|It is just the same with what you may call the human joints,”
observed Henry. He was in one of his philosophic moods that
evening. “It all depends upon the cooking. I never see a youngster
hanging up in the refrigerator, as one may put it, but I says to
myself: 'Now I wonder what the cook is going to make of you! Will
you be minced and devilled and fricasseed till you are all sauce
and no meat? Will you be hammered tender and grilled over a slow
fire till you are a blessing to mankind? Or will you be spoilt in
the boiling, and come out a stringy rag, an immediate curse, and a
permanent injury to those who have got to swallow you?'
“There was a youngster I knew in my old coffee-shop days,”
continued Henry, “that in the end came to be eaten by cannibals.
At least, so the newspapers said. Speaking for myself, I never
believed the report: he wasn't that sort. If anybody was eaten, it
was more likely the cannibal. But that is neither here nor there.
What I am thinking of is what happened before he and the cannibals
ever got nigh to one another. He was fourteen when I first set
eyes on him--Mile End fourteen, that is; which is the same, I
take it, as City eighteen and West End five-and-twenty--and he was
smart for his age into the bargain: a trifle too smart as a matter
of fact. He always came into the shop at the same time--half-past
two; he always sat in the seat next the window; and three days
out of six, he would order the same dinner: a fourpenny beef-steak
pudding--we called it beef-steak, and, for all practical purposes,
it was beef-steak--a penny plate of potatoes, and a penny slice
of roly-poly pudding--'chest expander' was the name our customers
gave it--to follow. That showed sense, I always thought, that
dinner alone; a more satisfying menu, at the price, I defy any
human being to work out. He always had a book with him, and he
generally read during his meal; which is not a bad plan if you
don't want to think too much about what you are eating. There was
a seedy chap, I remember, used to dine at a cheap restaurant where
I once served, just off the Euston Road. He would stick a book up
in front of him--Eppy something or other--and read the whole time.
Our four-course shilling table d'hote with Eppy, he would say, was
a banquet fit for a prince; without Eppy he was of opinion that
a policeman wouldn't touch it. But he was one of those men that
report things for the newspapers, and was given to exaggeration.
“A coffee-shop becomes a bit of a desert towards three o'clock;
and, after a while, young Tidelman, for that was his name, got
to putting down his book and chatting to me. His father was dead;
which, judging from what he told me about the old man, must have
been a bit of luck for everybody; and his mother, it turned out,
had come from my own village in Suffolk; and that constituted a
sort of bond between us, seeing I had known all her people pretty
intimately. He was earning good money at a dairy, where his work
was scouring milk-cans; and his Christian name--which was the only
thing Christian about him, and that, somehow or another, didn't
seem to fit him--was Joseph.
“One afternoon he came into the shop looking as if he had lost
a shilling and found sixpence, as the saying is; and instead of
drinking water as usual, sent the girl out for a pint of ale. The
moment it came he drank off half of it at a gulp, and then sat
staring out of the window.
“'What's up?' I says. 'Got the shove?'
“'Yes,' he answers; 'but, as it happens, it's a shove up. I've
been taken off the yard and put on the walk, with a rise of two
bob a week.' Then he took another pull at the beer and looked more
savage than ever.
“'Well,' I says, 'that ain't the sort of thing to be humpy about.'
“'Yes it is,' he snaps back; 'it means that if I don't take
precious good care I'll drift into being a blooming milkman,
spending my life yelling “Milk ahoi!” and spooning smutty-faced
servant-gals across area railings.'
“'Oh!' I says, 'and what may you prefer to spoon--duchesses?'
“'Yes,' he answers sulky-like; 'duchesses are right enough--some
of 'em.'
“'So are servant-gals,' I says, 'some of 'em. Your hat's feeling a
bit small for you this morning, ain't it?'
“'Hat's all right,' says he; 'it's the world as I'm complaining
of--beastly place; there's nothing to do in it.'
“'Oh!' I says; 'some of us find there's a bit too much.' I'd been
up since five that morning myself; and his own work, which was
scouring milk-cans for twelve hours a day, didn't strike me as
suggesting a life of leisured ease.
“'I don't mean that,' he says. 'I mean things worth doing.'
“'Well, what do you want to do,' I says, 'that this world ain't
big enough for?'
“'It ain't the size of it,' he says; 'it's the dulness of it.
Things used to be different in the old days.'
“'How do you know?' I says.
“'You can read about it,' he answers.
“'Oh,' I says, 'and what do they know about it--these gents that
sit down and write about it for their living! You show me a book
cracking up the old times, writ by a chap as lived in 'em, and
I'll believe you. Till then I'll stick to my opinion that the old
days were much the same as these days, and maybe a trifle worse.'
“'From a Sunday School point of view, perhaps yes,' says he; 'but
there's no gainsaying--'
“'No what?' I says.
“'No gainsaying,' repeats he; 'it's a common word in literatoor.'
“'Maybe,' says I, 'but this happens to be “The Blue Posts Coffee
House,” established in the year 1863. We will use modern English
here, if you don't mind.' One had to take him down like that at
times. He was the sort of boy as would talk poetry to you if you
weren't firm with him.
“'Well then, there's no denying the fact,' says he, 'if you prefer
it that way, that in the old days there was more opportunity for
adventure.'
“'What about Australia?' says I.
“'Australia!' retorts he; 'what would I do there? Be a shepherd,
like you see in the picture, wear ribbons, and play the flute?'
“'There's not much of that sort of shepherding over there,' says
I, 'unless I've been deceived; but if Australia ain't sufficiently
uncivilised for you, what about Africa?'
“'What's the good of Africa?' replies he; 'you don't read
advertisements in the “Clerkenwell News”: “Young men wanted as
explorers.” I'd drift into a barber's shop at Cape Town more
likely than anything else.'
“'What about the gold diggings?' I suggests. I like to see a
youngster with the spirit of adventure in him. It shows grit as a
rule.
“'Played out,' says he. 'You are employed by a company, wages
ten dollars a week, and a pension for your old age. Everything's
played out,' he continues. 'Men ain't wanted nowadays. There's
only room for clerks, and intelligent artisans, and shopboys.'
“'Go for a soldier,' says I; 'there's excitement for you.'
“'That would have been all right,' says he, 'in the days when
there was real fighting.'
“'There's a good bit of it going about nowadays,' I says. 'We are
generally at it, on and off, between shouting about the blessings
of peace.'
“'Not the sort of fighting I mean,' replies he; 'I want to do
something myself, not be one of a row.'
“'Well,' I says, 'I give you up. You've dropped into the wrong
world it seems to me. We don't seem able to cater for you here.'
“'I've come a bit too late,' he answers; 'that's the mistake I've
made. Two hundred years ago there were lots of things a fellow
might have done.'
“'Yes, I know what's in your mind,' I says: 'pirates.'
“'Yes, pirates would be all right,' says he; 'they got plenty of
sea-air and exercise, and didn't need to join a blooming funeral
club.'
“'You've got ideas above your station,' I says. 'You work hard,
and one day you'll have a milk-shop of your own, and be walking
out with a pretty housemaid on your arm, feeling as if you were
the Prince of Wales himself.'
“'Stow it!' he says; 'it makes me shiver for fear it might come
true. I'm not cut out for a respectable cove, and I won't be one
neither, if I can help it!'
“'What do you mean to be, then?' I says; 'we've all got to be
something, until we're stiff 'uns.'
“'Well,' he says, quite cool-like, 'I think I shall be a burglar.'
“I dropped into the seat opposite and stared at him. If any other
lad had said it I should have known it was only foolishness, but
he was just the sort to mean it.
“'It's the only calling I can think of,' says he, 'that has got
any element of excitement left in it.'
“'You call seven years at Portland “excitement,” do you?' says I,
thinking of the argument most likely to tell upon him.
“'What's the difference,' answers he, 'between Portland and the
ordinary labouring man's life, except that at Portland you
never need fear being out of work?' He was a rare one to argue.
'Besides,' says he, 'it's only the fools as gets copped. Look at
that diamond robbery in Bond Street, two years ago. Fifty thousand
pounds' worth of jewels stolen, and never a clue to this day! Look
at the Dublin Bank robbery,' says he, his eyes all alight, and
his face flushed like a girl's. 'Three thousand pounds in golden
sovereigns walked away with in broad daylight, and never so much
as the flick of a coat-tail seen. Those are the sort of men I'm
thinking of, not the bricklayer out of work, who smashes a window
and gets ten years for breaking open a cheesemonger's till with
nine and fourpence ha'penny in it.'
“'Yes,' says I, 'and are you forgetting the chap who was nabbed at
Birmingham only last week? He wasn't exactly an amatoor. How long
do think he'll get?'
“'A man like that deserves what he gets,' answers he; 'couldn't
hit a police-man at six yards.'
“'You bloodthirsty young scoundrel,' I says; 'do you mean you
wouldn't stick at murder?'
“'It's all in the game,' says he, not in the least put out. 'I
take my risks, he takes his. It's no more murder than soldiering
is.'
“'It's taking a human creature's life,' I says.
“'Well,' he says, 'what of it? There's plenty more where he comes
from.'
“I tried reasoning with him from time to time, but he wasn't a
sort of boy to be moved from a purpose. His mother was the only
argument that had any weight with him. I believe so long as she
had lived he would have kept straight; that was the only soft spot
in him. But unfortunately she died a couple of years later, and
then I lost sight of Joe altogether. I made enquiries, but no one
could tell me anything. He had just disappeared, that's all.
“One afternoon, four years later, I was sitting in the coffee-room
of a City restaurant where I was working, reading the account of a
clever robbery committed the day before. The thief, described as a
well-dressed young man of gentlemanly appearance, wearing a short
black beard and moustache, had walked into a branch of the London
and Westminster Bank during the dinner-hour, when only the manager
and one clerk were there. He had gone straight through to the
manager's room at the back of the bank, taken the key from the
inside of the door, and before the man could get round his desk
had locked him in. The clerk, with a knife to his throat, had then
been persuaded to empty all the loose cash in the bank, amounting
in gold and notes to nearly five hundred pounds, into a bag which
the thief had thoughtfully brought with him. After which, both
of them--for the thief seems to have been of a sociable
disposition--got into a cab which was waiting outside, and drove
away. They drove straight to the City: the clerk, with a knife
pricking the back of his neck all the time, finding it, no
doubt, a tiresome ride. In the middle of Threadneedle Street,
the gentlemanly young man suddenly stopped the cab and got out,
leaving the clerk to pay the cabman.
“Somehow or other, the story brought back Joseph to my mind. I
seemed to see him as that well-dressed gentlemanly young man; and,
raising my eyes from the paper, there he stood before me. He had
scarcely changed at all since I last saw him, except that he had
grown better looking, and seemed more cheerful. He nodded to me
as though we had parted the day before, and ordered a chop and a
small hock. I spread a fresh serviette for him, and asked him if
he cared to see the paper.
“'Anything interesting in it, Henry?' says he.
“'Rather a daring robbery committed on the Westminster Bank
yesterday,' I answers.
“'Oh, ah! I did see something about that,' says he.
“'The thief was described as a well-dressed young man of
gentlemanly appearance, wearing a black beard and moustache,' says
I.
“He laughs pleasantly.
“'That will make it awkward for nice young men with black beards
and moustaches,' says he.
“'Yes,' I says. 'Fortunately for you and me, we're clean shaved.'
“I felt as certain he was the man as though I'd seen him do it.
“He gives me a sharp glance, but I was busy with the cruets, and
he had to make what he chose out of it.
“'Yes,' he replies, 'as you say, it was a daring robbery. But the
man seems to have got away all right.'
“I could see he was dying to talk to somebody about it.
“'He's all right to-day,' says I; 'but the police ain't the fools
they're reckoned. I've noticed they generally get there in the
end.'
“'There's some very intelligent men among them,' says he: 'no
question of it. I shouldn't be surprised if they had a clue!'
“'No,' I says, 'no more should I; though no doubt he's telling
himself there never was such a clever thief.'
“'Well, we shall see,' says he.
“'That's about it,' says I.
“We talked a bit about old acquaintances and other things, and
then, having finished, he handed me a sovereign and rose to go.
“'Wait a minute,' I says, 'your bill comes to three-and-eight. Say
fourpence for the waiter; that leaves sixteen shillings change,
which I'll ask you to put in your pocket.'
“'As you will,' he says, laughing, though I could see he didn't
like it.
“'And one other thing,' says I. 'We've been sort of pals, and it's
not my business to talk unless I'm spoken to. But I'm a married
man,' I says, 'and I don't consider you the sort worth getting
into trouble for. If I never see you, I know nothing about you.
Understand?'
“He took my tip, and I didn't see him again at that restaurant. I
kept my eye on the paper, but the Westminster Bank thief was never
discovered, and success, no doubt, gave him confidence. Anyhow, I
read of two or three burglaries that winter which I unhesitatingly
put down to Mr. Joseph--I suppose there's style in housebreaking,
as in other things--and early the next spring an exciting bit of
business occurred, which I knew to be his work by the description
of the man.
“He had broken into a big country house during the servants'
supper-hour, and had stuffed his pockets with jewels. One of the
guests, a young officer, coming upstairs, interrupted him just as
he had finished. Joseph threatened the man with his revolver; but
this time it was not a nervous young clerk he had to deal with.
The man sprang at him, and a desperate struggle followed, with the
result that in the end the officer was left with a bullet in his
leg, while Joseph jumped clean through the window, and fell thirty
feet. Cut and bleeding, if not broken, he would never have got
away but that, fortunately for him, a tradesman's cart happened to
be standing at the servants' entrance. Joe was in it, and off like
a flash of greased lightning. How he managed to escape, with all
the country in an uproar, I can't tell you; but he did it. The
horse and cart, when found sixteen miles off, were neither worth
much.
“That, it seems, sobered him down for a bit, and nobody heard
any more of him till nine months later, when he walked into the
Monico, where I was then working, and held out his hand to me as
bold as brass.
“'It's all right,' says he, 'it's the hand of an honest man.'
“'It's come into your possession very recently then,' says I.
“He was dressed in a black frock-coat and wore whiskers. If I
hadn't known him, I should have put him down for a parson out of
work.
“He laughs. 'I'll tell you all about it,' he says.
“'Not here,' I answers, 'because I'm too busy; but if you like to
meet me this evening, and you're talking straight--'
“'Straight as a bullet,' says he. 'Come and have a bit of dinner
with me at the Craven; it's quiet there, and we can talk. I've
been looking for you for the last week.'
“Well, I met him; and he told me. It was the old story: a gal
was at the bottom of it. He had broken into a small house at
Hampstead. He was on the floor, packing up the silver, when the
door opens, and he sees a gal standing there. She held a candle in
one hand and a revolver in the other.
[Illustration: 0079]
“'Put your hands up above your head,' says she.
“'I looked at the revolver,' said Joe, telling me; 'it was about
eighteen inches off my nose; and then I looked at the gal. There's
lots of 'em will threaten to blow your brains out for you, but
you've only got to look at 'em to know they won't.
“'They are thinking of the coroner's inquest, and wondering how
the judge will sum up. She met my eyes, and I held up my hands. If
I hadn't I wouldn't have been here.
“'Now you go in front,' says she to Joe, and he went. She laid her
candle down in the hall and unbolted the front door.
“'What are you going to do?' says Joe, 'call the police? Because
if so, my dear, I'll take my chance of that revolver being
loaded and of your pulling the trigger in time. It will be a more
dignified ending.'
“'No,' says she, 'I had a brother that got seven years for
forgery. I don't want to think of another face like his when he
came out. I'm going to see you outside my master's house, and
that's all I care about.'
“She went down the garden-path with him, and opened the gate.
“'You turn round,' says she, 'before you reach the bottom of the
lane and I give the alarm.' And Joe went straight, and didn't look
behind him.
“Well, it was a rum beginning to a courtship, but the end was
rummer. The girl was willing to marry him if he would turn honest.
Joe wanted to turn honest, but didn't know how.
“'It's no use fixing me down, my dear, to any quiet, respectable
calling,' says Joe to the gal, 'because, even if the police would
let me alone, I wouldn't be able to stop there. I'd break out,
sooner or later, try as I might.'
“The girl went to her master, who seems to have been an odd sort
of a cove, and told him the whole story. The old gent said he'd
see Joe, and Joe called on him.
“'What's your religion?' says the old gent to Joe.
“'I'm not particular, sir; I'll leave it to you,' says Joe.
“'Good!' says the old gent. 'You're no fanatic. What are your
principles?'
“At first Joe didn't think he'd got any, but, the old gent
leading, he found to his surprise as he had.
“'I believe,' says Joe, 'in doing a job thoroughly.'
“'What your hand finds to do, you believe in doing with all your
might, eh?' says the old gent.
“'That's it, sir,' says Joe. 'That's what I've always tried to
do.'
“'Anything else?' asks the old gent.
“'Yes; stick to your pals,' said Joe.
“'Through thick and thin,' suggests the old gent.
“'To the blooming end,' agrees Joe.
“'That's right,' says the old gent. 'Faithful unto death. And you
really want to turn over a new leaf--to put your wits and your
energy and your courage to good use instead of bad?'
“'That's the idea,' says Joe.
“The old gent murmurs something to himself about a stone which the
builders wouldn't have at any price; and then he turns and puts it
straight:
“'If you undertake the work,' says he, 'you'll go through with it
without faltering--you'll devote your life to it?'
“'If I undertake the job, I'll do that,' says Joe. 'What may it
be?'
“'To go to Africa,' says the old gent, 'as a missionary.'
“Joe sits down and stares at the old gent, and the old gent looks
him back.
“'It's a dangerous station,' says the old gent. 'Two of our people
have lost their lives there. It wants a man there--a man who will
do something besides preach, who will save these poor people we
have gathered together there from being scattered and lost, who
will be their champion, their protector, their friend.'
“In the end, Joe took on the job, and went out with his wife. A
better missionary that Society never had and never wanted. I read
one of his early reports home; and if the others were anything
like it his life must have been exciting enough, even for him. His
station was a small island of civilisation, as one may say, in the
middle of a sea of savages. Before he had been there a month the
place had been attacked twice. On the first occasion Joe's 'flock'
had crowded into the Mission House, and commenced to pray, that
having been the plan of defence adopted by his predecessor. Joe
cut the prayer short, and preached to them from the text, 'Heaven
helps them as helps themselves'; after which he proceeded to deal
out axes and old rifles. In his report he mentioned that he had
taken a hand himself, merely as an example to the flock; I bet
he had never enjoyed an evening more in all his life. The second
fight began, as usual, round the Mission, but seems to have
ended two miles off. In less than six months he had rebuilt the
school-house, organised a police force, converted all that was
left of one tribe, and started a tin church. He added (but I don't
think they read that part of his report aloud) that law and order
was going to be respected, and life and property secure in his
district so long as he had a bullet left.
“Later on the Society sent him still further inland, to open up a
fresh station; and there it was that, according to the newspapers,
the cannibals got hold of him and ate him. As I said, personally
I don't believe it. One of these days he'll turn up, sound and
whole; he is that sort.”