IN WHICH DRIBBLE JUNIOR DISCOURSES ON CO-OPERATION.
The old man, leaving Mr. Podmore in paradise, walked slowly
down-stairs, and paused before a door on the second landing, on which
was inscribed--again in yellow round-hand on a blue ground: "Umbrella
and Parasol Hospital. Knock and enter." After a slight hesitation, he
knocked and entered.
J. Gribble junior was hard at work mending ribs and bones, and
speedily recovering frames on moderate terms. Mrs. J. Gribble junior
was also hard at work on silk and gingham. The heir of the house of
Gribble junior was asleep in a corner under an umbrella tent.
There could not have been fewer than a hundred umbrellas and parasols
in the room, and there was not one of them which did not show signs of
having seen a great deal of life--evidently much more than was good
for it. Here was one reclining against the wall, surmounted by a great
knob set upon one side of its head. It had a rakish and dissipated
air, and seemed to declare that it had been out late at nights, in all
sorts of company and all sorts of weather, and liked it; and that when
the slits in its silk coat were mended, it intended to resume its
dissolute life. Here was one, a sad-looking gingham, very faded and
worn, telling by the plainest of signs the story of its poor life and
that of its owner. In your fancy you could see the faded gingham, on
its rickety frame, being borne along through wind and sleet; and if
you peeped beneath the awning you would see a patient-looking woman,
meanly dressed, and you would know, without being told in so many
words, that the burden of life had withered all the roses that once
bloomed on her cheek; for a dozen years since she could have been but
a girl, and could not have been otherwise than pretty. Here was one,
thin and sleek, with ivory handle, which said, "I am faded gentility."
It needed no great stretch of the imagination to see the hand in its
well-worn and much mended glove that had clasped that handle in the
streets for many months. Here was one which proclaimed, "I have been
dropsical from early youth, and there is no cure for me;" and indeed
all Gribble junior's skill would not avail him if he endeavoured to
get the bulge out of it. In addition to these and other types--almost
as various as the types to be found in human beings--were naked
umbrellas and parasols which had been stripped of their clothing.
Here was one battered and bruised, with half-a-dozen ribs broken. Here
was one which asserted proudly, "I am Paragon, and I glory to show
myself!" Here was the dainty frame of a parasol standing like a
shamefaced girl by the side of the frame of an old-man umbrella that
had led a bad life.
"Ah, Mr. Wheels!" said Gribble junior. "I thought it was too late for
a patient.--Mrs. J. G., a chair."
"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Gribble," replied the old man. "I'll not
sit down, please. The little one well, Mrs. Gribble?"
Mrs. Gribble junior went to the umbrella tent, and softly raised it.
But the face of the heir of the house of Gribble junior was hidden
by a parasol, of which the child had made an inner tent, like the
box-within-a-box Chinese puzzle, and which it held tightly in its
hand.
"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Wheels," said the mother. "How is your
daughter to-night?"
"I don't think she's improving. She wanders a good deal."
Gribble junior, who had been gazing with a satisfied air at the
umbrella tent, nodded gently two or three times to express sympathy
with the old man, who remarked, speaking of the child, "He takes to
the business early, Mr. Gribble."
"Took to it from a baby," said Gribble junior complacently. "He sucked
in the umbrella and parasol business with his mother's milk, as a body
might say. For the top of his cradle was made of two umbrellas, and
when he opened his little eyes and looked up, the only roof he saw,
until he could crawl, was a roof of silk and whalebone. Nothing like
commencing young! That there young un's going to be a useful member of
society. I made up my mind to that before Mrs. J. G. made up her mind
to present him to me, as a body might say. He can use his left hand as
well as his right. No rights and lefts for me. They shall both be
rights. It's robbing a young un of half his chance in the world to
train him up to a useless hand. You might almost make up your mind to
train his left leg to limp. That's not the way to keep moving. I
shouldn't wonder if, when the young un's a man, he invents a new
umbrella to astonish the world and make our fortunes."
The old man smiled, and remarked that Gribble junior was at work late.
"Obliged to be. My motto, you know--keep moving. I always think," and
Gribble junior sent a pleasant merry look in the direction of the old
man, "that it's going to rain to-morrow, and that people'll want
umbrellas."
"Very good of you, very considerate," murmured the old man.
"It wouldn't be so bad," continued Gribble junior, "if other people,
whether they're professors of anatomy or not, would think the same
way; if _they'd_ think it was going to rain to-morrow, and if _they'd_
prepare their umbrellas to-day--as a body might say."
"Surely, surely," said the old man, contriving by an effort to arrest
his wandering thoughts. "And how's business, Mr. Gribble?"
"Never was so bad," replied Gribble junior cheerfully. "Father's
experience'll carry him a good deal farther back than mine will, as
you may guess, Mr. Wheels, and he says times never was so bad as they
are now."
(It is remarkable, be where you will and at any period, here or in any
other part of the world, now or twenty years since or twenty years to
come, that "times never were so bad" as they are certain to be at the
moment of inquiry.)
"What is the cause of the bad times?" asked the old man, who had not
yet found the opportunity of introducing the object of his visit, and
who knew that Gribble junior must always "have his say."
"Well, Mr. Wheels," said Gribble junior, hammering softly on a
dislocated rib, "some _will_ have it it's because the Queen don't come
out more; but that's an old cry, and I don't believe in it. Though I
think it would be better if the Queen came amongst us more than she
does. It's queer how people _will_ stick to old cries. Old cries are
like old boots. You wear tight boots long enough, and they'll become
easy and comfortable, and you don't like to throw 'em off. Father says
it's the co-operative stores, and he's bitter on 'em accordingly. If
father's got a sore place, it's co-operation. You should start him on
the subject one night; he'd open your eyes for you. There isn't an
article you can mention that co-operation hasn't laid hands on--except
cats'-meat, perhaps. The co-operative men don't draw the line nowhere,
except at cats'-meat. There isn't a thing that father sells that they
haven't gone into: not that father's business is the only business
that's put upon. They go into coffins, and that's going far enough,
I'm sure--as a body might say. They take a penny off everything;
tallow-dips, yellow soap and mottled. As for scented and brown
windsor, father hasn't sold a cake for a month. And if things don't
sell, they spoil. Dust won't be denied. Then soap withers. It's like
us, Mr. Wheels; the bloom goes off, and we ain't worth as much a pound
as we were once on a time. We don't weigh so much neither: the sap
goes out. Flies make inroads. They're like co-operation; they touch
everything. The very mouse-traps get blown. As for what ought to be
inside of 'em--mice--I needn't tell you what a hole they make in
profits. I pity the small grocers now that co-operation's got hold of
things."
During the brief pause that followed, the old man listened for a sound
from the sick-room. Mrs. Gribble observed his anxiety, and knowing her
husband's weakness when he was on a favourite theme, rose and said,
"Do take a chair, Mr. Wheels. I'll go and sit in your room for a few
minutes."
The old man gave her a grateful look as she went out, and sat down
patiently. He had not, long to wait before Gribble junior resumed.
"When trade began to fall off, I painted that sign outside for father,
and I think it did a little good, but not much. Trade soon fell back
again, and co-operation kept moving. Then he wrote, 'Down with
co-operation!' on a bit of writing-paper, and put it in the window,
as if that'd stop it. I told father not to do it, but he wouldn't
take my advice. What's the consequence? The paper's fly-blown, and
co-operation keeps moving. Father says he doesn't know where it's
going to stop, and what's going to be the end of it, and says that
people ought to set their faces against it. But catch 'em doing it
when they think they can get a penny off everything, and catch 'em
doing it as long as the women's got the buying of things. When they
get the chance of making the market penny, they're sure to try and
make it into the market shilling That's the way of women, bless 'em!"
The old man nodded in satisfaction, for although Gribble junior's
words might have sounded very like grumbling from another man's lips,
they bore the most refreshing construction as they fell from his. He
had one of the pleasantest faces that eyes ever looked upon, and his
voice was as pleasant as his face. Everything about this small plump
man was round and agreeable. He was one of that kind of men who go out
walking with their wives on the day of rest, and who carry their
babies in the streets, and enjoy it. Gribble junior was often seen in
this position, and, as he walked along by the side of his wife, would
occasionally hold up his son and heir to the gaze of the public, as
much as to say, "Here he is; he can use his left hand as well as his
right, and is going to keep moving. Here is the cleverest baby in the
world: what do you think of him?" There is a great deal of character
to be learnt by observing the manner in which fathers carry their
babies in the streets, and notwithstanding that the custom is
considered by the majority of people to be namby-pamby, it is often
not an unpleasant sight to witness. One father carries his treasure
carefully and proudly, and proclaims, "This is Ours, and we think all
the world of it!" While another holds his burden loosely, and
proclaims, "This is Ours, and I wish it was Yours!" See this last
specimen of the British father slouching along, and his wife walking
discontentedly a few steps behind him. He carries his baby in the most
uncomfortable of positions, with its head hanging down. He is a
miserable dissatisfied man. He does not look this way or that, but
straight before him, surlily and wearily. He seems to say, "A nice
kind of thing this is, after my hard week's work! I can't go out for
my Sunday walk without dragging the brat along with me. What a fool I
was to get married!" And though really the burden is as a feather's
weight in the strong man's arms, his discontent makes it as weighty as
so much lead. There isn't a bright bit of ribbon in the child's dress,
and if you could see into the man's heart, you would learn that it
would not be a very great grief to him if the child were to die
quietly in his arms. You may depend upon it that the home of this man
and woman is not a happy one, and that life is truly a burden to
them. See this other and better specimen. Working-man father and
working-woman mother, in precisely the same position of life as the
discontented man. He carries the baby carefully and tenderly, and the
mother walks briskly by his side. There are refreshing bits of colour
about the woman's dress, and the baby's dress is, pretty and bright.
Sometimes the man pauses, and his wife uncovers the baby's face, and
they both look at it lovingly while she makes a fuss and pretence
about setting something right with the baby's hood. He gazes about him
cheerfully and seems to say, "This is one of my brightest bits of
sunshine. I shouldn't enjoy my Sunday's walk without it. What a happy
day for me was the day I got married!" And he thinks that soon--in
twelve months, perhaps--his little treasure will be able to toddle
along by his side, and throw bread to the ducks in the Park. And
though the child is plump and heavy, love makes it light. Happy
father! Happy home!
No such reflections as these passed through the mind of Gribble junior
as he continued the enunciation of his sensible philosophy.
"My way is, to take things as they come, and to keep moving. You knock
your head against things, and you're sure to rasp your skin. What's
the use of fretting? You only chafe yourself, and nobody takes any
notice. Make the best of things. That's what I tell father; but he
doesn't agree with me. The consequence is, that he shows his weak
hand, as a body might say. And that's not wise. If you have a
weakness, keep it to yourself. Don't let the world see it. Father said
to me one night last week when he was shutting up--(he'd only taken
three and fourpence the whole day, and that's enough, I own, or isn't
enough, perhaps I ought to say, to drive a shopkeeper wild)--that if
he could catch hold of a co-operation manager, he'd pitch into him. I
told him that if he did, he'd very likely get locked-up for it; and he
said, 'Never mind, I shouldn't be the only martyr that's suffered in a
good cause.' The fact is, Mr. Wheels, father belongs to the old
school--he won't keep moving; and as all the world's on the move, he's
left behind. I belong to the new school; and I run along with the tide
as fast as I can. Mrs. J. G. belongs to the new school, and so does
her brother. His name is Thompson. He's got a shop about half a mile
from here. He advertises himself everywhere as Thompson the Great. He
has thousands of bills circulated: 'The great Thompson! the unrivalled
Thompson! Thompson the First! Come and see him to-night. No charge for
admission. Where's Thompson? Who's Thompson?' That's his style. He has
an illumination over his shop every night, with his portrait in the
middle--although he's not a handsome man by any means. And what do you
think his business is? He keeps a little paper-hanging shop. By-and-by
he'll have a big paper-hanging shop. He keeps moving."
Here Gribble junior gave a finishing tap to the patient in hand, and
whipped off his apron.
"I've done work for the night," he said.
At the same moment Mrs. Gribble entered, and whispered to the old man
that the woman down-stairs was sleeping soundly.
"That's where it is," said the old man, with a disturbed look; "that's
what I've come in for. She's got to have her medicine given to her
directly she wakes, and she won't take it from any other hand than
mine or Lily's; and it's now half-past ten o'clock, and I ought to be
at the Hall to bring Lily home, although it'll be an hour yet before
she's ready. Lily can't walk home by herself, especially on Saturday
night, when there are so many roughs about and so much money spent in
drink."
"Where's Alf?" asked Gribble junior.
"I don't know; he promised to be here at ten o'clock; but he hasn't
come."
"Do you want Mrs. J. G. to sit with your girl down-stairs while you go
and fetch Lily?"
"Didn't I tell you," said the old man fretfully, "that my daughter's
got to have her medicine given her directly she wakes, and that she
won't take it from anybody but me or Lily?"
"Well, then," asked Gribble junior, with great good-humour, "do you
want me to go and fetch Lily?"
"Yes--yes--yes," with a jealous little sigh between each yes, as if
the speaker were unwilling to give to another a task that he would
fain perform himself. "I came in to ask you. I thought of Mr. Podmore
at first; but he's dead-beat."
Gribble junior's coat was off before the old man was finished, and he
was plunging his face in water.
"What makes Lily late to-night?" he called out in the midst of his
plashing.
"They've changed the programme, and she's got a new song to sing; and
her turn won't come on until past eleven o'clock. The manager's an
artful man, and knows what an attraction Lily is; the people'll stop
to the last to see her pretty face and hear her pretty voice. My
Lily!" He uttered the last words softly to himself, in a tone of
infinite tenderness. "Here are the tickets. This admits to the Hall;
show it to the man at the door, and he'll let you in. Wait until Lily
comes on; and when she has finished--which'll not be until they call
her back two or three times--go out at once, and ask your way to the
stage-door. This ticket'll admit you to the side of the stage. Tell
Lily I couldn't come because mother's not awake, and that I've sent
you to take care of her, and to bring her home."
"All right," said Gribble junior, twisting himself into his coat,
delighted at the opportunity of getting free admission to a
music-hall. "Get supper ready, Liz, by the time I come back. I'll
bring Lily safe home, Mr. Wheels."
With a parting nod, the cheerful little man skipped down the stairs
and into the street, and the old man went back to his room. The woman
was still sleeping. He took up the work-box on which he had been
working, and looked at it affectionately. "My Lily!" he murmured
again, in the same tone of tenderness he had used before; and so sat
musing, with that yearning of deep love which is almost painful in its
intensity. Soon the Swiss clock struck eleven, and the old man laid
the cloth for supper. There was the little cruet on wheels, and the
breadbasket, and the salt-cellar; and each plate and dish had a wooden
rim on the bottom, in which very small wheels were inserted. He took
these and the remains of a small joint of roast beef from a cupboard
on the landing; placed the vase with the roses in it in the centre of
the table; went out for beer; and when he returned, arranged the
supper-things again and again, until he was satisfied that everything
was in the exact place to please his darling.