? I took it to Mr Masterton, with all your papers, and the
dressing-case and pistols;--he has it now ready for you when you ask for
it. He was very kind to me, and offered to do anything for me; but I
resolved to go in search of you. I had more money in my pocket when you
went away than I generally have, and with the surplus of what you left
for the bills, I had twelve or fourteen pounds. So I wished Mr Masterton
good-bye, and have ever since been on my adventures in search of my
master."
"Not master, Timothy, say rather of your friend."
"Well, of both if you please, Japhet; and very pretty adventures I have
had, I assure you, and some very hair-breadth escapes."
"I think, when we compare notes, mine will be found most eventful,
Timothy; but we can talk of them, and compare notes another time.
At present, whom do you think I am residing with?"
"A Quaker, I presume."
"You have guessed right so far: but who do you think that Quaker is?"
"There I'm at fault."
"Mr Cophagas."
At this intelligence Timothy gave a leap in the air, turned round on his
heel, and tumbled on the grass in a fit of immoderate laughter.
"Cophagus!--a Quaker!" cried he at last. "Oh! I long to see him. Snuffle,
snuffle--broad brims--wide skirts--and so on. Capital!"
"It is very true, Timothy, but you must not mock at the persuasion."
"I did not intend it, Japhet, but there is something to me so ridiculous
in the idea. But," continued Timothy, "is it not still stranger, that,
after having separated so many years, we should all meet again--and that
I should find Mr Cophagus--an apothecary's shop--you dispensing
medicines--and I--as I hope to be--carrying them about as I did before.
Well, I will row in the same boat, and I will be a Quaker as well as you
both."
"Well, we will now return, and I will take you to Mr Cophagus, who will,
I am sure, be glad to see you."
"First, Japhet, let me have some Quaker's clothes--I should prefer it."
"You shall have a suit of mine, Timothy, since you wish it; but recollect
it is not at all necessary, nor indeed will it be permitted that you
enter into the sect without preparatory examination as to your fitness
for admission."
I then went to the shop, and sending out the assistant, walked home and
took out a worn suit of clothes, with which I hastened to Timothy. He put
them on in the shop, and then walking behind the counter, said, "This is
my place, and here I shall remain as long as you do."
"I hope so, Timothy; as for the one who is with me at present, I can
easily procure him other employment, and he will not be sorry to go, for
he is a married man, and does not like the confinement."
"I have some money," said Timothy, taking out of his old clothes a dirty
rag, and producing nearly twenty pounds. "I am well off, you see."
"You are, indeed," replied I.
"Yes, there is nothing like being a sailor with one leg, singing ballads.
Do you know, Japhet, that sometimes I have taken more than a _pound_ a
day since I have shammed the sailor?"
"Not very honestly, Tim."
"Perhaps not, Japhet; but it is very strange,
and yet very true, that when honest I could make nothing, and when I
deceived, I have done very well."