THE FURNITURE DEALER.
The whole of the front of my master’s house seemed to be devoted to
business. The ground floor was quite open, with furniture of every
description piled up to the ceiling; and from the windows above hung
hearth-rugs, pieces of carpet, long strings of tinware, brushes, and so
on, sufficient in my eyes to supply the entire population of Great
Britain.
He seemed to deal in every household requisite; the number and variety
of articles for sale were quite bewildering, and to an unpractised eye
appeared to be piled up anyhow on either side, without any regard to law
or order, leaving a small narrow lane only to travel in and out.
Down this lane came the boy Jim, Mr. Harkaway’s son and heir, a lad of
twelve years, who hailed his father with a sullen visage, and the
inquiry, ‘Now, then, what do you want?’
‘Take the nags round,’ said Mr. Harkaway, ‘and give ’em both a feed. You
need not be particular with the new one, Blossom—he’s done no work
to-day.’
‘Will he kick?’ asked Jim.
‘Quiet as a lamb,’ replied his father; and the boy, with rather a
suspicious look at me, led Sam round the corner, and I perforce
followed.
Mr. Harkaway’s stable was certainly a most abominable hole, bad enough
to kill any horse fresh from the country with the look of it; but as I
afterwards learnt from Sam and my own sad experience, there were
hundreds of worse places, where even man himself was glad to
dwell—indeed, an entire family lived and slept in a wretched room over
our wretched stable.
Jim gave Sam a pretty good feed, and me a handful of hay; after this he
made up two slovenly beds for us, and retired for the night. I was glad
when he was gone, as I wanted to be alone with Sam, for I was burning
with curiosity to hear what sort of life was in store for me.
Sam attacked the food given to him as if he were in need of it, and went
on munching for some time without a word; and I kept silent, fearing
that any remarks I might make would be deemed intrusive, and thus defeat
the end I had in view. We were only divided by a pole, so that even
lying down it would be easy to converse, and I waited patiently. Sam
munched his food to the last wisp of hay and kernel of corn; then
settling down, condescended to address me.
‘Well, youngster,’ he said, with a sort of grunt, ‘where do you hail
from?’
‘Upton,’ I replied.
‘Country,’ returned Sam. ‘Ah! you will find it different here.’
‘I am afraid so,’ I replied softly, with a sigh.
‘There is a little life here,’ continued Sam, who apparently had not
heard my remark. ‘No trotting about for miles and seeing nothing but
hedgerows and trees and fields full of grass and corn, tantalizing a
hungry horse to death; no brooks to wet your feet and legs by crossing,
and not half the flies to bother you. We have flies, of course, but they
don’t seem half so hungry as they are in the country—it’s the air, I
suppose.’
‘The country air is supposed to give an appetite,’ I remarked, not
caring to say too much in praise of the country at present.
‘That is why I hate it,’ growled Sam. ‘Harkaway goes into the country
sometimes, and brings me home so horribly sharp that I could eat my
halter, but he gives me no more corn: a feed is a feed to him, although
it may not be more than half a feed to me. Harkaway is wretchedly
stupid; but most men are like him.’
I coughed an assent to this, and Sam went on for awhile grumbling about
the short allowance of corn he received, until I thought I might venture
to ask for a little information about my master. Sam, to my joy,
received my inquiries in a very amiable spirit.
‘Harkaway,’ he said, ‘is a furniture dealer, principally second-hand. He
will buy anything, from the lid of a saucepan to an entire house of
furniture, and will gladly sell the same if he can realize a fair or an
unfair profit. He calls it “turning an honest penny;” but honest as it
may be, I have heard him tell the most abominable falsehoods while
transacting the most simple acts of business. He will declare, with all
the solemnity of a man upon oath, that he gave so-and-so for such a
thing, and that he will lose by the transaction, when he knows it did
not cost him half the money, and that he will realize a very respectable
profit.’
‘It is very sad,’ I said.
‘And it is also absurd,’ returned Sam; ‘_for no man believes him_—they
know as well as he does that he sells for profit, and profit alone; as
for any motive of philanthropy, you won’t find such a thing in men of
the Harkaway class.’
‘You say the furniture is second-hand,’ I said; ‘where does he get it
from?’
‘Mostly from homes where _ruin_ has stepped in, an unwelcome guest,’
replied Sam solemnly. ‘When a man gets into difficulties, his landlord
seizes his furniture, and sells it for rent. Upon these occasions the
goods are generally put up by auction, and then Harkaway buys with the
rest of the public. But very often the ruined tenant is not only ruined,
but a man of bad principles; then he calls in my master, sells
everything he has, and goes away with every debt unpaid. These are very
profitable transactions, for he generally gets the goods at his own
price.’
‘But are not some of these seizures oppressive?’ I asked.
‘Very,’ replied Sam. ‘Some landlords are very harsh, and turn the widow
and orphan into the streets without the least remorse.’
‘What becomes of them?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Sam, shaking his head; ‘when you have been in
London a year or two, you will have seen enough to guess what becomes of
the helpless and unfortunate.’
‘Tell me something about Mr. Harkaway’s family,’ I said; ‘give me an
idea of his character.’
‘Call him Harkaway—we have no misters this side of the water,’ replied
Sam. ‘So you want an idea of his character and family. Well, here it is.
Harkaway is a sordid, grasping man, who has not an idea beyond making
money; it is never out of his thought—he dreams pounds, shillings, and
pence, I think. His idea of everything is, what is it worth, and what
will it fetch? He would die of despair in Paradise, if there was nothing
to buy and sell. His wife is just like him, and when a bad bargain is
made, which sometimes happens, they mourn together like parents bereaved
of a promising family. Jim is their son. Nursed and cradled upon the
pounds, shillings, and pence idea, he has no love, no sentiment, no
religion—he possesses nothing which helps to make man noble; and I
verily believe that, young as he is, he would sell his parents for five
shillings, if anybody would be rash enough to buy them. He feels no love
or gratitude towards them; he is cold, crafty, and cruel to a terrible
degree; he tortures insects, beats dogs, and pinches children like a
little ogre; and the day is not far distant when he will prove a thorn
in the side of the parents who have made him what he is.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘I cannot precisely tell,’ replied Sam. ‘But such children mostly
develop into lovers of low dissipation; they haunt music halls and low
dancing saloons, spending, in a manner quite at variance with their
sordid nature, the money accumulated by the craft of their parents. I
have known many such, and I can see this boy is already in the downward
road.’
I said I was sorry to hear it, and hoped Sam would prove to be a false
prophet for the boy’s sake. Sam grunted something in reply, and gave out
signs of falling asleep. As I had now learned all I cared to know for
the present, I said no more, and we were soon both enjoying sound
repose.
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