Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "OH! YOU LITTLE DARLING."]
A
CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM:
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT;
AND
ANOTHER MOSES.
BY
MARY E. ROPES
————————————
LONDON:
SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION
56, OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
I. This is the House that Jack built
II. This is the Malt that lay in the House that Jack built
III. This is the Rat that ate the Malt
IV. This is the Cat that killed the Rat
V. This is the Dog that worried the Cat
VI. This is the Cow with the Crumpled Horn
VII. This is the Maiden all forlorn
VIII. This is the Man all tattered and torn
IX. This is the Priest all shaven and shorn
X. This is the Cock that crowed in the morn
————
ANOTHER MOSES
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS.
[Illustration]
OH! YOU LITTLE DARLING (_Frontispiece_)
RATCLIFFE, THE PRODIGAL
WHY DON'T YOU GO?
I'LL DO AS I CHOOSE
[Illustration]
A CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
————————————
CHAPTER I.
"THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT."
THERE it stood, at the corner of the street, the finest public-house in
the populous neighbourhood of this London suburb. There it stood, with
its plate-glass windows, and grand swinging doors, and brilliant lights
at night, and the air of warmth and welcome and cheer, that, like
the will-o'-the-wisp of the treacherous marsh, lured many a foolish
wayfarer to ruin.
The place was kept by a man called John Drinkrow, to whom it had been
bequeathed by his father, who had borne the same name. For a period of
thirty years, John Drinkrow, the elder, had successfully carried on
the business; then he died, leaving a considerable fortune, as well
as the public-house itself, to his only son. During his long life,
thrifty Jack (as he had been familiarly named) had laid claim to a
sort of respectability upon which he had prided himself not a little.
He had always gone to church once every Sunday, had paid his way
punctually, and, though so much drinking went on under his very eyes,
he himself was known to be very abstemious. He put his son to a good
school, and it was not until the lad was sixteen that he suffered him
to return home and join him in the daily work of the "business," as he
complacently termed it.
John the younger, grew up resembling his father in some things. Like
him he was perfectly sober, and proud of his respectability; but the
thriftiness that had characterised old Jack had turned to miserliness
in the son, and the passion for hoarding had increased with every year,
until at the time that our story commences, it was the ruling motive
of the man's life. He had married at an early age; but after four
years his wife had died, leaving two little boys, with just a year's
difference between them.
The children grew up with but little care from any one; the elder,
Tom, taking after his father in quietness, steadiness, and love of
hoarding; the younger, Ratcliffe, turning out wild and dissipated, with
many good impulses, but also with a passionate love of excitement and
pleasure which led him into bad companionship and into various forms
of self-indulgence. Though often absent during many hours, for which
he never accounted, he was still supposed to be living at home; but
his father's anger and threats had lately become more frequent, and
Ratcliffe knew that, sooner or later, unless he reformed, he would have
to quit the parental roof. In the fear of this, he often resolved to
mend his ways; but mere resolutions with no principle to back them are
weak things at best, and generally a pressing invitation from some boon
companion, or a few words of ridicule, were sufficient to tempt him
back to old haunts and old sins, and the resolutions would be broken.
John Drinkrow's hoarding propensities had prevented his educating
his sons in a proper manner. Tom, however, had managed to pick up
some knowledge by reading and study in over-hours; but poor Ratcliffe
could do little more than read and write, and add up the score of the
customers at the bar. Thus he was despised and sneered at by his better
informed brother; and this state of feeling between the two young men
added not a little to the family trouble and discord.
One evening John Drinkrow was busy with his accounts in the little back
parlour. His elder son was serving the customers; the younger was out.
The gaslight shone full upon the old man as he bent with passionate
intentness over his work; it shone on the hard-worn face with its deep
lines and furrows, on the keen watchful eye gloating over the week's
gains—gains not a few, as the long column of figures plainly testified.
Suddenly the door opened and Ratcliffe entered, his face flushed, his
gait somewhat unsteady. His father looked up, with no welcome but a
frown on his dark countenance.
"Father," said the young man, approaching the table and laying one hand
upon it as though to steady himself; "father, it's some time since you
gave me anything, and I'm hard up."
John did not even glance at his son as the latter spoke; he went on
adding up his figures and counting his gains.
Ratcliffe waited a moment; then he said—
"Father, did you hear what I said?"
This time the publican looked up, cold, hard, contemptuous.
"Yes, I did hear," replied he, in the unsympathetic, metallic voice
which might have been borrowed from the chink of his beloved coin;
"yes, I hear well enough; what of it?"
Ratcliffe's face flushed more deeply. "Why, father," he said, "it's
ever so long since I came to you for tin; I think you might give me
some without all this business. I'm sure you've got heaps and needn't
grudge it. I wouldn't grudge a child of mine a sov. over and above his
wages now and then, if I'd a strong-room and bags and bags full like
you."
Now Ratcliffe was excited with drink and vexation, or he would never
have dared to say all this; for if anything angered John Drinkrow, it
was an allusion to his truly miserly and very unwise habit of keeping
his money in coin stowed away in a strong box, in a little room
expressly arranged for this purpose, and next to his own bedroom.
The words had hardly gone out of Ratcliffe's mouth before his father
rose and pointed to the door. His menacing wrath was terrible to
witness, and Ratcliffe, sobered by the sight, his momentary boldness
gene, staggered away from the table as though struck by a sudden blow.
"Go," said the father; "you have long been a disgrace to your brother
and me; and I'll bear the burden of a spendthrift no longer. Get you
gone—where you will; living or dying, I'll have none of you! Get you
gone!"
"But, father!" cried the young man, with a wild gesture of despair.
"Father, if you only knew! Oh, 'do' hear me! Hear me out!"
John interrupted him. "No more, I'll hear no more—get you gone!"
"Only one minute, father—God knows I'm—"
The old man's face grew livid with anger; his eyes were ablaze with
unholy fire. In his excitement he rose and advanced a step with his arm
outstretched. The son recoiled once more, gave his father one look,
half of dread, half of defiance, then opened the door and was gone; and
this was the beginning of great troubles for Ratcliffe himself, and
also for the master of "the house that Jack built."
[Illustration]