I was so weak and nervous after Bob Darbishire's death that I did not go
much to The Chequers; I hid myself most in my own rooms. The funeral was
attended by all the well-to-do folks in the district; but I was not
there, because I did not care to pass by The Chequers in the procession.
Most people had a good word for poor Bob, and many kind fellows could
not mention him without the tears coming into their eyes. Only the
spongers were indifferent; but they had, of course, to look around for
another liberal spendthrift. Bob was so young, and bright, and brave; I
never knew a straighter or a kinder man, and I have seen few who had so
much ability. He drifted into drunkenness by accident, and the vice had
him hard by the throat before he found out that he was really a
prisoner. He struggled for awhile, and repented again and again; but
his will was captured, and when once a man's will is enslaved, vices
seem to come easy to him. I am not fit to moralise about his relations
with women; I only know that he was a sinner, and I think of his
temptations. Like so many splendid young Englishmen, he was conquered by
drink. The vice seizes on some of the best in all classes, and the
finest flowers soon become as worthless as weeds when the blight has
caught them. It is nearly always the bright lad of a family, the most
promising, the mother's darling, that goes wrong; it is the brilliant
students, the men of whom one says, "Ah, what could he not do if he
would only try!" is those who trip, and quench their brilliance in the
mud. A little rift in the fabric of the will, a little instability of
temper, an unlucky week of idleness--these are the things that start a
man towards the very gulf of doom. Bob Darbishire, the athlete, the
delightful and exhilarating companion, was set gliding on the slope, and
now he and his hopes and his unknown capabilities have passed away,
deeper than ever plummet sounded. It is a big puzzle. I am a loafer, and
I suppose I shall never be anything else, so it is not for me to solve
the ugly problem.
The Ramper fawned on me, and asked me if I had heard of "that there pore
young bloke wot kicked the bucket upstairs."
I said, "Yes; I fancy he was murdered. Do you know who took the brandy
up to him?"
The Ramper looked very wicked, but merely answered, "'Ow should I know?
He arst me, and I goes and says, 'No, sir; not for a thick 'un.' I see
'ow he was. I've 'ad 'em on myself, and I knowed as 'ow he wasn't up
there for nothing."
The Ramper is undoubtedly a liar.
The Wanderer often asked me to call, for he knows that I have a stiff
flask in my pocket every night. I have pieced out the rest of his story,
and I shall put it into my book when I am less glum. At present I swear
every day that I shall turn temperance lecturer, and spend my money on
the Cause; but, somehow, habit, and my roving blood, are too much for
me. Like all men of my sort, from Burns downward, I can see evils
clearly, and state their nature plainly enough; but when it comes to
keeping clear of them, I resemble my tribe in being rather unhandy at
judicious strategy. _Vogue la galére!_
Three months more have gone and my journals have never been written up,
save in chance scraps. The Wanderer is quite as interesting as ever! I
took the odds to £2 with him over a race run at Newmarket, and he paid
promptly. He puts out little signs of improvement--sprouts of
gentility--at times: but one heavy spell of gin and Shakespeare takes
him back to the old level again. Still, he is more amusing than the
dandies; in fact, I do not think I shall go amongst the respectable
division again. I make no pretence of immolating myself: I go among the
blackguards and wastrels because I am fascinated; I tell exactly what I
see, and leave other people to make practical use of my words. During
the last three months I have been, as usual, hard hit. It seems as
though any creature that I am fond of must soon be lost to me, and the
pages of my journal are like rows of tombstones.
We were making a great noise in the bar one night, for a cornet and
fiddle were playing, and a few couples were moved by the music and the
beer to begin dancing. A good many women come in at one time or other,
and their shrill laughter forms the treble of our crashing chorus. One
tall, broad-shouldered dame, who boasts of having six sons serving in
the Guards, made a great commotion. Her weight is considerable. She had
been drinking for four hours, and, when she attempted to illustrate her
theory of the waltz, she sent drinkers and drink flying as though her
offspring's battalion had charged. She had disabled one sporting coster
who tried to guide her, and the landlord was preparing for practical
remonstrance, when she sailed down upon me, yawing all the way as though
she were running before a hard breeze. I prepared for the shock, but I
was not destined to receive it. A tiny little lad had just received some
beer in a bottle from the counter, and he was making for home, when the
tall woman plumped upon him. The bottle was broken, the beer ran among
the dirt and sawdust, and the little lad was almost smothered before the
landlord (who impolitely addressed the waltzer as a cow) had managed to
haul the ponderous woman to her feet. The boy was a good deal hurt
physically, but his mental distress at sight of the lost beer prevented
him from noticing his bruises. When he fully grasped the extent of the
calamity he actually became pale, and I do not think I ever saw such a
piteous little face in my life. I asked "How much was it, little 'un?"
His lips trembled, and he said, "I dunno. I put a-money down, and her
knows what to put in a-bottle. Father got to 'ave his beer, else he not
have good supper." I thought, "This youngster isn't ill-used, or he
wouldn't be anxious for his father to have a good supper." Then I
ordered a pint can of ale, and offered it to the youth. He hesitated,
and said, "It's dark. I slip on a stone, and then more beer gone," so I
took his hand, and marched off with the can, notwithstanding the fact
that my friend the cornet player struck up "See the conquering hero" in
a most humorous and embarrassing manner.
It was very quiet and fresh outside, after the hoarse wrangling and the
dreadful air, and I liked to have the boy's soft hand in mine. He said,
"Missa Benjo's cellar open. Two mens fall down a-night; you keep a-hold
o' my hand." I went very warily down the alley, and found that Mr. Benjo
had assuredly left an awkward trap for the people from The Chequers. My
young man seemed very smart and careful, and he soon led to a lone door
which opened into a den that was half kitchen, half cellar.
"Who a-you got long o' you, Teddy?" inquired a gruff man who was
crouched on a stool by the side of the empty grate.
"It's a man, father, wot give me the beer."
"Come in, mate, if you've a mind."
I accepted the invitation, prompted by my usual curiosity, and found
myself in a stinking little box, which was lit by a guttering dip. Some
clothes hung on a line, and these offended more senses than one. No
breath of pure air seemed to have blown through that gruesome dwelling
for many a day, but I am seasoned, and nothing puts me out much.
"Ain't got another seat, mate. Take the bed."
The bed was not suggestive of sleep, and I was a trifle uneasy as I sat
down; yet I knew it would never do to hesitate, so down I sat.
"Wot's this about givin' Teddy the beer?"