Those of you who live near any of the great high-roads that lead to
London may remember to have been awake sometimes in the middle of the
night, and to have heard the sound of horses' feet, and of cart wheels
rumbling slowly and heavily along.
If it be winter, frosty and dry, you hear them very sharply and
distinctly; and perhaps you wonder, drowsily, who it is that has
business so late, and whither they are bound. "How cold it must be
outside!" you think, and it is quite a pleasure to snuggle cosily down
in your comfortable bed and feel how warm you are.
Gradually, as the sounds grow less and less, and die away mysteriously
in the distance, your eyes close; soon you are fast asleep again, and
that is all you know about the cold, dark night outside.
But Tim, the van-boy, knew a great deal more about it than this, for he
had now been "on the road" between Roydon and London for more than a
year. The carrier's cart started at eleven o'clock in the morning, and
having distributed and received parcels on the way the driver put up his
horses at an inn called "The Magpie and Stump," in a part of London
named the Borough. So far it was all very well, and not at all hard
work; but then came the return journey at night, which began just at the
moment when a boy, after a good warm supper, naturally thinks of going
to bed. This was trying, and at first Tim felt it a good deal, for he
never got home until three o'clock in the morning; he was so anxious,
too, to do his duty and fill his post well, that he would not have
closed his eyes for the world, though he might well have taken a nap
without anyone's knowledge. His "mate" as he called him, whose name was
Joshua, sat in front driving his two strong black horses, and Tim's
place was at the other open end of the van, so that he might keep his
eye on the parcels and prevent their being stolen or lost.
It was a responsible situation he felt for a boy of thirteen, and he
meant to do his very best to keep it now that he had been lucky enough
to get it; in the far-off future, too, he saw himself no longer the
van-boy, but in the proud position now occupied by Joshua as driver, and
this he considered, though a lofty, was by no means an unreasonable
ambition.
When Tim first began his work it was summertime, and the nights were so
balmy, and soft, and light that it was not so very difficult to keep
awake--there seemed so many other thing's awake too. After they were
well out of London, and the horses no longer clattered noisily over the
stones, it was like getting into another world. The stars looked
brightly down from the clear smokeless sky. Soft little winds blew a
thousand flowery scents from over the fields, and sometimes, singing
quite close to the road, Tim heard the nightingale. Even Joshua, a
gruff man, was affected by the sweet influence of the season, for Tim
noticed that he always sang one particular song on fine nights in
summer. Joshua's voice was hoarse from much exposure to weather, but
Tim thought he sang with great expression. The words were not easy to
follow, because the middle of the verse always became inaudible; but by
degrees the boy made out that it was the description of a letter
received by a rustic from his sweetheart. It began:
"All _on_ a summer's day
As _I_ pursued my way."
Then came some lines impossible to hear, and then each verse ended with:
"Com--_men_cing with `my dearest,'
And con--_clu_ding with her name--"
Joshua's song and the steady tramp, tramp of the horses were sometimes
the only sounds disturbing the still night, and Tim, a small erect
figure with widely opened eyes, would sit perched on a convenient
packing-case at the back of the cart, and listen admiringly.
But the winter! That was another matter. Joshua did not sing then, but
kept his teeth clenched, and his head bent, before the sleet, or wind,
or driving rain. Then the brightly lighted London streets seemed
cheerful, and much to be preferred to the lonely open country, where the
bitter wind swept across the wide fields, and, gathering strength as it
came, rushed in among Tim and the parcels. That was hard to bear, but
of all kinds of weather, and he knew them all pretty well now, he
thought the very worst was a fog. It was not only that it penetrated
everywhere, and laid its cold damp finger on everything; but it spread
such a thick veil of dreadful mystery over well-known objects. Nothing
looked the same. The houses in the streets towered up like giant
castles, and if Tim had read fairy tales he might well have fancied them
inhabited by ogres. But he had not. He only felt a dim sense of
discomfort and fear, as though he were lost in a strange place. Then it
was a comfort to know that Joshua was there, almost invisible indeed,
but making himself evident by hoarse shouts, now of encouragement to his
horses, and now of derision at some luckless driver. Out in the
country, when the heavily laden market carts loomed slowly out of the
fog as they passed, they had the appearance of being miles up in the
air, and as if they must inevitably topple over. Joshua knew all the
carters, not by sight, for he could not see them, but by the time and
place he met them on his nightly journey. Tim could reckon pretty well
that after he had heard his gruff salutation of "a dark night, mate,"
repeated a certain number of times, that they must be nearing home, for
they always met about the same number of Joshua's friends; as he had no
watch this was a comfort to him on the dark nights. Taught by
experience, he learned to contrive for himself a sort of Robinson Crusoe
but with the various hampers and boxes, and in this he lay curled round
in tolerable comfort, covered with an old horse-cloth; nevertheless, it
was often very cold, and then the only consolation was in thinking that
Joshua must be cold also. It is always easier to bear things if there
is some one to bear them with you--unless you are a hero.
One December evening the carrier's cart was just starting homewards from
the door of the Magpie and Stump. Joshua, reins in hand, and closely
buttoned up to the chin, stood ready to mount to his perch, saying a few
last words to the landlord, who was a crony of his; Tim was already in
his place. From where he sat he could see something which interested
and excited him a good deal, and this was an old woman close by who was
selling roasted chestnuts. They did look good! So beautifully done,
with nice cracks in their brown skins showing just a little bit of the
soft yellow nut inside. Tim looked and longed, and fingered a penny in
his pocket. How jolly it would be to have a penn'orth of hot chestnuts
to eat on his way home! They would keep his hands warm too. Joshua
still talked, there was yet time, he would give himself a treat. He
scrambled down from the cart and went up to the old woman, who sat
crouched on a stool warming her hands over her little charcoal brazier.
She looked a cross old thing, he thought, but she was not, for when he
had paid for his chestnuts she picked out an extra fine one and gave it
him "for luck," with a kind grin on her wrinkled face. He was turning
away with a warm pocketful, when he saw, sitting on the edge of the
pavement near, a very poor thin dog, who trembled with cold or fear, and
blinked his eyes sorrowfully at the glowing coals. He was not at all a
pretty dog, and probably never had been, even in the days of his
prosperity, and these were evidently gone by. He was long-legged and
rough-coated, with coarse black hair mingled with yellowish brown, and
his large bright eyes had a timid look in them as though he feared
ill-treatment; he sat with his thin body drawn together as closely as
possible, as if anxious to escape observation.
Tim stood and looked at him, and felt sorry. He was such a very
miserable dog, and yet so patient.
"Is he your dog?" he asked the old woman.
"Bless yer 'art, no," she answered. "He's a stray, he is; he'll come
and sit there often at nights, and I sometimes give him a mouthful o'
supper."
"I suppose he's rare and 'ungry?" pursued Tim.
"He's starving, that's what he is," said the woman, "and he's hurt his
leg badly besides. The boys are allers ready to chuck stones at him
when they see him prowlin' round. He don't belong to no one."
Tim felt still more sorry; if he had seen the dog before, he thought, he
would have bought a "penn'orth" of liver for him instead of the
chestnuts. Now he could do nothing for him. He looked round at the old
woman, who was rocking herself to and fro with crossed arms, and said:
"Shall you give him any supper to-night?"
"Nay," she said with a sort of chuckle; "he's come too late to-night.
I've had my supper. There's many a one besides him as has to go
supperless."
The dog during this conversation was evidently conscious that he was
being noticed, for he trembled more than ever, and gazed up at Tim with
his pleading eyes.
"Pore feller, then," said the boy.
The kind voice woke some bygone memory in the animal; it reminded him
perhaps of the days when he belonged to somebody, and was treated
gently. He got up, slowly reared his poor stiff limbs into a begging
attitude, and wagged his short tail. He soon dropped down again, for he
was evidently weak, but he looked apologetically from the old woman to
Tim, as much as to say:
"I know it was a poor performance, but it was the best I could do. In
old days it used to please."
"See there now," said the woman, "someone must a taught him that. Maybe
he's bin a Punch's dog."
Tim stood absorbed in thought. He had forgotten Joshua, and the cart,
and his own important position as van-boy; one idea filled his mind.
Could he, ought he, might he take the dog home with him and have him for
his own?
He was a prudent boy, and he considered that he would have to pay a tax
for him and feed him out of his wages. "But he could have 'arf my
dinner," he reflected; "and how useful he'd be to look after the
parcels. And he do look so thin and poor. I'll ask Joshua."
He looked round. Fortunately for him, Joshua and the landlord had
entered into a discussion as to the respective merits of warm mashes,
and were still engaged upon it, so Tim had not been missed. He went up
to the two men, and standing a little in front of them waited for a
convenient moment to make his request. He was glad to see that Joshua
looked good-tempered just now; he had evidently had the best of the
argument which had been going on, for there was a gleam of triumph in
his eye, and he repeating some assertion in a loud voice, while the
landlord stood in a dejected attitude with his thumbs in his waistcoat
pockets.
"_That's_ where it is," said Joshua as he concluded, and then his eye
fell on Tim's eager upturned face.
"Dorg, eh?" he said, when the boy had made him understand what he
wanted. "Where is he?"
"There," said Tim, pointing to where the dog still sat shivering near
the old chestnut woman.
Joshua gazed at the animal in silence, and sucked a straw which he had
in his mouth reflectively. Tim looked anxiously up into his face.
Would he take a fancy to him? The landlord had now drawn near, and also
an inquisitive ostler. The old chestnut-seller ceased to rock herself
to and fro, and turned her head towards the group, so that the dog, so
lonely a few minutes ago, had suddenly become a centre of interest. He
seemed to wonder at this, but he scarcely moved his eyes, with a mute
appeal in them, from his first friend, Tim. At last, after what seemed
an immense silence, Joshua spoke.
"He ain't a beauty--not to look at," he said.
This might have sounded discouraging to anyone who did not know Joshua,
but it was rather the reverse to Tim.
"He'd be werry useful in the cart," he suggested, taking care not to
appear too anxious.
But now the landlord, feeling it time to offer his opinion, broke into
the discussion.
"There's no doubt, as the boy says, that you'd find a dog useful, but I
wouldn't have a brute of a cur like that, if I was you. Now I could
give you as pretty a pup to bring up to the business as you could wish
to see. A real game un. Death to anything reasonable he'd be in a
year's time. Them nasty mongrels is never no good."
Now this adverse opinion was, strange to say, sufficient to make up
Joshua's mind in the dog's favour; he always took a contrary view of
things to the landlord on principle, because it encouraged conversation,
and this habit was so strong that he at once began to see the special
advantages of a mongrel.
"He's a werry faithful creetur, is a mongrel, if he's properly trained,"
he said slowly and solemnly; "and as to _game_, where's the game he'd
find in a carrier's cart? You can bring him along, mate."
Leaving the landlord in a temporarily crushed condition, he walked off
to his horses, which stamped impatiently at all this delay. The dog
suffered Tim to take him in his arms without any resistance, though he
winced a little as if in pain, and the cart presently drove away from
the small knot of interested spectators gathered round the inn door.
Then, gently examining his new comrade, the boy found that one of his
hind-legs was injured, so that he could not put it to the ground, and
moaned when it was touched, though he licked Tim's hand immediately
afterwards in apology.
"But I don't think it's broke," said the boy encouragingly; "and when we
get home I'll bathe it and tie it up, and I dessay I can find yer a bit
o' supper."
Soothed perhaps by this prospect, and evidently feeling a sense of
comfort and protection, the dog stretched out his thin, weary limbs, and
soon, sharing the warm shelter of Tim's horse-cloth, slept profoundly.
And thus the new friends made their first journey together.