"Ah, poor girl," said Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, as Nancy disappeared.
"You are a good boy, Peter; I like to see boys not too fond of money,
and if she had taken it (and I wish she had, poor thing) I would have
made it up to you."
"Is the man she calls Bill her husband?" inquired Joey.
"Oh, I know nothing about other people's husbands," replied Mrs
Chopper, hastily. "Now then, let us go and order the clothes, and then
you'll be able to go to church on Sunday; I will do without you."
"What, won't you go to church?"
"Bless you, child! who is to give the poor men their breakfast and their
beer? A bumboat-woman can't go to church any more than a baker's man,
for people must eat on a Sunday. Church, like everything else in this
world, appears to me only to be made for the rich; I always take my
Bible in the boat with me on Sunday, but then I can't read it, so it's
of no great use. No, dear, I can't go to church, but I can contrive, if
it don't rain in the evening, to go to meeting and hear a little of the
Word; but you can go to church, dear."
A suit of blue cloth, made in sailor's fashion, having been ordered by
Mrs Chopper, she and Joey returned home; and, after their tea, Mrs
Chopper desired Joey to hand her one of the account-books, which she put
upon her knees and opened.
"There," said she, looking at the page, "I know that account well; it
was Tom Alsop's--a fine fellow he was, only he made such a bad marriage:
his wife was a very fiend, and the poor fellow loved her, which was
worse. One day he missed her, and found she was on board another
vessel; and he came on shore, distracted like, and got very tipsy, as
sailors always do when they're in trouble, and he went down to the
wharf, and his body was picked up next day."
"Did he drown himself?"
"Yes, so people think, Peter; and he owed me 1 pound, 3 shillings, 4
pence, if I recollect right. Aren't that the figure, Peter?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Joey; "that's the sum total of the account,
exactly."
"Poor fellow!" continued Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, "he went to his long
account without paying me my short one. Never mind; I wish he was
alive, and twice as much in my debt. There's another--I recollect that
well, Peter, for it's a proof that sailors are honest; and I do believe
that, if they don't pay, it's more from thoughtlessness than anything
else; and then the women coax all their money from them, for sailors
don't care for money when they do get it--and then those Jews are such
shocking fellows; but look you, Peter, this is almost the first bill run
up after I took up the business. He was a nice fair-haired lad from
Shields; and the boy was cast away, and he was picked up by another
vessel, and brought here; and I let him have things and lent him money
to the amount of a matter of 20 pounds, and he said he would save all
and pay me, and he sailed away again, and I never heard of him for nine
years. I thought that he was drowned, or that he was not an honest lad;
I didn't know which, and it was a deal of money to lose; but I gave it
up; when one day a tall, stout fellow, with great red whiskers, called
upon me, and said, `Do you know me?' `No,' said I, half-frightened;
`how should I know you? I never see'd you before.'--`Yes, you did,'
says he, `and here's a proof of it;' and he put down on the table a lot
of money, and said, `Now, missus, help yourself: better late than never.
I'm Jim Sparling, who was cast away, and who you were as good as a
mother to; but I've never been able to get leave to come to you since.
I'm boatswain's mate of a man-of-war, and have just received my pay, and
now I've come to pay my debts.' He would make me take 5 pounds more
than his bill, to buy a new silk gown for his sake. Poor fellow! he's
dead now. Here's another, that was run up by one of your tall, lanky
sailors, who wear their knives in a sheath, and not with a lanyard round
their waists; those fellows never pay, but they swear dreadfully. Let
me see, what can this one be? Read it, Peter; how much is it?"
"4 pounds, 2 shillings, 4 pence," replied our hero.
"Yes, yes, I recollect now--it was the Dutch skipper. There's murder in
that bill, Peter: it was things I supplied to him just before he sailed;
and an old man was passenger in the cabin: he was a very rich man,
although he pretended to be poor. He was a diamond merchant, they say;
and as soon as they were at sea, the Dutch captain murdered him in the
night, and threw him overboard out of the cabin-window; but one of the
sailors saw the deed done, and the captain was taken up at Amsterdam,
and had his head cut off. The crew told us when the galliot came back
with a new captain. So the Dutch skipper paid the forfeit of his crime;
he paid my bill, too, that's certain. Oh, deary me!" continued the old
lady, turning to another page. "I shan't forget this in a hurry. I
never see poor Nancy now without recollecting it. Look, Peter; I know
the sum--8 pounds, 4 shillings 6 pence--exactly: it was the things taken
up when Tom Freelove married Nancy,--it was the wedding dinner and
supper."
"What, Nancy who was here just now?"
"Yes, that Nancy; and a sweet, modest young creature she was then, and
had been well brought up too; she could read and write beautifully, and
subscribed to a circulating library, they say. She was the daughter of
a baker in this town. I recollect it well: such a fine day it was when
they went to church, she looking so handsome in her new ribbons and
smart dress, and he such a fine-looking young man. I never seed such a
handsome young couple; but he was a bad one, and so it all ended in
misery."
"Tell me how," said Joey.
"I'll tell all you ought to know, boy; you are too young to be told all
the wickedness of this world. Her husband treated her very ill; before
he had been married a month he left her, and went about with other
people, and was always drunk, and she became jealous and distracted, and
he beat her cruelly, and deserted her; and then, to comfort her, people
would persuade her to keep her spirits up, and gave her something to
drink, and by degrees she became fond of it. Her husband was killed by
a fall from the mast-head; and she loved him still and took more to
liquor, and that was her ruin. She don't drink now, because she don't
feel as she used to do; she cares about nothing; she is much to be
pitied, poor thing, for she is still young, and very pretty. It's only
four years ago when I saw her come out of church, and thought what a
happy couple they would be."
"Where are her father and mother?"
"Both dead. Don't let's talk about it any more. It's bad enough when a
man drinks; but if a woman takes to it, it is all over with her; but
some people's feelings are so strong, that they fly to it directly to
drown care and misery. Put up the book, Peter; I can't look at it any
more to-night; we'll go to bed."
Joey every day gave more satisfaction to his employer, and upon his own
responsibility, allowed his friend the sailor lad to open an account as
soon as his money was all gone. Finding that the vessel was going up
the river to load, Joey determined to write a few lines to the McShanes,
to allay the uneasiness which he knew his absence must have occasioned,
Jim Paterson promising to put the letter in the post as soon as he
arrived at London.
Our hero simply said, "My dear sir, I am quite well, and have found
employment, so pray do not grieve about me, as I never shall forget your
kindness.--Joey McShane."
On the following Sunday Joey was dressed in his sailor's suit, and
looked very well in it. He was not only a very good-looking, but a
gentlemanlike boy in his manners. He went to church, and after church
he walked out to the abode of his little friend, Emma Phillips. She ran
out to meet him, was delighted with his new clothes, and took him by the
hand to present him to her mother. Mrs Phillips was a quiet-looking,
pleasing woman, and the old lady was of a very venerable appearance.
They made many inquiries about his friends, and Joey continued in the
same story, that he and his father had been poachers, that he had been
discovered and obliged to go away, and that he went with the consent of
his parents. They were satisfied with his replies, and prepossessed in
his favour; and as Joey was so patronised by her little daughter, he was
desired to renew his visits, which he occasionally did on Sundays, but
preferred meeting Emma on the road from school; and the two children (if
Joey could be called a child) became very intimate, and felt annoyed if
they did not every day exchange a few words. Thus passed the first six
months of Joey's new life. The winter was cold, and the water rough,
and he blew his fingers, while Mrs Chopper folded her arms up in her
apron; but he had always a good dinner and a warm bed after the day's
work was over. He became a great favourite with Mrs Chopper, who at
last admitted that he was much more useful than even Peter; and William,
the waterman, declared that such was really the case, and that he was,
in his opinion, worth two of the former Peter, who had come to such an
untimely end.