When Nancy and our hero had proceeded about three miles on their way,
Nancy slackened her pace, and they entered into conversation.
"Which way are you going?" demanded Joey.
"I'm cutting right across the country, Peter, or rather Joey, as I shall
in future call you, for that is your real name--the marine told me it
was Joseph Rushbrook; is it not?"
"Yes, it is," replied Joey.
"Then in future I shall call you so, for I do not want to hear even a
name which would remind me of the scene of my misery; and Joey, do you
never call me Nancy again, the name is odious to me; call me Mary."
"I will if you wish it; but I cannot imagine why you should run away
from Gravesend, Mary. What do you mean to do? I ran away from fear of
being taken up."
"And I, Joey, do more; I fly from the wrath to come. You ask me what I
intend to do; I will answer you in the words of the catechism which I
used once to repeat, `to lead a new life, have a thankful remembrance of
Christ's death, and be in charity with all men.' I shall seek for
service; I care not how humble--it will be good enough. I will sift
cinders for brick-making, make bricks, do anything, as long as what I do
is honest."
"I am very glad to hear you say that, Mary," replied Joey, "for I was
always very fond of you."
"Yes, Joey, and you were the first who offered to do a kind thing for me
for a long while; I have never forgotten it, and this night I have done
something to repay it."
Nancy then entered into a detail of all that had passed between her and
Furness, of which Joey had been ignorant, and which proved to him what a
narrow escape he had had.
"I little thought you had done all this while I slept," replied Joey;
"but I am very grateful, Mary."
"I know you are, so say no more about it. You see, Joey, he gave me all
your history, and appears to believe that you committed the murder. I
do not believe it; I do not believe you would do such a thing, although
your gun might have gone off by accident."
"No, Mary, I did not do it, either on purpose or by accident; but you
must ask me no more questions, for if I were put on my trial, I should
not reveal the secret."
"Then I will never speak to you any more about it, if I can help it. I
have my own thoughts on the business, but now I drop it. It is nearly
daylight, and we have walked a good many miles; I shall not be sorry to
sit down and rest myself."
"Do you know how far we have to go before we come to any town, Mary?"
"We are not far from Maidstone; it is on our right, but it will be as
well not to go through so large a town so near to Gravesend. Besides,
some of the soldiers may know me. As soon as we come to a good place,
where we can find a drink of water, we will sit down and rest
ourselves."
About a mile further on they came to a small rivulet which crossed the
road.
"This will do, Joey," said Nancy; "now we'll sit down."
It was then daylight; they took their seats on their bundles as soon as
they had drunk from the stream.
"Now, Joey," said Mary (as we shall call her for the future), let us see
what money we have. Mrs Chopper put all she had in my hands; poor,
good old woman, bless her! Count it. Joey; it is yours.
"No, Mary; she gave it for both of us."
"Never mind; do you keep it: for you see, Joey, it might happen that you
might have to run off at a moment's warning, and it would not do for you
to be without money."
"If I was to run off at a minute's warning, I should then take it all
with me, and it would not do for you to be left without any money, Mary;
so we must halve it between us, although we will always make one purse."
"Well, be it so; for if you were robbed, or I were robbed, on the way,
the other might escape."
They then divided the money, Joey putting his share into his pocket, and
tying it in with a string. Mary dropped hers down into the usual
deposit of women for bank-notes and billets-doux. As soon as this
matter had been arranged, Mary opened her bundle, and took out a
handkerchief, which she put on her shoulders; combed out the ringlets
which she had worn, and dressed her hair flat on her temples; removed
the gay ribbons from her bonnet, and substituted some plain brown in
their stead.
"There," says she; "now, Joey, don't I look more respectable?"
"You do look more neat and more--"
"More modest, you would say, Joey. Well, and I hope in future to become
what I look. But I look more fit to be your sister, Joey, for I have
been thinking we had better pass off as brother and sister to avoid
questioning. We must make out some story to agree in. Who shall we say
that we are (as we dare not say who we really are)? I am looking out
for service, and so are you, that's very clear; father and mother are
both dead; father was a baker. That's all true, as far as relates to
me: and as you are my brother, why you must take my father and mother.
It's no very great story, after all."
"But it won't do to say we came from Gravesend."
"No; we need not say that, and yet tell no story; the village we passed
through last night was Wrotham, so we came from thence."
"But where do you think of going, Mary?"
"A good way farther off yet; at all events, before we look out for
service, we will get into another county. Now, if you are ready, we
will go on Joey, and look out for some breakfast, and then I shall be
able to change my gown for a quieter one."
In half an hour they arrived at a village, and went into a public-house.
Mary went up stairs and changed her dress; and now that she had
completed her arrangements, she looked a very pretty, modest young
woman, and none could have supposed that the day before she had been
flaunting in the street of a seafaring town. Inquiries were made, as
might be supposed, and Mary replied that she was going to service, and
that her brother was escorting her. They had their breakfast, and,
after resting two hours, they proceeded on their journey.
For some days they travelled more deliberately, until they found
themselves in the village of Manstone, in Dorsetshire, where they, as
usual, put up at an humble public-house. Here Mary told a different
story; she had been disappointed in a situation, and they intended to go
back to their native town.
The landlady of the hotel was prepossessed in favour of such a very
pretty girl as Mary, as well as with the appearance of Joey, who,
although in his sailor's dress, was very superior in carriage and
manners to a boy in his supposed station in life, and she said that if
they would remain there a few days she would try to procure them some
situation. The third day after their arrival, she informed Mary that
she had heard of a situation as under-housemaid at the squire's, about a
mile off, if she would like to take it, and Mary gladly consented. Mrs
Derborough sent up word, and received orders for Mary to make her
appearance, and Mary accordingly went up to the hall, accompanied by
Joey. When she arrived there, and made known her business, she was
desired to wait in the servants' hall until she was sent for. In about
a quarter of a hour she was summoned, and, leaving Joey in the hall, she
went up to see the lady of the house, who inquired whether she had ever
been out at service before, and if she had a good character.
Mary replied that she had never been out at service, and that she had no
character at all (which, by the bye, was very true).
The lady of the house smiled at this apparently _naive_ answer from so
very modest-looking and pretty a girl, and asked who her parents were.
To this question Mary's answer was ready, and she further added that she
had left home in search of a place, and had been disappointed; that her
father and mother were dead, but her brother was down below, and had
escorted her; and that Mrs Chopper was an old friend of her mother's,
and could answer to her character.
The lady was prepossessed by Mary's appearance, by the report of Mrs
Derborough, and by the respectability of her brother travelling with
her, and agreed to try her; but at the same time said she must have Mrs
Chopper's address, that she might write to her; but, the place being
vacant, she might come to-morrow morning: her wages were named, and
immediately accepted; and thus did Mary obtain her situation.
People say you cannot be too particular when you choose servants; and,
to a certain degree, this is true; but this extreme caution, however
selfishness and prudence may dictate it, is but too often the cause of
servants who have committed an error, and have in consequence been
refused a character, being driven to destitution and misery, when they
had a full intention, and would have, had they been permitted, redeemed
their transgression.
Mary was resolved to be a good and honest girl. Had the lady of the
house been very particular, and had others to whom she might afterwards
have applied been the same, all her good intentions might have been
frustrated, and she might have been driven to despair, if not to her
former evil courses. It is perhaps fortunate that everybody in the
world is not so particular as your very good people, and that there is
an occasional loophole by which those who have erred are permitted to
return to virtue. Mary left the room delighted with her success, and
went down to Joey in the servants' hall. The servants soon found out
from Mary that she was coming to the house, and one of the men chucked
her under the chin, and told her she was a very pretty girl. Mary drew
back, and Joey immediately resented the liberty, stating that he would
not allow any man to insult his sister, for Joey was wise enough to see
that he could not do a better thing to serve Mary. The servant was
insolent in return, and threatened to chastise Joey, and ordered him to
leave the house. The women took our hero's part. The housekeeper came
down at the time, and hearing the cause of the dispute, was angry with
the footman; the butler took the side of the footman; and the end of it
was that the voices were at the highest pitch when the bell rang, and
the men being obliged to answer it, the women were for the time left in
possession of the field.
"What is that noise below?" inquired the master of the house.
"It is a boy, sir--the brother, I believe of the girl who has come as
under-housemaid, who has been making a disturbance."
"Desire him to leave the house instantly."
"Yes, sir," replied the butler, who went down to enforce the order.
Little did the master of the house imagine that in giving that order he
was turning out of the house his own son; for the squire was no other
than Mr Austin. Little did the inconsolable Mrs Austin fancy that her
dear, lamented boy was at that moment under the same roof with her, and
been driven out of it by her menials; but such was the case. So Joey
and Mary quitted the hall, and bent their way back to the village inn.
"Well, Mary," said Joey, "I am very glad that you have found a
situation."
"And so I am very thankful, indeed, Joey," replied she; "and only hope
that you will be able to get one somewhere about here also, and then we
may occasionally see something of one another."
"No, Mary," replied Joey, "I shall not look for a situation about here;
the only reason I had for wishing it was that I might see you; but that
will be impossible now."
"Why so?"
"Do you think that I will ever put my foot into that house again, after
the manner I was treated to-day? Never."
"I was afraid so," replied Mary, mournfully.
"No, Mary, I am happy that you are provided for; for I can seek my own
fortune, and I will write to you, and let you know what I do; and you
will write to me, Mary, won't you?"
"It will be the greatest pleasure that will be left to me, Joey; for I
love you as dearly as it you were my own brother."
The next day our hero and Mary parted, with many tears on her side, and
much sorrow on his. Joey refused to take more of the money than what he
had in his possession, but promised; in case of need, to apply to Mary,
who said that she would hoard up everything for him; and she kept her
word. Joey, having escorted Mary to the hall lodge, remained at the inn
till the next morning, and then set off once more on his travels.
Our hero started at break of day, and had walked, by a western road,
from Manstone, about six miles, when he met two men coming towards him.
They were most miserably clad--neither of them had shoes or stockings;
one had only a waistcoat and a pair of trousers, with a sack on his
back; the other had a pair of blue trousers torn to ribbons, a Guernsey
frock, and a tarpaulin hat. They appeared what they represented
themselves to be, when they demanded charity, two wrecked seamen, who
were travelling to a northern port to obtain employment; but had these
fellows been questioned by a sailor, he would soon have discovered, by
their total ignorance of anything nautical, that they were impostors.
Perhaps there is no plan more successful than this, which is now carried
on to an enormous extent by a set of rogues and depredators, who
occasionally request charity, but too often extort it, and add to their
spoils by robbing and plundering everything in their way. It is
impossible for people in this country to ascertain the truth of the
assertions of these vagabonds, and it appears unfeeling to refuse
assistance to a poor seaman who has lost his all: even the cottager
offers his mite, and thus do they levy upon the public to an extent
which is scarcely credible; but it should be known that, in all cases of
shipwreck, sailors are now invariably relieved and decently clothed, and
supplied with the means of travelling to obtain employment; and whenever
a man appeals for charity in a half-naked state, he is invariably an
impostor or a worthless scoundrel.
The two men were talking loud and laughing when they approached our
hero. As soon as they came near, they looked hard at him, and stopped
right before him, so as to block up the footpath.
"Hilloah, my little sailor! where are you bound to?" said one to Joey,
who had his common sailor's dress on.
"And, I say, what have you got in that bundle?" said the other; "and how
are you off for brads?--haven't you something to spare for
brother-seamen? Come, feel in your pockets; or shall I feel for you?"
Joey did not much like this exordium; he replied, stepping into the road
at the same time, "I've no money, and the bundle contains my clothes."
"Come, come," said the first, "you're not going to get off that way. If
you don't wish your brains beaten out, you'll just hand over that bundle
for me to examine;" and so saying, the man stepped into the road towards
Joey, who continued to retreat to the opposite side.
There was no footpath at the side of the road to which Joey retreated,
but a very thick quick-set hedge, much too strong for any man to force
his way through. Joey perceived this; and as the man came at him to
seize his bundle, he contrived, by a great effort, to swing it over the
hedge into the field on the other side. The man, exasperated at this
measure on the part of our hero, ran to seize him; but Joey dodged under
him, and ran away down the road for a few yards, where he picked up a
heavy stone for his defence, and there remained, prepared to defend
himself, and not lose his bundle if he could help it.
"You get hold of him, Bill, while I go round for the bundle," said the
man who had followed across the road, and he immediately set off to find
the gate, or some entrance into the field, while the other man made
after Joey. Our hero retreated at full speed; the man followed, but
could not keep pace with our hero, as the road was newly-gravelled, and
he had no shoes. Joey, perceiving this, slackened his pace, and when
the man was close to him, turned short round, and aiming the stone with
great precision, hit him on the forehead, and the fellow fell down
senseless. In the meantime the other miscreant had taken the road in
the opposite direction to look for the gate; and Joey, now rid of his
assailant, perceived that in the hedge, opposite to the part of the road
where he now stood, there was a gap which he could get through. He
scrambled into the field, and ran for his bundle. The other man, who
had been delayed, the gate being locked, and fenced with thorns, had but
just gained the field when Joey had his bundle in his possession. Our
hero caught it up, and ran like lightning to the gap, tossed over his
bundle, and followed it, while the man was still a hundred yards from
him. Once more in the high road, Joey took to his heels, and having run
about two hundred yards, he looked back to ascertain if he was pursued,
and perceived the man standing over his comrade, who was lying where he
had fallen. Satisfied that he was now safe, Joey pursued his journey at
a less rapid rate, although he continued to look back every minute, just
by way of precaution; but the fellows, although they would not lose an
opportunity of what appeared such an easy robbery, had their own reasons
for continuing their journey, and getting away from that part of the
country.
Our hero pursued his way for two miles, looking out for some water by
the wayside to quench his thirst, when he observed in the distance that
there was something lying on the roadside. As he came nearer, he made
it out to be a man prostrate on the grass, apparently asleep, and a few
yards from where the man lay was a knife-grinder's wheel, and a few
other articles in the use of a travelling tinker; a fire, nearly
extinct, was throwing up a tiny column of smoke, and a saucepan, which
appeared to have been upset, was lying beside it. There was something
in the scene before him which created a suspicion in the mind of our
hero that all was not right; so, instead of passing on, he walked right
up to where the man lay, and soon discovered that his face and dress
were bloody. Joey knelt down by the side of him, and found that he was
senseless, but breathing heavily. Joey untied the handkerchief which
was round his neck, and which was apparently very tight, and almost
immediately afterwards the man appeared relieved and opened his eyes.
After a little time he contrived to utter one word, "Water!" and Joey,
taking up the empty saucepan, proceeded in search of it. He soon found
some, and brought it back. The tinker had greatly recovered during his
absence, and as soon as he had drunk the water, sat upright.
"Don't leave me, boy," said the tinker; "I feel very faint."
"I will stay by you as long as I can be of any use to you," replied
Joey; "what has happened?"
"Robbed and almost murdered!" replied the man, with a groan.
"Was it by those two rascals without shoes and stockings who attempted
to rob me?" inquired Joey.
"Yes, the same, I've no doubt. I must lie down for a time, my head is
so bad," replied the man, dropping back upon the grass.
In a few minutes the exhausted man fell asleep, and Joey remained
sitting by his side for nearly two hours. At last, his new companion
awoke, raised himself up, and, dipping his handkerchief into the
saucepan of water, washed the blood from his head and face.
"This might have been worse, my little fellow," said he to Joey, after
he had wiped his face; "one of those rascals nearly throttled me, he
pulled my handkerchief so tight. Well, this is a wicked world, this, to
take away a fellow-creature's life for thirteenpence-halfpenny, for that
was all the money they found in my pocket. I thought an itinerant
tinker was safe from highway robbery, at all events. Did you not say
that they attacked you, or did I dream it?"
"I did say so; it was no dream."
"And how did a little midge like you escape?"
Joey gave the tinker a detail of what had occurred.
"Cleverly done, boy, and kindly done now to come to my help, and to
remain by me. I was going down the road, and as you have come down, I
presume we are going the same way," replied the tinker.
"Do you feel strong enough to walk now?"
"Yes, I think I can; but there's the grindstone."
"Oh, I'll wheel that for you."
"Do, that's a good boy, for I tremble very much, and it would be too
heavy for me now."
Joey fixed his bundle with the saucepan, etcetera, upon the
knife-grinder's wheel, and rolled it along the road, followed by the
tinker, until they came to a small hamlet, about two miles from the spot
from which they had started; they halted when they were fifty yards from
the first cottage, and the tinker, having selected a dry place under the
hedge, said, "I must stop here a little while?"
Joey, who had heard the tinker say that the men had robbed him of
thirteenpence-halfpenny, imagined that he was destitute, and as he
wished to proceed on his way, he took out two shillings, and held them
out to the man, saying, "This will keep you till you can earn some more.
Good-bye now; I must go on."
The tinker looked at Joey. "You're a kind-hearted lad, at all events,
and a clever, bold one, if I mistake not," said he; "put up your money,
nevertheless, for I do not want any. I have plenty, if they had only
known where to look for it."
Joey was examining his new companion during the time that he was
speaking to him. There was a free and independent bearing about the
man, and a refinement of manner and speech very different from what
might be expected from one in so humble a situation. The tinker
perceived this scrutiny, and, after meeting our hero's glance, said,
"Well, what are you thinking of now?"
"I was thinking that you have not always been a tinker."
"And I fancy that you have not always been a sailor, my young master;
but, however, oblige me by going into the village and getting some
breakfast for us. I will pay you the money when you return, and then we
can talk a little."
Joey went into the village, and finding a small chandler's shop, bought
some bread and cheese, and a large mug which held a quart of beer, both
of which he also purchased, and then went back to the tinker. As soon
as they had made their breakfast, Joey rose up and said--"I must go on
now; I hope you'll find yourself better to-morrow."
"Are you in a very great hurry, my lad?" inquired the tinker. "I want
to find some employment," replied Joey; "and, therefore, I must look for
it."
"Tell me what employment you want. What can you do?"
"I don't exactly know; I have been keeping accounts for a person."
"Then you are a scholar, and not a seafaring person?"
"I am not a sailor, if you mean that; but I have been on the river."
"Well, if you wish to get employment, as I know this country well and a
great many people, I think I may help you. At all events, a few days
can make no difference; for you see, my boy, to-morrow I shall be able
to work, and then, I'll answer for it, I'll find meat and drink for both
of us, so, what do you say? Suppose you stay with me, and we'll travel
together for a few days, and when I have found work that will suit you,
then we can part?"
"I will if you wish it," replied Joey.
"Then that's agreed," said the tinker; "I should like to do you a good
turn before we part, and I hope I shall be able; at all events, if you
stay with me a little while, I will teach you a trade which will serve
you when all others fail."
"What, to mend kettles and to grind knives?"
"Exactly; and, depend upon it, if you would be sure of gaining your
livelihood, you will choose a profession which will not depend upon the
caprice of others, or upon patronage. Kettles, my boy, will wear out,
knives will get blunt, and, therefore, for a good trade, give me
`kettles to mend, knives to grind.' I've tried many trades, and there
is none that suits me so well. And now that we've had our breakfast, we
may just as well look out for lodgings for the night, for I suppose you
would not like the heavens for your canopy, which I very often prefer.
Now, put yourself to the wheel, and I'll try my old quarters."
The knife-grinder walked into the village, followed by Joey, who rolled
the wheel, until they stopped at a cottage, where he was immediately
recognised and welcomed. Joey was ordered to put the wheel under a
shed, and then followed the tinker into the cottage. The latter told
his story, which created a good deal of surprise and indignation, and
then complained of his head and retired to lie down, while Joey amused
himself with the children. They ate and slept there that night, the
people refusing to take anything for their reception. The next day the
tinker was quite recovered, and having mended a kettle and ground three
or four knives for his hostess, he set off again, followed by Joey, who
rolled the wheel.