JIM PODMORE HAS A DREAM, AND WAKES UP IN TIME.
Jim Podmore, staggering into the one room which formed his
Englishman's castle, found his wife and Pollypod fast asleep in bed.
Before he went out to his work in the morning, he had told his wife
not to sit up for him that night. "You've had precious hard work of
it, old woman," he had said, "this last week; so go to bed early and
have a long night's rest. I'll find my way up-stairs all right." The
precious hard work which Jim Podmore referred to was one of those
tasks which poor people--especially women--take upon themselves when
occasion requires, with a readiness and cheerfulness which it is
beautiful to see. A neighbour's child had been ill, and required
constant watching. The mother, worn out with her labour of love, had
fallen ill herself. And Mrs. Podmore flew to her aid, and attended
to her household duties, and nursed her and the child through their
sickness. The cheerfulness with which Mrs. Podmore undertook this task
and performed it, as if it were a duty incumbent upon her, cannot be
described. The best reward she could receive was hers: the mother and
child recovered their health, and were strong enough to attend to
themselves. Late in the previous night the doctor had released Mrs.
Podmore, and told her--with smiles and good words and with a
hand-shake which gratified the simple woman mightily--that now she had
best go home and take care of herself; "for we can get about ourselves
now," he said, "and sha'n't want you any more." This accounted for Jim
Podmore having to find his way up-stairs by himself, for Mrs. Podmore
seldom went to bed before he returned home. He knew, on this night,
that his wife was asleep, and in the midst of his drowsiness he took
off his boots in the passage, so that he should not disturb her.
Entering the room in his stockinged feet, he stepped softly to the
bedside, and rested his hand lightly and tenderly on Pollypod's neck.
The bed being against the wall, and Pollypod sleeping inside, he could
not kiss her without disturbing his wife. The child slept peacefully,
and Jim Podmore gazed lovingly at the pretty picture, and leaned
forward to feel the sweet breath, pure as an angel's whisper, that
came from her parted lips. His supper was laid for him on the table,
and he sat down to it, Snap standing at his feet in patient eagerness
waiting for such scraps and morsels as he thought fit to give. Jim did
not forget his dog; Snap fared well, and when supper was finished the
dog stretched himself on the ground, and with half-closed eyes watched
his master's face. Snap blinked and blinked, but although occasionally
his eyes were so nearly closed that only the thinnest line of light
could be seen, the dog never relaxed his watchful gaze. Jim sat in his
chair, pipe in mouth, and smoked and dozed, and thought of Dick Hart
and his wife and children, and of his own wife and Pollypod, till they
all became mixed up together in the strangest way, and in the
phantasmagoria of his fancy changed places and merged one into the
other in utter defiance of all probability. Thus, as he leaned forward
to catch the sweet breath that came from Pollypod's lips, the child's
face became blurred and indistinct, and in her place Dick Hart
appeared, crouching upon the rail way platform in an agony of despair.
The platform itself appeared, with its throng of anxious faces, with
its sound of hurried feet and cries of pain, with a light in the air
that belonged to neither night nor day, sensitive with a tremor which
was felt, but could not be seen or described, and which spoke of hopes
for ever crushed out, and of lives of fair promise blighted by the act
that lay in one fatal moment's neglect or helplessness. "If I don't go
to bed," murmured Jim with a start, whereat all these things vanished
into nothingness, "I shall fall asleep." And still he sat, and
murmured, "Poor Dick!"
It was really but the work of a moment. Jim Podmore being on duty,
suddenly felt a shock--then heard a crash, followed by screams and
shouts, and what seemed to be the muffled sound of a myriad of voices.
He knew that an accident had occurred, and he ran forward, and saw
carriages overturned on the line, and huge splinters of wood lying
about. "Who did it?" he cried. "Dick Hart!" a voice replied; and then
he heard Dick's voice crying, "O, my God!" The busy hands were at work
clearing the wreck, and the few passengers--happily there were but
few--were assisted out. Most of them had escaped with a bruise or a
scratch, but one man, they said, looked in a bad state, and at his own
entreaty they allowed him to lie still upon the platform until
doctors, who had been promptly sent for, had arrived; and one little
child was taken into a room, and lay like dead. Jim Podmore was in the
room, and he saw Dick Hart brought in between two men. Dick, when his
eyes lighted on the piteous sight of the little girl lying like that,
trembled as if ague had seized him, and began to sob and cry. "_I_ did
it! _I_ did it!" he gasped. "Why don't some one strike me down dead?"
As he uttered these words, and as he stood there, with a face whiter
than the face of the child who lay before him, a woman rushed in and
cried in a wild tone, "Where's the man that killed my child?" Upon
this, with a cry wilder than that to which the poor woman had given
vent, Dick Hart wrested himself free from the men, whose hands (in
their grief at what had occurred) were only lightly laid upon him, and
rushed out of the room like a madman. The men followed him, but he was
too quick for them, and before they could lay hands on him again, he
had jumped from the platform on to the line, dashing aside the persons
who tried to stop him. His mad idea was to run forward on the line
until he saw a train coming, and then to throw himself before it and
be crushed to pieces. But he was saved from the execution of this
piteous design; the men reached him and seized him, and carried him
back by main force. When he was in the room again, his passion being
spent, he fell upon his knees, and looked round with a scared white
face, waiting for what was to come. "Poor Dick!" murmured Jim Podmore.
And then the men whispered to each other how Dick Hart had been worked
off his legs lately; how the accident was nothing more than was to be
expected; and how Dick's wife was near her confinement with her
second. "Poor Dick!" murmured Jim Podmore again, for the thought of
Dick Hart's one little girl at home, and the other child that was soon
expected, brought Pollypod to his mind.
It was too true; Dick Hart's wife was very near her confinement, and
on this very night, unconscious of the dreadful event that had taken
place, she was busy getting together the little things she had made
for her first-born, and recalling the feelings she had experienced
before she became a mother--feelings in which joy and pride were so
commingled as to be inseparable. The time was night, in the wane of
summer, and many a smile came upon the woman's lips, and many a tender
thought dwelt in her mind, as she laid out the little garments and
examined them to see where they wanted a stitch. Mrs. Hart had been
married five years; and while she was employed in the manner just
described, her first child, four years of age, was sitting in a low
chair, playing with a doll, which not only had softening of the brain,
but softening of every portion of its anatomy--for it was a rag doll.
But the doll, treasure as it was, notwithstanding its flat face (for
rags do not admit of the formation of features of particular shape and
beauty), was not the only object of the child's attention. She had
that day been invested with a pair of new red socks, and Little Vanity
was now holding out her little legs as straight as she could, and
calling her mother's attention for the hundredth time to her flaming
red treasures. Mrs. Hart knelt before the child, and admired the socks
with the most outrageously-exaggerated turns of speech, and pulled
them up tight, to her child's infinite delight and contentment. Then
the mother began to prattle upon the subject nearest to her heart,
and began to speak also, for the hundredth time, about the little
brother--for Mrs. Hart had settled that "her second," as Jim Podmore
had expressed it, was to be a boy--whom Rosy presently would have to
play with.
"And you'll love him very much, Rosy, won't you?" asked the mother.
"Yes, very, very much."
Indeed, Rosy used a great many more "verys" than two, and quite
ingenuously, be it stated. But Rosy had a strong desire to be
enlightened upon a certain point, and she seized the present
favourable opportunity. She had heard a great deal about this little
brother whom she was to love and play with, but she was puzzled to
know where the little stranger was to come from. Now was the time to
obtain the information.
"Mother," asked the inquisitive little girl, "when will Bunny come?"
"Bunny," it must be explained, was the fanciful title by which Rosy
had already christened the expected stranger.
"Next week, Rosy," answered the happy mother; "almost sure next week.
Ain't you glad?"
"Yes, I'm very, very glad." (Again a redundancy of "verys" which must
be left to the imagination.) "But, mother, who'll bring Bunny here?"
"Who'll bring him, Rosy? Why the doctor, to be sure."
Rosy nodded her head wisely, and employed a full minute in the silent
enjoyment of her new red socks. Mrs. Hart was silent also, worshipping
her little girl. If children only knew how their mothers worship them!
Down went Rosy's legs again.
"Where will the doctor bring Bunny from, mother?"
"From the parsley-bed," replied the mother, laughing.
"Is Bunny there now, mother?"
"Yes, dear."
"Did _I_ come out of a parsley-bed mother?"
"Yes, my dear," and Mrs. Hart smothered Rosy's face and neck with
kisses. She was so occupied with her happiness that she did not hear
the door, and did not know that any one was in the room until she
heard a voice calling her name. The voice belonged to a neighbour,
Mrs. Thomson, and Mrs. Hart rose to her feet, and was beginning to
tell merrily of the conversation which she had just had with Rosy,
when something in Mrs. Thomson's face stopped her tongue.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Thomson? What is it? Tell me, quick!"
"Now, bear up, Mrs. Hart," said the neighbour; "remember how near your
time is, and bear up, there's a good soul!"
"What's the matter?" cried Mrs. Hart, thoroughly frightened. "Tell me,
quick, for God's sake! Is it anything about Dick? Has he had an
accident? Is he hurt! O, why don't you speak!"
"Dick's not hurt."
"Thank God! But on and off, all this week, I've been frightened about
him. It's a shame and a sin to work a man as he's been worked. Who's
outside?"
She flew to the door, and pulled into the room a man employed by the
same Company as her husband.
"There's something the matter," she gasped, and caught Rosy up, and
pressed the child close to her breast. The man judged wisely that it
would be the best to come to the point at once.
"Dick sent me to you, Mrs. Hart," he said; "he's had an accident, and
one or two people have been hurt; he's all right himself, and he sent
me to tell you so."
"Why didn't he come himself?" asked the wife, trembling and crying.
"Well, you see----" began the man; but Mrs. Hart did not allow him to
proceed.
"They've put him in prison," she said, with a quick short breath; "my
Dick, the best husband and the best father in the world! And they're
going to punish him for what's not his fault Do you know how many
hours' sleep he's had this week?"
"Don't excite yourself, there's a good soul!" remonstrated Mrs.
Thomson. "He'll come out of it all right. Think of your baby."
"He's not in prison, Mrs. Hart," said the man; "but he's going to
remain at the station until after the inquiry."
"Mrs. Thomson, will you take care of Rosy till I come back?"
"Why, surely, my dear, you're not going out in your condition!"
"I'm going to my husband," said Mrs. Hart, "and I'm going to see them
managers and directors, and ask them what they're going to do to
Dick."
With that the distracted woman, putting on her hat and shawl, left
Rosy in her neighbour's charge, and hurried downstairs, followed by
the man, who said it was best to let her have her own way, and that it
was what he would like his wife to do if anything happened to him.
Jim Podmore was with her during all this time, and witnessed the
interview between husband and wife.
"I can't tell how it occurred," said Dick Hart, who, although
dreadfully distressed, was now more calm, and inexpressibly comforted
by the presence of his wife. "Everything seemed to take place in a
flash of light, like. I suppose it was because I was tired out with
too much work. I don't care for myself. I'm thinking of the future,
and what's going to become of you and Rosy--and--and the baby."
Dick broke down a dozen times during the interview, and sobbed and
cried like a child.
"It'll always be on my mind. I'm glad I didn't kill myself, for your
sake. Perhaps it'd ha' been better for you if I'd been killed, though.
I don't know; I don't know what to think. You'd better take what money
I've got about me. It ain't much; but I daresay they'll pay you for my
work up to to-night."
Dick was fairly bewildered in this serious crisis, and completely
helpless. If he had had money, he might have sent for a lawyer; but
between eleven and twelve shillings was all his wealth.
An inquiry and inquest were held, at both of which Jim Podmore was
present. Indeed, he was never absent from Dick Hart and his wife
during all this time, although he took no active part in the history
of their lives. And this is what he saw.
Dick Hart on his trial for manslaughter, with an array of lawyers
against him sufficient to frighten a poor man out of his senses. The
lawyers for the prosecution were against him, and strove, by all the
ingenuity of long study and sharp experience, to prove him the
guiltiest man that ever stood in a felon's dock. The lawyers of the
Company were against him, and their aim was to prove the perfect
innocence of the powerful directors they represented, and therefore
the utter and inexcusable guilt of Dick Hart. Strong odds these
against a poor man with an empty purse. A strange road to justice
was this on which Dick Hart found himself, unarmed and with bare
breast--and with something of a guilty conscience also, for he really
did not know how far he was to blame--opposed to the keen intellects
of those who were grandly paid to find him guilty. He quivered with
helpless rage, he was racked with despair, as he listened to the
manner in which the case was stated by his enemies: they were nothing
less; they were there to destroy him. But there was a grain of salt
for him in the midst of all this great trouble. A young lawyer, not
overburdened with briefs, undertook his defence for the love of the
thing, and pleaded so ably that he very nearly succeeded in proving
Dick Hart innocent--as undoubtedly he was. Unfortunately, he could not
prove that Dick Hart was not immediately responsible for the accident;
but he did prove that the man, by excessive overwork, was so prostrate
from fatigue, that it would have been almost next to a miracle had an
accident not occurred. "Perhaps," said this daring champion, to the
admiration of Jim Podmore, who nodded his head in confirmation and
approbation at every thrust the lawyer made--"perhaps you will say
that the prisoner was wrong in allowing himself to be so overtasked;
but he has a wife and child dependent on him for support, and his wife
is now at home, expecting every hour to saddle him with another
responsibility. The prisoner is a hardworking man, and a poor man, and
had he refused to perform the duties required of him, never mind at
what sacrifice to himself, never mind at what peril to the public--as
has been too often unhappily proved in other cases--he would have
stood a fair chance of being dismissed from the service of the
Company. If this case serves in any way to direct public attention to
the manner in which too many servants of the railway companies are
overworked, it will be fortunate that it is tried; but the prisoner
must not be made the victim of a bad and abominable system. Not many
days ago the coroner of Middlesex, at an inquest held upon the body of
an engine-fitter, who was crushed to death between two engines, stated
that no fewer than thirty railway servants are killed in his district
every year; and he very pertinently wished to know whether such
wholesale slaughter was altogether necessary. This is not the question
for you to answer now, but it may lead you to a merciful view of the
prisoner's case; for the perils of the service are sufficiently great
in themselves, and should not be made greater by unfairly tasking the
powers of the men. There are in the full week of seven days one
hundred and sixty-eight hours; and there are hundreds of railway
servants who can show a time-bill of one hundred and twelve hours. Add
to these hours the time employed in going and coming from work, and
you will have some idea of the manner in which these men are
overworked. I read lately in a leading article upon this subject in a
paper whose facts may be relied upon, that some men have worked
thirty, some forty hours right off, without any sleep but that which
nature has exacted at the post of duty, at the peril of those
intrusted to their charge. It is the public who suffer; and when
an accident occurs in consequence of a man being unfairly worked,
he--being a man, and not a machine--cannot in justice be held
responsible. At a meeting lately held in Brighton, one railway servant
stated that he sometimes worked thirty-seven hours at a stretch." The
lawyer cited many such facts as these, and even had the hardihood to
assert that a director or a manager should be standing in the dock in
Dick Hart's place. However, it seemed to be understood that it was
impossible to let Dick Hart off scot-free, and being found guilty and
strongly recommended to mercy, he was sentenced to six months'
imprisonment, a sentence which was virtually a parody upon justice;
for if Dick Hart were guilty he should have been hanged, and if he
were innocent he should have been compensated for the torture he had
been made to suffer. An hour after the trial Jim Podmore was telling
Dick Hart that his wife was confined.
It was a mystery to Jim how Dick's wife and children managed to live
during that time, but manage they did, somehow. Neighbours were as
kind to them as their own narrow means would allow: Rosy had many a
good meal in one house and another; when Mrs. Hart grew strong, she
went out charing; sometimes when she could not get work she
begged--and dodged the policeman. It is amazing to what shifts some
honest unfortunate folk are compelled to resort in the necessity that
nature lays upon them to eat or die: which last is not an easy thing
to do. Dick came out of prison and tried to get work, and failed. He
was compelled also to resort to such dishonest shifts as adopting a
name that did not belong to him, as denying this and that unworthy
thing, as putting a cheerful face upon an empty stomach. He obtained
work on another line of railway, and was turned away at the end of the
fourth day, having been _found out_, a crime which is invariably
severely punished, and which the world never forgives. Dick Hart
really found existence a very difficult thing; and yet he had muscles,
and was willing to exercise them.
The struggle was too hard for him, and he fell sick, and could not go
out of his room for weeks. His wife nursed him and worked for him,
after a fashion. When she could not get charing to do, she went
a-begging. Rosy was sent to a school where the children occasionally
enjoyed the blessing of penny dinners. On those occasions Rosy was
always duly armed with a penny by her mother. One day a policeman
arrested Mrs. Hart for begging, and she was brought before the
magistrate. Money was found upon her--one shilling and sevenpence--and
eight boxes of fusees. The policeman, in his evidence, fairly stated
that he had made inquiry at the address Mrs. Hart gave, and found that
she lived in a respectable house, that Dick Hart was sick and unable
to move out of his room, that he had never been known to be drunk, and
that neighbours sincerely pitied him and spoke well of him; also that
the mistress of the school to which Rosy went gave the child and her
mother an excellent character. Asked what she had to say for herself,
Mrs. Hart told the truth: she went out to get bread for her husband
and children; she asserted that she was compelled to beg. The
magistrate said she should have gone to the parish. Then she told a
piteous story. She _had_ gone to the parish, and the relieving-officer
(a mock title, surely!) refused to give her any out-door relief, but
said she and her family might go into the workhouse, if she chose. She
declined to do this, as in that case her husband would not be able to
get work, and she did not wish to be a burden to the parish. She
begged for a loaf of dry bread for her children; and "dressed in his
little brief authority," the relieving-officer refused. "We have not
broken our fast," she pleaded; and asked what they were to do. "The
best you can," was the merciful reply. She did the best she could:
she went into the streets hungry, and begged; and hurried home with
the first penny she received, and sent Rosy to school, armed for
dinner. Then she continued her begging--with her next proceeds bought
a dozen boxes of fusees--and when she was in a flourishing condition,
with one shilling and sevenpence in her pocket, was arrested for her
monstrous crime.
It is pleasant to be able to record that the poor woman was acquitted,
and that the magistrate spoke in proper terms of the conduct of the
relieving-officer. It gave Jim Podmore pleasure, but this feeling soon
gave place to pain as he witnessed the downward course of Dick Hart
and his family, and the misery they endured. He was with them in their
poorly-furnished home, and was gazing sadly at their white pinched
faces, when suddenly Rosy's face changed to that of Pollypod his own
darling; in the place of Mrs. Hart he saw his own wife; and he himself
stood where Dick Hart had stood a moment before. These figures,
himself and his wife and child, vanished as suddenly and as strangely
as they had appeared, and he found himself on the platform on which
his duties were performed. A bewildering sound was in his ears. A
thousand engines were screaming furiously, a thousand voices were
shouting despairingly, a thousand terrible fears were making
themselves heard. The air was filled with clamour and confusion, and
starting forward with a wildly beating heart, he awoke.
He had been dreaming. But there was cause for these his later fancies.
The faithful dog Snap was tearing at the door, through the crevices of
which Jim saw smoke stealing. He looked towards the bed: Polly and her
mother were fast asleep. He ran to the door, and opened it, and a
blaze of flame rushed on to him, and almost blinded him. The house was
on fire!