inarticulate cry, he rushed to the front door and flung it open. Miss
Robinson, fresh and bright, stood smiling outside. Within easy distance
a little group of neighbors were making conversation, while opposite
Mr. Brown awaited events.
“What d’you want?” demanded Mr. Jobling, harshly.
Miss Robinson, who had put out her hand, drew it back and gave him a
swift glance. His red face and knitted brows told their own story.
“Oh!” she said, with a winning smile, “will you please tell Mrs.
Jobling that I can’t come to tea with her this evening?”
“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to say?” inquired Mr. Jobling,
disdainfully, as she turned away.
The girl paused and appeared to reflect. “You can say that I am sorry
to miss an amusing evening,” she said, regarding him steadily.
“Good-by.”
Mr. Jobling slammed the door.
A CIRCULAR TOUR
[Illustration]
A CIRCULAR TOUR
Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill
sometimes, but not ’aving the time for it that other people have, and
there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a
man’s ill he goes to a horse-pittle and ’as a nice nurse to wait on
’im; at sea the mate comes down and tells ’im that there is nothing the
matter with ’im, and asks ’im if he ain’t ashamed of ’imself. The only
mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who ’ad been a doctor
and ’ad gone to sea to better ’imself. He didn’t believe in medicine;
his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so
fond of ’is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn’t ha’
thought anybody could ’ave had the ’art to say “no” to him. But they
did. I remember ’im getting up at four o’clock one morning to cut a
man’s leg off, and at ha’-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with
four pairs o’ trousers on and a belaying-pin in his ’and.
One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o’ work one v’y’ge
that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he
did was to pretend that the skipper was ’is little boy, and foller ’im
up unbeknown and pat his ’ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man
pretended that he was ’is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy
he was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed ’is father ’ow they
wrestled at school, and arter that he showed ’im ’ow he ’arf killed
another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter
seven rounds Joe’s madness left ’im all of a sudden and he was as right
as ever he was.
Sailormen are more frequent ill ashore than at sea; they’ve got more
time for it, I s’pose. Old Sam Small, a man you may remember by name as
a pal o’ mine, got ill once, and, like most ’ealthy men who get a
little something the matter with ’em, he made sure ’e was dying. He was
sharing a bedroom with Ginger Dick and Peter Russet at the time, and
early one morning he woke up groaning with a chill or something which
he couldn’t account for, but which Ginger thought might ha’ been partly
caused through ’im sleeping in the fireplace.
“Is that you, Sam?” ses Ginger, waking up with the noise and rubbing
his eyes. “Wot’s the matter?”
“I’m dying,” ses Sam, with another awful groan. “Good-by, Ginger.”
“Goo’-by,” ses Ginger, turning over and falling fast asleep agin.
Old Sam picked ’imself up arter two or three tries, and then he
staggered over to Peter Russet’s bed and sat on the foot of it,
groaning, until Peter woke up very cross and tried to push ’im off with
his feet.
“I’m dying, Peter,” ses Sam, and ’e rolled over and buried his face in
the bed-clo’es and kicked. Peter Russet, who was a bit scared, sat up
in bed and called for Ginger, and arter he ’ad called pretty near a
dozen times Ginger ’arf woke up and asked ’im wot was the matter.
“Poor old Sam’s dying,” ses Peter.
“I know,” ses Ginger, laying down and cuddling into the piller agin.
“He told me just now. I’ve bid ’im good-by.”
Peter Russet asked ’im where his ’art was, but Ginger was asleep agin.
Then Peter sat up in bed and tried to comfort Sam, and listened while
’e told ’im wot it felt like to die. How ’e was ’ot and cold all over,
burning and shivering, with pains in his inside that he couldn’t
describe if ’e tried.
“It’ll soon be over, Sam,” ses Peter, kindly, “and all your troubles
will be at an end. While me and Ginger are knocking about at sea trying
to earn a crust o’ bread to keep ourselves alive, you’ll be quiet and
at peace.”
Sam groaned. “I don’t like being too quiet,” he ses. “I was always one
for a bit o’ fun—innercent fun.”
Peter coughed.
“You and Ginger ’av been good pals,” ses Sam; “it’s hard to go and
leave you.”
“We’ve all got to go some time or other, Sam,” ses Peter,
soothing-like. “It’s a wonder to me, with your habits, that you’ve
lasted as long as you ’ave.”
“My _habits_?” ses Sam, sitting up all of a sudden. “Why, you
monkey-faced son of a sea-cook, for two pins I’d chuck you out of the
winder.”
“Don’t talk like that on your death-bed,” ses Peter, very shocked.
Sam was going to answer ’im sharp agin, but just then ’e got a pain
which made ’im roll about on the bed and groan to such an extent that
Ginger woke up agin and got out o’ bed.
“Pore old Sam!” he ses, walking across the room and looking at ’im.
“’Ave you got any pain anywhere?”
“_Pain_?” ses Sam. “Pain? I’m a mask o’ pains all over.”
Ginger and Peter looked at ’im and shook their ’eds, and then they went
a little way off and talked about ’im in whispers.
“He looks ’arf dead now,” ses Peter, coming back and staring at ’im.
“Let’s take ’is clothes off, Ginger; it’s more decent to die with ’em
off.”
“I think I’ll ’ave a doctor,” ses Sam, in a faint voice.
“You’re past doctors, Sam,” ses Ginger, in a kind voice.
“Better ’ave your last moments in peace,” ses Peter, “and keep your
money in your trouser-pockets.”
“You go and fetch a doctor, you murderers,” ses Sam, groaning, as Peter
started to undress ’im. “Go on, else I’ll haunt you with my ghost.”
Ginger tried to talk to ’im about the sin o’ wasting money, but it was
all no good, and arter telling Peter wot to do in case Sam died afore
he come back, he went off. He was gone about ’arf an hour, and then he
come back with a sandy-’aired young man with red eyelids and a black
bag.
“Am I dying, sir?” ses Sam, arter the doctor ’ad listened to his lungs
and his ’art and prodded ’im all over.
“We’re all dying,” ses the doctor, “only some of us’ll go sooner than
others.”
“Will he last the day, sir?” ses Ginger.
The doctor looked at Sam agin, and Sam held ’is breath while ’e waited
for him to answer. “Yes,” ses the doctor at last, “if he does just wot
I tell him and takes the medicine I send ’im.”
He wasn’t in the room ’arf an hour altogether, and he charged pore Sam
a shilling; but wot ’urt Sam even more than that was to hear ’im go off
downstairs whistling as cheerful as if there wasn’t a dying man within
a ’undred miles.
Peter and Ginger Dick took turns to be with Sam that morning, but in
the arternoon the landlady’s mother, an old lady who was almost as fat
as Sam ’imself, came up to look arter ’im a bit. She sat on a chair by
the side of ’is bed and tried to amuse ’im by telling ’im of all the
death-beds she’d been at, and partikler of one man, the living image
of Sam, who passed away in his sleep. It was past ten o’clock when
Peter and Ginger came ’ome, but they found pore Sam still awake and
sitting up in bed holding ’is eyes open with his fingers.
[Illustration: “She asked ’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any
partikler spot to be buried in.”]
Sam had another shilling’s-worth the next day, and ’is medicine was
changed for the worse. If anything he seemed a trifle better, but the
landlady’s mother, wot came up to nurse ’im agin, said it was a bad
sign, and that people often brightened up just afore the end. She asked
’im whether ’e’d got a fancy for any partikler spot to be buried in,
and, talking about wot a lot o’ people ’ad been buried alive, said
she’d ask the doctor to cut Sam’s ’ead off to prevent mistakes. She got
quite annoyed with Sam for saying, supposing there _was_ a mistake and
he came round in the middle of it, how’d he feel? and said there was no
satisfying some people, do wot you would.
At the end o’ six days Sam was still alive and losing a shilling a day,
to say nothing of buying ’is own beef-tea and such-like. Ginger said it
was fair highway robbery, and tried to persuade Sam to go to a
’orsepittle, where he’d ’ave lovely nurses to wait on ’im hand and
foot, and wouldn’t keep ’is best friends awake of a night making
’orrible noises.
Sam didn’t take kindly to the idea at fust, but as the doctor forbid
’im to get up, although he felt much better, and his money was wasting
away, he gave way at last, and at seven o’clock one evening he sent
Ginger off to fetch a cab to take ’im to the London Horsepittle. Sam
said something about putting ’is clothes on, but Peter Russet said the
horsepittle would be more likely to take him in if he went in the
blanket and counterpane, and at last Sam gave way. Ginger and Peter
helped ’im downstairs, and the cabman laid hold o’ one end o’ the
blanket as they got to the street-door, under the idea that he was
helping, and very near gave Sam another chill.
“Keep your hair on,” he ses, as Sam started on ’im. “It’ll be
three-and-six for the fare, and I’ll take the money now.”
“You’ll ’ave it when you get there,” ses Ginger.
“I’ll ’ave it now,” ses the cabman. “I ’ad a fare die on the way once
afore.”
Ginger—who was minding Sam’s money for ’im because there wasn’t a
pocket in the counterpane—paid ’im, and the cab started. It jolted and
rattled over the stones, but Sam said the air was doing ’im good. He
kept ’is pluck up until they got close to the horsepittle, and then ’e
got nervous. And ’e got more nervous when the cabman got down off ’is
box and put his ’ed in at the winder and spoke to ’im.
“’Ave you got any partikler fancy for the London Horsepittle?” he ses.
“No,” ses Sam. “Why?”
“Well, I s’pose it don’t matter, if wot your mate ses is true—that
you’re dying,” ses the cabman.
“Wot d’ye mean?” says Sam.
“Nothing,” ses the cabman; “only, fust and last, I s’pose I’ve driven
five ’undred people to that ’orsepittle, and only one ever came out
agin—and he was smuggled out in a bread-basket.”
Sam’s flesh began to creep all over.
“It’s a pity they don’t ’ave the same rules as Charing Cross
Horsepittle,” ses the cabman. “The doctors ’ave five pounds apiece for
every patient that gets well there, and the consequence is they ain’t
’ad the blinds down for over five months.”
“Drive me there,” ses Sam.
“It’s a long way,” ses the cabman, shaking his ’ed, “and it ’ud cost
you another ’arf dollar. S’pose you give the London a try?”
“You drive to Charing Cross,” ses Sam, telling Ginger to give ’im the
’arf-dollar. “And look sharp; these things ain’t as warm as they might
be.”
The cabman turned his ’orse round and set off agin, singing. The cab
stopped once or twice for a little while, and then it stopped for quite
a long time, and the cabman climbed down off ’is box and came to the
winder agin.
“I’m sorry, mate,” he ses, “but did you see me speak to that party just
now?”
“The one you flicked with your whip?” ses Ginger.
“No; he was speaking to me,” ses the cabman. “The last one, I mean.”
“Wot about it?” ses Peter.
“He’s the under-porter at the horsepittle,” ses the cabman, spitting;
“and he tells me that every bed is bung full, and two patients apiece
in some of ’em.”
“I don’t mind sleeping two in a bed,” ses Sam, who was very tired and
cold.
“No,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im; “but wot about the other one?”
“Well, what’s to be done?” ses Peter.
“You might go to Guy’s,” ses the cabman; “that’s as good as Charing
Cross.”
“I b’lieve you’re telling a pack o’ lies,” ses Ginger.
“Come out o’ my cab,” ses the cabman, very fierce. “Come on, all of
you. Out you get.”
Ginger and Peter was for getting out, but Sam wouldn’t ’ear of it. It
was bad enough being wrapped up in a blanket in a cab, without being
turned out in ’is bare feet on the pavement, and at last Ginger
apologized to the cabman by saying ’e supposed if he was a liar he
couldn’t ’elp it. The cabman collected three shillings more to go to
Guy’s ’orsepittle, and, arter a few words with Ginger, climbed up on
’is box and drove off agin.
They were all rather tired of the cab by this time, and, going over
Waterloo Bridge, Ginger began to feel uncommon thirsty, and, leaning
out of the winder, he told the cabman to pull up for a drink. He was so
long about it that Ginger began to think he was bearing malice, but
just as he was going to tell ’im agin, the cab pulled up in a quiet
little street opposite a small pub. Ginger Dick and Peter went in and
’ad something and brought one out for Sam. They ’ad another arter that,
and Ginger, getting ’is good temper back agin, asked the cabman to ’ave
one.
“Look lively about it, Ginger,” ses Sam, very sharp. “You forget ’ow
ill I am.”
Ginger said they wouldn’t be two seconds, and, the cabman calling a boy
to mind his ’orse, they went inside. It was a quiet little place, but
very cosey, and Sam, peeping out of the winder, could see all three of
’em leaning against the bar and making themselves comfortable. Twice he
made the boy go in to hurry them up, and all the notice they took was
to go on at the boy for leaving the horse.
Pore old Sam sat there hugging ’imself in the bed-clo’es, and getting
wilder and wilder. He couldn’t get out of the cab, and ’e couldn’t call
to them for fear of people coming up and staring at ’im. Ginger,
smiling all over with ’appiness, had got a big cigar on and was
pretending to pinch the barmaid’s flowers, and Peter and the cabman was
talking to some other chaps there. The only change Sam ’ad was when the
boy walked the ’orse up and down the road.
He sat there for an hour and then ’e sent the boy in agin. This time
the cabman lost ’is temper, and, arter chasing the boy up the road,
gave a young feller twopence to take ’is place and promised ’im another
twopence when he came out. Sam tried to get a word with ’im as ’e
passed, but he wouldn’t listen, and it was pretty near ’arf an hour
later afore they all came out, talking and laughing.
“Now for the ’orsepittle,” ses Ginger, opening the door. “Come on,
Peter; don’t keep pore old Sam waiting all night.”
“’Arf a tic,” ses the cabman, “’arf a tic; there’s five shillings for
waiting, fust.”
“_Wot_?” ses Ginger, staring at ’im. “Arter giving you all them
drinks?”
“Five shillings,” ses the cabman; “two hours’ waiting at half a crown
an hour. That’s the proper charge.”
Ginger thought ’e was joking at fust, and when he found ’e wasn’t he
called ’im all the names he could think of, while Peter Russet stood by
smiling and trying to think where ’e was and wot it was all about.
“Pay ’im the five bob, Ginger, and ’ave done with it,” ses pore Sam, at
last. “I shall never get to the horsepittle at this rate.”
“Cert’inly not,” ses Ginger, “not if we stay ’ere all night.”
“Pay ’im the five bob,” ses Sam, raising ’is voice; “it’s my money.”
“You keep quiet,” ses Ginger, “and speak when your spoke to. Get
inside, Peter.”
Peter, wot was standing by blinking and smiling, misunderstood ’im, and
went back inside the pub. Ginger went arter ’im to fetch ’im back, and
hearing a noise turned round and saw the cabman pulling Sam out o’ the
cab. He was just in time to shove ’im back agin, and for the next two
or three minutes ’im and the cabman was ’ard at it. Sam was too busy
holding ’is clothes on to do much, and twice the cabman got ’im ’arf
out, and twice Ginger got him back agin and bumped ’im back in ’is seat
and shut the door. Then they both stopped and took breath.
“We’ll see which gets tired fust,” ses Ginger. “Hold the door inside,
Sam.”
The cabman looked at ’im, and then ’e climbed up on to ’is seat and,
just as Ginger ran back for Peter Russet, drove off at full speed.
Pore Sam leaned back in ’is seat panting and trying to wrap ’imself up
better in the counterpane, which ’ad got torn in the struggle. They
went through street arter street, and ’e was just thinking of a nice
warm bed and a kind nurse listening to all ’is troubles when ’e found
they was going over London Bridge.
“You’ve passed it,” he ses, putting his ’ead out of the winder.
The cabman took no notice, and afore Sam could think wot to make of it
they was in the Whitechapel Road, and arter that, although Sam kept
putting his ’ead out of the winder and asking ’im questions, they kept
going through a lot o’ little back streets until ’e began to think the
cabman ’ad lost ’is way. They stopped at last in a dark little road, in
front of a brick wall, and then the cabman got down and opened a door
and led his ’orse and cab into a yard.
“Do you call this Guy’s Horsepittle?” ses Sam.
“Hullo!” ses the cabman. “Why, I thought I put you out o’ my cab once.”
“I’ll give you five minutes to drive me to the ’orsepittle,” ses Sam.
“Arter that I shall go for the police.”
“All right,” ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and leading it into a
stable. “Mind you don’t catch cold.”
He lighted a lantern and began to look arter the ’orse, and pore Sam
sat there getting colder and colder and wondering wot ’e was going to
do.
“I shall give you in charge for kidnapping me,” he calls out very loud.
“Kidnapping?” ses the cabman. “Who do you think wants to kidnap you?
The gate’s open, and you can go as soon as you like.”
Sam climbed out of the cab, and holding up the counterpane walked
across the yard in ’is bare feet to the stable. “Well, will you drive
me ’ome?” he ses.
“Cert’inly not,” ses the cabman; “I’m going ’ome myself now. It’s time
you went, ’cos I’m going to lock up.”
“’Ow can I go like this?” ses Sam, bursting with passion. “Ain’t you
got any sense?”
“Well, wot are you going to do?” ses the cabman, picking ’is teeth with
a bit o’ straw.
“Wot would you do if you was me?” ses Sam, calming down a bit and
trying to speak civil.
[Illustration: “‘All right,’ ses the cabman, taking his ’orse out and
leading it into a stable. ‘Mind you don’t catch cold.’”]
“Well, if I was you,” said the cabman, speaking very slow, “I should be
more perlite to begin with; you accused me just now—me, a ’ard-working
man—o’ kidnapping you.”
“It was only my fun,” ses Sam, very quick.
“I ain’t kidnapping you, am I?” ses the cabman.
“Cert’inly not,” ses Sam.
“Well, then,” ses the cabman, “if I was you I should pay ’arf a crown
for a night’s lodging in this nice warm stable, and in the morning I
should ask the man it belongs to—that’s me—to go up to my lodging with
a letter, asking for a suit o’ clothes and eleven-and-six.”
“Eleven-and-six?” ses Sam, staring.
“Five bob for two hours’ wait,” ses the cabman, “four shillings for the
drive here, and ’arf a crown for the stable. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
Sam said it was—as soon as he was able to speak—and then the cabman
gave ’im a truss of straw to lay on and a rug to cover ’im up with.
And then, calling ’imself a fool for being so tender-’earted, he left
Sam the lantern, and locked the stable-door and went off.
It seemed like a ’orrid dream to Sam, and the only thing that comforted
’im was the fact that he felt much better. His illness seemed to ’ave
gone, and arter hunting round the stable to see whether ’e could find
anything to eat, ’e pulled the rug over him and went to sleep.
He was woke up at six o’clock in the morning by the cabman opening the
door. There was a lovely smell o’ hot tea from a tin he ’ad in one
’and, and a lovelier smell still from a plate o’ bread and butter and
bloaters in the other. Sam sniffed so ’ard that at last the cabman
noticed it, and asked ’im whether he ’ad got a cold. When Sam explained
he seemed to think a minute or two, and then ’e said that it was ’is
breakfast, but Sam could ’ave it if ’e liked to make up the money to a
pound.
“Take it or leave it,” he ses, as Sam began to grumble.
Poor Sam was so ’ungry he took it, and it done him good. By the time he
’ad eaten it he felt as right as ninepence, and ’e took such a dislike
to the cabman ’e could hardly be civil to ’im. And when the cabman
spoke about the letter to Ginger Dick he spoke up and tried to bate ’im
down to seven-and-six.
“You write that letter for a pound,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im
very fierce, “or else you can walk ’ome in your counterpane, with ’arf
the boys in London follering you and trying to pull it off.”
Sam rose ’im to seventeen-and-six, but it was all no good, and at last
’e wrote a letter to Ginger Dick, telling ’im to give the cabman a suit
of clothes and a pound.
“And look sharp about it,” he ses. “I shall expect ’em in ’arf an
hour.”
“You’ll ’ave ’em, if you’re lucky, when I come back to change ’orses at
four o’clock,” ses the cabman. “D’ye think I’ve got nothing to do but
fuss about arter you?”
“Why not drive me back in the cab?” ses Sam.
“'Cos I wasn’t born yesterday,” ses the cabman.
He winked at Sam, and then, whistling very cheerful, took his ’orse out
and put it in the cab. He was so good-tempered that ’e got quite
playful, and Sam ’ad to tell him that when ’e wanted to ’ave his legs
tickled with a straw he’d let ’im know.
Some people can’t take a ’int, and, as the cabman wouldn’t be’ave
’imself, Sam walked into a shed that was handy and pulled the door to,
and he stayed there until he ’eard ’im go back to the stable for ’is
rug. It was only a yard or two from the shed to the cab, and, ’ardly
thinking wot he was doing, Sam nipped out and got into it and sat
huddled up on the floor.
He sat there holding ’is breath and not daring to move until the cabman
’ad shut the gate and was driving off up the road, and then ’e got up
on the seat and lolled back out of sight. The shops were just opening,
the sun was shining, and Sam felt so well that ’e was thankful that ’e
hadn’t got to the horsepittle arter all.
The cab was going very slow, and two or three times the cabman ’arf
pulled up and waved his whip at people wot he thought wanted a cab, but
at last an old lady and gentleman, standing on the edge of the curb
with a big bag, held up their ’ands to ’im. The cab pulled in to the
curb, and the old gentleman ’ad just got hold of the door and was
trying to open it when he caught sight of Sam.
“Why, you’ve got a fare,” he ses.
“No, sir,” ses the cabman.
“But I say you ’ave,” ses the old gentleman.
The cabman climbed down off ’is box and looked in at the winder, and
for over two minutes he couldn’t speak a word. He just stood there
looking at Sam and getting purpler and purpler about the face.
“Drive on, cabby,” ses Sam, “Wot are you stopping for?”
The cabman tried to tell ’im, but just then a policeman came walking up
to see wot was the matter, and ’e got on the box agin and drove off.
Cabmen love policemen just about as much as cats love dogs, and he
drove down two streets afore he stopped and got down agin to finish ’is
remarks.
“Not so much talk, cabman,” ses Sam, who was beginning to enjoy
’imself, “else I shall call the police.”
“Are you coming out o’ my cab?” ses the cabman, “or ’ave I got to put
you out?”
“You put me out!” ses Sam, who ’ad tied ’is clothes up with string
while ’e was in the stable, and ’ad got his arms free.
The cabman looked at ’im ’elpless for a moment, and then he got up and
drove off agin. At fust Sam thought ’e was going to drive back to the
stable, and he clinched ’is teeth and made up ’is mind to ’ave a fight
for it. Then he saw that ’e was really being driven ’ome, and at last
the cab pulled up in the next street to ’is lodgings, and the cabman,
asking a man to give an eye to his ’orse, walked on with the letter. He
was back agin in a few minutes, and Sam could see by ’is face that
something had ’appened.
“They ain’t been ’ome all night,” he ses, sulky-like.
“Well, I shall ’ave to send the money on to you,” ses Sam, in a
off-hand way. “Unless you like to call for it.”
[Illustration: “So long.”]
“I’ll call for it, matey,” ses the cabman, with a kind smile, as he
took ’old of his ’orse and led it up to Sam’s lodgings. “I know I can
trust you, but it’ll save you trouble. But s’pose he’s been on the
drink and lost the money?”
Sam got out and made a dash for the door, which ’appened to be open.
“It won’t make no difference,” he ses.
“No difference?” ses the cabman, staring.
“Not to you, I mean,” ses Sam, shutting the door very slow. “So long.”