Every one has heard of those ponies--those shaggy, chubby,
innocent-looking little creatures--for which the world is indebted, we
suppose, to Shetland.
Well, once on a time, one of the most innocent-looking, chubbiest, and
shaggiest of Shetland ponies--a dark brown one--stood at the door of a
mansion in the west-end of London.
It was attached to a wickerwork vehicle which resembled a large
clothes-basket on small wheels. We do not mean, of course, that the
pony was affectionately attached to it. No; the attachment was
involuntary and unavoidable, by reason of a brand-new yellow leather
harness with brass buckles. It objected to the attachment, obviously,
for it sidled this way, and straddled that way, and whisked its enormous
little tail, and tossed its rotund little head, and stamped its
ridiculously small feet; and champed its miniature bit, as if it had
been a war-horse of the largest size, fit to carry a Wallace, a Bruce,
or a Richard of the Lion-heart, into the midst of raging battle.
And no wonder; for many months had not elapsed since that brown creature
had kicked up its little heels, and twirled its tail, and shaken its
shaggy mane in all the wild exuberance of early youth and unfettered
freedom on the heather hills of its native island.
In the four-wheeled basket sat a little girl whom it is useless to
describe as beautiful. She was far beyond that! Her delicate colour,
her little straight nose, her sparkling teeth, her rosebud of a mouth,
her enormous blue eyes, and floods of yellow hair--pooh! these are not
worth mentioning in the same sentence with her expression. It was that
which carried all before it, and swept up the adoration of
man-and-woman-kind as with the besom of fascination.
She was the only child of Sir Richard Brandon. Sir Richard was a knight
and a widower. He was knighted, not because of personal merit, but
because he had been mayor of some place, sometime or other, when some
one connected with royalty had something important to do with it!
Little Diana was all that this knight and widower had on earth to care
for, except, of course, his horses and dogs, and guns, and club, and
food. He was very particular as to his food. Not that he was an
epicure, or a gourmand, or luxurious, or a hard drinker, or anything of
that sort--by no means. He could rough it, (so he said), as well as any
man, and put up with whatever chanced to be going, but, when there was
no occasion for roughing it, he did like to see things well cooked and
nicely served; and wine, you know, was not worth drinking--positively
nauseous--if it was not of the best.
Sir Richard was a poor man--a very poor man. He had only five thousand
a year--a mere pittance; and he managed this sum in such a peculiar way
that he never had anything wherewith to help a struggling friend, or to
give to the poor, or to assist the various religious and charitable
institutions by which he was surrounded; while at certain intervals in
the year he experienced exasperating difficulty in meeting the demands
of those torments to society, the tradespeople--people who ought to be
ashamed of themselves for not being willing to supply the nobility and
gentry with food and clothing gratuitously! Moreover, Sir Richard never
by any chance laid anything by.
Standing by the pony's head, and making tender efforts to restrain his
waywardness, stood a boy--a street boy--a city Arab. To a Londoner any
description of this boy would be superfluous, but it may be well to
state, for the benefit of the world at large, that the class to which he
belonged embodies within its pale the quintessence of rollicking
mischief, and the sublimate of consummate insolence.
This remarkable boy was afflicted with a species of dance--not that of
Saint Vitus, but a sort of double-shuffle, with a stamp of the right
foot at the end--in which he was prone to indulge, consciously and
unconsciously, at all times, and the tendency to which he sometimes
found it difficult to resist. He was beginning to hum the
sharply-defined air to which he was in the habit of performing this
dance, when little Diana said, in a silvery voice quite in keeping with
her beauty--
"Let go his head, boy; I'm quite sure that he cannot bear restraint."
It may be remarked here that little Di was probably a good judge on that
point, being herself nearly incapable of bearing restraint.
"I'd better not, miss," replied the boy with profound respect in tone
and manner, for he had yet to be paid for the job; "he seems raither
frisky, an' might take a fancy to bolt, you know."
"Let his head go, I say!" returned Miss Diana with a flashing of the
blue eyes, and a pursing of the rosebud mouth that proved her to be one
of Adam's race after all.
"Vell, now, don't you think," rejoined the boy, in an expostulating
tone, "that it would be as veil to vait for the guv'nor before givin'
'im 'is 'ead?"
"Do as I bid you, sir!" said Di, drawing herself up like an empress.
Still the street boy held the pony's head, and it is probable that he
would have come off the victor in this controversy, had not Diana's
dignified action given to the reins which she held a jerk. The brown
pony, deeming this full permission to go on, went off with a bound that
overturned the boy, and caused the fore-wheel to strike him on the leg
as it passed.
Springing up with the intention of giving chase to the runaway, the
little fellow again fell, with a sharp cry of pain, for his leg was
broken.
At the same moment Sir Richard Brandon issued from the door of his
mansion leisurely, and with an air of calm serenity, pulling on his
gloves. It was one of the knight's maxims that, under all
circumstances, a gentleman should maintain an appearance of
imperturbable serenity. When, however, he suddenly beheld the street
boy falling, and his daughter standing up in her wickerwork chariot,
holding on to the brown pony like an Amazon warrior of ancient times,
his maxim somehow evaporated. His serenity vanished. So did his hat as
he bounded from beneath it, and left it far behind in his mad and
hopeless career after the runaway.
A policeman, coming up just as Sir Richard disappeared, went to the
assistance of the street boy.
"Not much hurt, youngster," he said kindly, as he observed that the boy
was very pale, and seemed to be struggling hard to repress his feelings.
"Vell, p'raps I is an' p'raps I ain't, Bobby," replied the boy with an
unsuccessful attempt at a smile, for he felt safe to chaff or insult his
foe in the circumstances, "but vether hurt or not it vont much matter to
you, vill it?"
He fainted as he spoke, and the look of half-humorous impudence, as well
as that of pain, gave place to an expression of infantine repose.
The policeman was so struck by the unusual sight of a street boy looking
innocent and unconscious, that he stooped and raised him quite tenderly
in his arms.
"You'd better carry him in here," said Sir Richard Brandon's butler, who
had come out. "I saw it 'appen, and suspect he must be a good deal
damaged."
Sir Richard's footman backing the invitation, the boy was carried into
the house accordingly, laid on the housemaid's bed, and attended to by
the cook, while the policeman went out to look after the runaways.
"Oh! what ever shall we do?" exclaimed the cook, as the boy showed
symptoms of returning consciousness.
"Send for the doctor," suggested the housemaid.
"No," said the butler, "send for a cab, and 'ave the boy sent home. I
fear that master will blame me for givin' way to my feelin's, and won't
thank me for bringin' 'im in here. You know he is rather averse to the
lower orders. Besides, the poor boy will be better attended to at 'ome,
no doubt. I dare say you'd like to go 'ome, wouldn't you?" he said,
observing that the boy was looking at him with a rather curious
expression.
"I dessay I should, if I could," he answered, with a mingled glance of
mischief and pain, "but if you'll undertake to carry me, old cock, I'll
be 'appy to go."
"I'll send you in a cab, my poor boy," returned the butler, "and git a
cabman as I'm acquainted with to take care of you."
"All right! go a'ead, ye cripples," returned the boy, as the cook
approached him with a cup of warm soup.
"Oh! ain't it prime!" he said, opening his eyes very wide indeed, and
smacking his lips. "I think I'll go in for a smashed pin every day o'
my life for a drop o' that stuff. Surely it must be wot they drinks in
'eaven! Have 'ee got much more o' the same on 'and?"
"Never mind, but you drink away while you've got the chance," replied
the amiable cook; "there's the cab coming, so you've no time to lose."
"Vell, I _am_ sorry I ain't able to 'old more, an' my pockets wont 'old
it neither, bein' the wuss for wear. Thankee, missus."
He managed, by a strong effort, to dispose of a little more soup before
the cab drew up.
"Where do you live?" asked the butler, as he placed the boy carefully in
the bottom of the cab with his unkempt head resting on a hassock, which
he gave him to understand was a parting gift from the housemaid.
"Vere do I live?" he repeated. "Vy, mostly in the streets; my last 'ome
was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but I do sometimes
condescend to wisit my parents in their mansion 'ouse in Vitechapel."
"And what is your name? Sir Richard may wish to inquire for you--
perhaps."
"May he? Oh! I'm sorry I ain't got my card to leave, but you just tell
him, John--is it, or Thomas?--Ah! Thomas. I knowed it couldn't 'elp to
be one or t'other;--you just tell your master that my name is Robert,
better known as Bobby, Frog. But I've lots of aliases, if that name
don't please 'im. Good-bye, Thomas. Farewell, and if for ever, then--
you know the rest o' the quotation, if your eddication's not bin
neglected, w'ich is probable it was. Oh! by the way. This 'assik is
the gift of the 'ouse-maid? You observe the answer, cabby, in case you
and I may differ about it 'ereafter."
"Yes," said the amused butler, "a gift from Jessie."
"Ah!--jus' so. An' she's tender-'earted an' on'y fifteen. Wots 'er
tother name? Summers, eh? Vell, it's prettier than Vinters. Tell 'er
I'll not forget 'er. Now, cabman--'ome!"
A few minutes more, and Bobby Frog was on his way to the mansion in
Whitechapel, highly delighted with his recent feast, but suffering
extremely from his broken limb.
Meanwhile, the brown pony--having passed a bold costermonger, who stood
shouting defiance at it, and waving both arms till it was close on him,
when he stepped quickly out of its way--eluded a dray-man, and entered
on a fine sweep of street, where there seemed to be no obstruction worth
mentioning. By that time it had left the agonised father far behind.
The day was fine; the air bracing. The utmost strength of poor little
Diana, and she applied it well, made no impression whatever on the
pony's tough mouth. Influences of every kind were favourable. On the
illogical principle, probably, that being "in for a penny" justified
being "in for a pound," the pony laid himself out for a glorious run.
He warmed to his work, caused the dust to fly, and the clothes-basket to
advance with irregular bounds and swayings as he scampered along,
driving many little dogs wild with delight, and two or three cats mad
with fear. Gradually he drew towards the more populous streets, and
here, of course, the efforts on the part of the public to arrest him
became more frequent, also more decided, though not more successful. At
last an inanimate object effected what man and boy had failed to
accomplish.
In a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one
of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the
vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. That lamp-post went down
before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. The front
wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across
the road, one into a greengrocer's shop, the other into a chemist's
window. Thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of
equality! The hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new
species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket
chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered
remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all
the mischief. As to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first
by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed--or appeared to
change--to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin.
But what of the fair little charioteer? Truly, in regard to her, a
miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. The doctrine
that extremes meet contains much truth in it--truth which is illustrated
and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed.
A tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who
experiences it than a slight one. In little Diana's case, the extremes
had met, and the result was absolute safety. She was shot out of her
basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so
effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her
pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and
alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was
opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances.
At the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable
Number 666--we are not quite sure of what division--in all the plenitude
of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street
entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had
flown. He was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a
chest and shoulders like Hercules, and the figure of Apollo. He turned
the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received
her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving
him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the
best prize-fighter in England!
Number 666 proved a most effectual buffer, for Di, after planting her
blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang
in an agony of consternation, exclaiming--
"Oh! I have killed him! I've killed him!" and burst into tears.
"No, my little lady," said Number 666, as he rose with one or two coughs
and replaced his helmet, "you've not quite done for me, though you've
come nearer the mark than any _man_ has ever yet accomplished. Come,
now, what can I do for you? You're not hurt, I hope?"
This sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by
the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it
expected, a fatal accident.
"Hurt? oh! no, I'm not hurt," exclaimed Di, while tears still converted
her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of
Number 666; "but I'm quite sure you must be hurt--awfully. I'm _so_
sorry! Indeed I am, for I didn't mean to knock you down."
This also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while Number
666 sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was
not hurt in the least--only a little stunned at first, but that was
quite gone.
"Wot does she mean by knockin' of 'im down?" asked a small butcher's
boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker's boy who
had, happily, been there from the beginning.
"She means wot she says," replied the small baker's boy with the
dignified reticence of superior knowledge, "she knocked the constable
down."
"Wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?--walk-_er_!"
"Very good; you've no call to b'lieve it unless you like," replied the
baker's boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, "but she
did it, though--an' that's six month with 'ard labour, if it ain't five
year."
At this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. He was
breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic.
"My child! my darling! my dear Di!" he gasped.
"Papa!" responded Diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his
arms, grasped him in a genuine hug.
"Oh! I say," whispered the small butcher, "it's a melly-drammy--all for
nuffin!"
"My!" responded the small baker, with a solemn look, "won't the Lord
left-tenant be down on 'em for play-actin' without a licence, just!"
"Is the pony killed?" inquired Sir Richard, recovering himself.
"Not in the least, sir. 'Ere 'e is, sir; all alive an' kickin',"
answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making
himself offensively useful, "but the hinsurance offices wouldn't 'ave
the clo'se-baskit at no price. Shall I order up the remains of your
carriage, sir?"
"Oh! I'm so glad he's not dead," said Diana, looking hastily up, "but
this policeman was nearly killed, and _I_ did it! He saved my life,
papa."
A chorus of voices here explained to Sir Richard how Number 666 had come
up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom.
"I am deeply grateful to you," said the knight, turning to the
constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while
disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty--he might
say, involuntarily.
"Will you come to my house?" said Sir Richard. "Here is my card. I
should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my
pony and--"
"And the remains," suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard
hesitated.
"Be so good as to call a cab," said Sir Richard in a general way to any
one who chose to obey.
"Here you are, sir!" cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly
judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required,
had drawn near to bide his time.
Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving
Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains.
Thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in
our tale.