In the small sea-port of Bilton, before mentioned, there dwelt an old
and wealthy merchant and ship-owner, who devoted a small portion of his
time to business, and a very large portion of it to what is usually
termed "doing good." This old gentleman was short, and stout, and rosy,
and bald, and active, and sharp as a needle.
In the short time that Mr Arthur Jollyboy devoted to business, he
accomplished as much as most men do in the course of a long day. There
was not a benevolent society in the town, of which Arthur Jollyboy,
Esquire, of the Old Hulk (as he styled his cottage), was not a member,
director, secretary, and treasurer, all in one, and all at once! If it
had been possible for man be ubiquitous, Mr Jollyboy would have been so
naturally; or, if not naturally, he would have made himself so by force
of will. Yet he made no talk about it. His step was quiet, though
quick; and his voice was gentle, though rapid; and he was chiefly famous
for _talking_ little and _doing_ much.
Some time after the opening of our tale, Mr Jollyboy had received
information of Mrs Grumbit's stocking movement. That same afternoon he
put on his broad-brimmed white hat and, walking out to the village in
which she lived, called upon the vicar, who was a particular and
intimate friend of his. Having ascertained from the vicar that Mrs
Grumbit would not accept of charity, he said abruptly,--"And why not--is
she too proud?"
"By no means," replied the vicar. "She says that she would think shame
to take money from friends as long as she can work, because every penny
that she would thus get would be so much less to go to the helpless
poor; of whom, she says, with much truth, there are enough and to spare.
And I quite agree with her as regards her principle; but it does not
apply fully to her, for she cannot work so as to procure a sufficient
livelihood without injury to her health."
"Is she clever?" inquired Mr Jollyboy.
"Why, no, not particularly. In fact, she does not often exert her
reasoning faculties, except in the common-place matters of ordinary and
every-day routine."
"Then she's cleverer than most people," said Mr Jollyboy, shortly. "Is
she obstinate?"
"No, not in the least," returned the vicar with a puzzled smile.
"Ah, well, good-bye, good-bye; that's all I want to know."
Mr Jollyboy rose, and, hurrying through the village, tapped at the
cottage door, and was soon closeted with Mrs Dorothy Grumbit. In the
course of half an hour, Mr Jollyboy drew from Mrs Grumbit as much
about her private affairs as he could, without appearing rude. But he
found the old lady very close and sensitive on that point. Not so,
however, when he got her upon the subject of her nephew. She had
enough, and more than enough, to say about him. It is true she began by
remarking, sadly, that he was a very bad boy; but, as she continued to
talk about him, she somehow or other gave her visitor the impression
that he was a very _good_ boy! They had a wonderfully long and
confidential talk about Martin, during which Mr Jollyboy struck Mrs
Grumbit nearly dumb with horror by stating positively what he would do
for the boy,--he would send him to sea! Then, seeing that he had hit
the wrongest possible nail on the head, he said that he would make the
lad a clerk in his office, where he would be sure to rise to a place of
trust; whereat Mrs Grumbit danced, if we may so speak, into herself for
joy.
"And now, ma'am, about these stockings. I want two thousand pairs as
soon as I can get them!"
"Sir?" said Mrs Grumbit.
"Of course, not for my own use, ma'am; nor for the use of my family, for
I have no family; and if I had, that would be an unnecessarily large
supply. The fact is, Mrs Grumbit, I am a merchant and I send very
large supplies of home-made articles to foreign lands, and two thousand
pairs of socks are a mere driblet. Of course I do not expect you to
make them all for me, but I wish you to make as many pairs as you can."
"I shall be very happy--" began Mrs Grumbit.
"But, Mrs Grumbit, there is a peculiar formation which I require in my
socks that will give you extra trouble, I fear; but I must have it,
whatever the additional expense may be. What is your charge for the
pair you are now making?"
"Three shillings," said Mrs Grumbit.
"Ah! very good. Now, take up the wires if you please, ma'am, and do
what I tell you. Now, drop that stitch,--good; and take up this one,--
capital; and pull this one across that way,--so; and that one across
this way,--exactly. Now, what is the result?"
The result was a complicated knot; and Mrs Grumbit, after staring a few
seconds at the old gentleman in surprise, said so, and begged to know
what use it was of.
"Oh, never mind, never mind. We merchants have strange fancies, and
foreigners have curious tastes now and then. Please to make all my
socks with a hitch like that in them all round, just above the ankle.
It will form an ornamental ring. I'm sorry to put you to the trouble,
but of course I pay extra for fancy-work. Will six shillings a-pair do
for these?"
"My dear sir," said Mrs Grumbit, "it is no additional--"
"Well, well, never mind," said Mr Jollyboy. "Two thousand pairs,
remember, as soon as possible,--close knitted, plain stitch, rather
coarse worsted; and don't forget the hitch, Mrs Grumbit, don't forget
the hitch."
Ah! reader, there are many Mrs Grumbits in this world, requiring
_hitches_ to be made in their stockings!
At this moment the door burst open. Mrs Dorothy Grumbit uttered a
piercing scream, Mr Jollyboy dropped his spectacles and sat down on his
hat and Martin Rattler stood before them with the white kitten in his
arms.
For a few seconds there was a dead silence, while an expression of
puzzled disappointment passed over Mr Jollyboy's ruddy countenance. At
last he said--
"Is this, madam, the nephew who, you told me a little ago, is not
addicted to fighting?"
"Yes," answered the old lady faintly, and covering her eyes with her
hands, "that is Martin."
"If my aunt told you that, sir, she told you the truth," said Martin,
setting down the blood-stained white kitten, which forthwith began to
stretch its limbs and lick itself dry. "I don't ever fight if I can
help it but I couldn't help it to-day."
With a great deal of energy, and a revival of much of his former
indignation, when he spoke of the kitten's sufferings, Martin recounted
all the circumstances of the fight; during the recital of which Mrs
Dorothy Grumbit took his hand in hers and patted it, gazing the while
into his swelled visage, and weeping plentifully, but very silently.
When he had finished, Mr Jollyboy shook hands with him, and said he was
a trump, at the same time recommending him to go and wash his face.
Then he whispered a few words in Mrs Grumbit's ear, which seemed to
give that excellent lady much pleasure; after which he endeavoured to
straighten his crushed hat; in which attempt he failed, took his leave,
promised to call again very soon, and went back to the Old Hulk--
chuckling.