Although our hero's plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic,
there was nothing further from his thoughts than merely playing at the
game of amateur detective. Being enthusiastic and sanguine, besides
being spurred on by an intense desire to rescue the father of May
Leather, Charlie Brooke was thoroughly in earnest in his plan. He knew
that it would be useless to attempt such a search and rescue in any
other capacity than that of a genuine pauper, at least in appearance and
action. He therefore resolved to conduct the search in character, and
to plunge at once into the deepest pools of the slums.
It is not our intention to carry the reader through the
Arabian-night-like adventures which he experienced in his quest.
Suffice it to say that he did not find the lost man in the pools in
which he fished for him, but he ultimately, after many weeks, found one
who led him to the goal he aimed at.
Meanwhile there were revealed to him numerous phases of life--or,
rather, of living death--in the slums of the great city which caused him
many a heartache at the time, and led him ever afterwards to consider
with anxious pity the condition of the poor, the so-called lost and
lapsed, the depraved, degraded, and unfortunate. Of course he found--as
so many had found before him--that the demon Drink was at the bottom of
most of the misery he witnessed, but he also learned that whereas many
weak and vicious natures dated the commencement of their final descent
and fall from the time when they began to drink, many of the strong and
ferocious spirits had begun a life of wickedness in early youth, and
only added drink in after years as a little additional fuel to the
already roaring flame of sin.
It is well known that men of all stamps and creeds and classes are to be
found in the low lodging-houses of all great cities. At first Charlie
did not take note of this, being too earnestly engaged in the search for
his friend, and anxious to avoid drawing attention on himself; but as he
grew familiar with these scenes of misery and destitution he gradually
began to be interested in the affairs of other people, and, as he was
eminently sympathetic, he became the confidant of several paupers, young
and old. A few tried to draw him out, but he quietly checked their
curiosity without giving offence.
It may be remarked here that he at once dropped the style of talk which
he had adopted when representing Jem Mace, because he found so many in
the lodging-houses who had fallen from a good position in society that
grammatical language was by no means singular. His size and strength
also saved him from much annoyance, for the roughs, who might otherwise
have bullied him, felt that it would be wise to leave him alone.
On one occasion, however, his pacific principles were severely tested as
well as his manhood, and as this led to important results we must
recount the incident.
There was a little lame, elderly man, who was a habitual visitor at one
of the houses which our hero frequented. He was a humorous character,
who made light of his troubles, and was a general favourite. Charlie
had felt interested in the man, and in ordinary circumstances would have
inquired into his history, but, as we have said, he laid some restraint
on his natural tendency to inquire and sympathise. As it was, however,
he showed his goodwill by many little acts of kindness--such as making
way for Zook--so he was called--when he wanted to get to the general
fire to boil his tea or coffee; giving him a portion of his own food on
the half pretence that he had eaten as much as he wanted, etcetera.
There was another _habitue_ of the same lodging, named Stoker, whose
temperament was the very opposite to that of little Zook. He was a
huge, burly dock labourer; an ex-prize-fighter and a disturber of the
peace wherever he went. Between Stoker and Zook there was nothing in
common save their poverty, and the former had taken a strong dislike to
the latter, presumably on the ground of Zook's superiority in everything
except bulk of frame. Charlie had come into slight collision with
Stoker on Zook's account more than once, and had tried to make peace
between them, but Stoker was essentially a bully; he would listen to no
advice, and had more than once told the would-be peacemaker to mind his
own business.
One evening, towards the close of our hero's search among the
lodging-houses, little Zook entered the kitchen of the establishment,
tea-pot and penny loaf in hand. He hastened towards the roaring fire
that might have roasted a whole sheep, and which served to warm the
entire basement storey, or kitchen, of the tenement.
"Here, Zook," said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he
was seated taking his supper, "I've bought more than I can eat, as
usual! I've got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help
me?"
"It's all fish that comes to my net, Charlie," said the little man,
skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful
but exaggerated bow.
We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his
Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality,
the best possible _alias_.
A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud,
angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of
peace-disturber. Presently a cry of "shame" was heard, and poor Zook
was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding.
"Who cried shame?" demanded the bully, looking fiercely round.
"_I_ did not," said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, "for I did not
know it was you who knocked him down, but I _do_ cry shame on you now,
for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without
provocation, I warrant."
"An' pray who are _you_?" returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to
be witheringly sarcastic.
"I am one who likes fair play," said Charlie, restraining his anger, for
he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, "and if you
call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a
light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an
Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won't
worry him any more, and I'm sure he'll forgive you!"
"Hear! hear!" cried several of the on-lookers.
"Perhaps I _may_ forgive 'im," said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he
wiped his bleeding nose--"I'd do a'most anything to please Charlie!"
This was received with a general laugh, but Stoker did not laugh; he
turned on our hero with a look of mingled pity and contempt.
"No, Mister Charlie," he said, "I won't say I'm sorry, because I'd tell
a big lie if I did, and I'll worry him just as much as I please. But
I'll tell 'e what I'll do. If you show yourself as ready wi' your
bunches o' fives as you are wi' yer tongue, and agree to fight me, I'll
say to Zook that I'm sorry and won't worry 'im any more."
There was dead silence for a minute after the delivery of this
challenge, and much curiosity was exhibited as to how it would be taken.
Charlie cast down his eyes in perplexity. Like many big and strong men
he was averse to use his superior physical powers in fighting. Besides
this, he had been trained by his mother to regard it as more noble to
suffer than to avenge insults, and there is no doubt that if the bully's
insult had affected only himself he would have avoided him, if possible,
rather than come into conflict. Having been trained, also, to let
Scripture furnish him with rules for action, his mind irresistibly
recalled the turning of the "other cheek" to the smiter, but the fact
that he was at that moment acting in defence of another, not of himself,
prevented that from relieving him. Suddenly--like the lightning flash--
there arose to him the words, "Smite a scorner and the simple will
beware!" Indeed, all that we have mentioned, and much more, passed
through his troubled brain with the speed of light. Lifting his eyes
calmly to the face of his opponent he said--"I accept your challenge."
"No, no, Charlie!" cried the alarmed Zook, in a remonstrative tone,
"you'll do nothing of the sort. The man's a old prize-fighter! You
haven't a chance. Why, I'll fight him myself rather than let you do
it."
And with that the little man began to square up and twirl his fists and
skip about in front of the bully in spite of his lameness--but took good
care to keep well out of his reach.
"It's a bargain, then," said Charlie, holding out his hand.
"Done!" answered the bully, grasping it.
"Well, then, the sooner we settle this business the better," continued
Charlie. "Where shall it come off?"
"Prize-fightin's agin the law," suggested an old pauper, who seemed to
fear they were about to set to in the kitchen.
"So it is, old man," said Charlie, "and I would be the last to engage in
such a thing, but this is not a prize-fight, for there's no prize. It's
simply a fight in defence of weakness against brute strength and
tyranny."
There were only a few of the usual inhabitants of the kitchen present at
the time, for it was yet early in the evening. This was lucky, as it
permitted of the fight being gone about quietly.
In the upper part of the building there was an empty room of
considerable size which had been used as a furniture store, and happened
at that time to have been cleared out, with the view of adding it to the
lodging. There, it was arranged, the event should come off, and to this
apartment proceeded all the inhabitants of the kitchen who were
interested in the matter. A good many, however, remained behind--some
because they did not like fights, some because they did not believe that
the parties were in earnest, others because they were too much taken up
with and oppressed by their own sorrows, and a few because, being what
is called fuddled, they did not understand or care anything about the
matter at all. Thus it came to pass that all the proceedings were quiet
and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police.
Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators
standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was
plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled
off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood
up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring.
Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt--an old
striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments.
"I'm not a professional," he said, as he stepped forward; "you've no
objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?"
"None whatever," replied Stoker, with a patronising air; "p'r'aps it may
be as well for fear you should kitch cold."
Charlie smiled, and held out his hand--"You see," he said, "that at
least I understand the civilities of the ring."
There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and
stood on guard.
"I am quite willing even yet," said Charlie, while in this attitude, "to
settle this matter without fighting if you'll only agree to leave Zook
alone in future."
This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker,
who replied with a thundering, "No!" and at the same moment made a
savage blow at Charlie's face.
Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let
the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his
opponent's nose.
"Hah! a hammytoor!" exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.
Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in
school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The
smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly
have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the
degradation of his position--a feeling which neither his disreputable
appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce.
But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce.
Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife
was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging
blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do
so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive,
and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing
before him quite cool, and with the grim look intensified.
"If you _will_ have it--_take_ it!" he exclaimed, and shot forth a blow
which one of the juvenile bystanders described as a "stinger on the
beak!"
The owner of the beak felt it so keenly, that he lost temper and made
another savage assault, which was met in much the same way, with this
difference, that his opponent delivered several more stingers on the
unfortunate beak, which after that would have been more correctly
described as a bulb.
Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the "hammytoor" stood
up before him, smiling more grimly than ever--panting a little, it is
true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with
great care although he had received some rather severe body blows.
Seeing this, Stoker descended to mean practices, and in his next assault
attempted, and with partial success, to hit below the belt. This roused
a spirit of indignation in Charlie, which gave strength to his arm and
vigour to his action. The next time Stoker paused for breath, Charlie--
as the juvenile bystander remarked--"went for him," planted a blow under
each eye, a third on his forehead, and a fourth on his chest with such
astounding rapidity and force that the man was driven up against the
wall with a crash that shook the whole edifice.
Stoker dropped and remained still. There were no seconds, no sponges or
calling of time at that encounter. It was altogether an informal
episode, and when Charlie saw his antagonist drop, he kneeled down
beside him with a feeling of anxiety lest he had killed him.
"My poor man," he said, "are you much hurt?"
"Oh! you've no need to fear for me," said Stoker recovering himself a
little, and sitting up--"but I throw up the sponge. Stoker's day is
over w'en 'e's knocked out o' time by a hammytoor, and Zook is free to
bile 'is pot unmorlested in futur'."
"Come, it was worth a fight to bring you to that state of mind, my man,"
said Charlie, laughing. "Here, two of you, help to take him down and
wash the blood off him; and I say, youngster," he added, pulling out his
purse and handing a sovereign to the juvenile bystander already
mentioned, "go out and buy sausages for the whole company."
The boy stared at the coin in his hand in mute surprise, while the rest
of the ring looked at each other with various expressions, for Charlie,
in the rebound of feeling caused by his opponent's sudden recovery and
submission, had totally forgotten his _role_ and was ordering the people
about like one accustomed to command.
As part of the orders were of such a satisfactory nature, the people did
not object, and, to the everlasting honour of the juvenile bystander who
resisted the temptation to bolt with the gold, a splendid supper of pork
sausages was smoking on the various tables of the kitchen of that
establishment in less than an hour thereafter.
When the late hours of night had arrived, and most of the paupers were
asleep in their poor beds, dreaming, perchance, of "better days" when
pork-sausages were not so tremendous a treat, little Zook went to the
table at which Charlie sat. He was staring at a newspaper, but in
reality was thinking about his vain search, and beginning, if truth must
be told, to feel discouraged.
"Charlie," said Zook, sitting down beside his champion, "or p'r'aps I
should say _Mister_ Charlie, the game's up wi' you, whatever it was."
"What d'you mean, Zook?"
"Well, I just mean that it's o' no manner o' use your tryin' to sail any
longer under false colours in this here establishment."
"I must still ask you to explain yourself," said Charlie, with a puzzled
look.
"Well, you know," continued the little man, with a deprecatory glance,
"w'en a man in ragged clo'se orders people here about as if 'e was the
commander-in-chief o' the British Army, an' flings yellow boys about as
if 'e was chancellor o' the checkers, an orders sassengers offhand for
all 'ands, 'e _may_ be a gentleman--wery likely 'e is,--but 'e ain't a
redooced one, such as slopes into lodgin'-'ouse kitchens. W'atever
little game may 'ave brought you 'ere, sir, it ain't poverty--an' nobody
will be fool enough in _this_ 'ouse to believe it is."
"You are right, Zook. I'm sorry I forgot myself," returned Charlie,
with a sigh. "After all, it does not matter much, for I fear my little
game--as you call it--was nearly played out, and it does not seem as if
I were going to win."
Charlie clasped his hands on the table before him, and looked at the
newspaper somewhat disconsolately.
"It's bin all along o' takin' up my cause," said the little man, with
something like a whimper in his voice. "You've bin wery kind to me,
sir, an' I'd give a lot, if I 'ad it, an' would go a long way if I
wasn't lame, to 'elp you."
Charlie looked steadily in the honest, pale, careworn face of his
companion for a few seconds without speaking. Poverty, it is said,
brings together strange bed-fellows. Not less, perhaps, does it lead to
unlikely confidants. Under a sudden impulse our hero revealed to poor
Zook the cause of his being there--concealing nothing except names.
"You'll 'scuse me, sir," said the little man, after the narrative was
finished, "but I think you've gone on summat of a wild-goose chase, for
your man may never have come so low as to seek shelter in sitch places."
"Possibly, Zook; but he was penniless, and this, or the work-house,
seemed to me the natural place to look for him in."
"'Ave you bin to the work-'ouses, sir?"
"Yes--at least to all in this neighbourhood."
"What! in that toggery?" asked the little man, with a grin.
"Not exactly, Zook, I can change my shell like the hermit crabs."
"Well, sir, it's my opinion that you may go on till doomsday on this
scent an' find nuthin'; but there's a old 'ooman as I knows on that
might be able to 'elp you. Mind I don't say she could, but she _might_.
Moreover, if she can she will."
"How?" asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little
friend.
"Why, this way. She's a good old soul who lost 'er 'usband an' 'er
son--if I ain't mistaken--through drink, an' ever since, she 'as devoted
'erself body an' soul to save men an' women from drink. She attends
temperance meetin's an' takes people there--a'most drags 'em in by the
scruff o' the neck. She keeps 'er eyes open, like a weasel, an'
w'enever she sees a chance o' what she calls pluckin' a brand out o' the
fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin' 'er fingers.
Sometimes she gits one an' another to submit to her treatment, an' then
she locks 'em up in 'er 'ouse--though it ain't a big un--an' treats 'em,
as she calls it. She's got one there now, it's my belief, though
w'ether it's a he or a she I can't tell. Now, she may 'ave seen your
friend goin' about--if 'e stayed long in Whitechapel."
"It may be so," returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose
heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first
blush of it seem very brilliant. "When could I see this old woman?"
"First thing to-morror arter breakfast, sir."
"Very well; then you'll come and breakfast with me at eight?"
"I will, sir, with all the pleasure in life. In this 'ere 'ouse, sir,
or in a resterang?"
"Neither. In my lodgings, Zook."
Having given his address to the little man, Charlie bade him good-night
and retired to his pauper-bed for the last time.