A DAY WITH ONE OF THE NAVVIES.--AFTERNOON
The 'Banks of Jordan' was a public-house in the city, which from its
appearance did not seem to do a very thriving trade; but as it was
carried on from year to year in the same dull, monotonous, dead-alive
sort of fashion, it must be surmised that some one found an interest in
keeping it open.
Charley, when he entered the door punctually at two o'clock, saw that it
was as usual nearly deserted. One long, lanky, middle-aged man, seedy as
to his outward vestments, and melancholy in countenance, sat at one of
the tables. But he was doing very little good for the establishment:
he had no refreshment of any kind before him, and was intent only on a
dingy pocket-book in which he was making entries with a pencil.
You enter the 'Banks of Jordan' by two folding doors in a corner of a
very narrow alley behind the Exchange. As you go in, you observe on
your left a little glass partition, something like a large cage, inside
which, in a bar, are four or five untempting-looking bottles; and also
inside the cage, on a chair, is to be seen a quiet-looking female, who
is invariably engaged in the manufacture of some white article of inward
clothing. Anything less like the flashy-dressed bar-maidens of the
western gin palaces it would be difficult to imagine. To this encaged
sempstress no one ever speaks unless it be to give a rare order for a
mutton chop or pint of stout. And even for this she hardly stays her
sewing for a moment, but touches a small bell, and the ancient waiter,
who never shows himself but when called for, and who is the only other
inhabitant of the place ever visible, receives the order from her
through an open pane in the cage as quietly as she received it from her
customer.
The floor of the single square room of the establishment is sanded, and
the tables are ranged round the walls, each table being fixed to the
floor, and placed within wooden partitions, by which the occupier is
screened from any inquiring eyes on either side.
Such was Mr. Jabesh M'Ruen's house-of-call in the city, and of many a
mutton chop and many a pint of stout had Charley partaken there while
waiting for the man of money. To him it seemed to be inexcusable to sit
down in a public inn and call for nothing; he perceived, however,
that the large majority of the frequenters of the 'Banks of Jordan' so
conducted themselves.
He was sufficiently accustomed to the place to know how to give his
orders without troubling that diligent barmaid, and had done so about
ten minutes when Jabesh, more punctual than usual, entered the place.
This Charley regarded as a promising sign of forthcoming cash. It very
frequently happened that he waited there an hour, and that after all
Jabesh would not come; and then the morning visit to Mecklenburg Square
had to be made again; and so poor Charley's time, or rather the time of
his poor office, was cut up, wasted, and destroyed.
'A mutton chop!' said Mr. M'Ruen, looking at Charley's banquet. 'A very
nice thing indeed in the middle of the day. I don't mind if I have one
myself,' and so Charley had to order another chop and more stout.
'They have very nice sherry here, excellent sherry,' said M'Ruen. 'The
best, I think, in the city--that's why I come here.'
'Upon my honour, Mr. M'Ruen, I shan't have money to pay for it until I
get some from you,' said Charley, as he called for a pint of sherry.
'Never mind, John, never mind the sherry to-day,' said M'Ruen. 'Mr.
Tudor is very kind, but I'll take beer;' and the little man gave a laugh
and twisted his head, and ate his chop and drank his stout, as though
he found that both were very good indeed. When he had finished, Charley
paid the bill and discovered that he was left with ninepence in his
pocket.
And then he produced the bill stamp. 'Waiter,' said he, 'pen and ink,'
and the waiter brought pen and ink.
'Not to-day,' said Jabesh, wiping his mouth with the table-cloth. 'Not
to-day, Mr. Tudor--I really haven't time to go into it to-day--and I
haven't brought the other bills with me; I quite forgot to bring the
other bills with me, and I can do nothing without them,' and Mr. M'Ruen
got up to go.
But this was too much for Charley. He had often before bought bill
stamps in vain, and in vain had paid for mutton chops and beer for Mr.
M'Ruen's dinner; but he had never before, when doing so, been so hard
pushed for money as he was now. He was determined to make a great
attempt to gain his object.
'Nonsense,' said he, getting up and standing so as to prevent M'Ruen
from leaving the box; 'that's d---- nonsense.'
'Oh! don't swear,' said M'Ruen--'pray don't take God's name in vain; I
don't like it.'
'I shall swear, and to some purpose too, if that's your game. Now look
here----'
'Let me get up, and we'll talk of it as we go to the bank--you are so
unpunctual, you know.'
'D---- your punctuality.'
'Oh! don't swear, Mr. Tudor.'
'Look here--if you don't let me have this money to-day, by all that is
holy I will never pay you a farthing again--not one farthing; I'll go
into the court, and you may get your money as you can.'
'But, Mr. Tudor, let me get up, and we'll talk about it in the street,
as we go along.'
'There's the stamp,' said Charley. 'Fill it up, and then I'll go with
you to the bank.'
M'Ruen took the bit of paper, and twisted it over and over again in his
hand, considering the while whether he had yet squeezed out of the young
man all that could be squeezed with safety, or whether by an additional
turn, by giving him another small advancement, he might yet get
something more. He knew that Tudor was in a very bad state, that he was
tottering on the outside edge of the precipice; but he also knew that
he had friends. Would his friends when they came forward to assist their
young Pickle out of the mire, would they pay such bills as these or
would they leave poor Jabesh to get his remedy at law? That was the
question which Mr. M'Ruen had to ask and to answer. He was not one of
those noble vultures who fly at large game, and who are willing to run
considerable risk in pursuit of their prey. Mr. M'Ruen avoided courts of
law as much as he could, and preferred a small safe trade; one in which
the fall of a single customer could never be ruinous to him; in which
he need run no risk of being transported for forgery, incarcerated for
perjury, or even, if possibly it might be avoided, gibbeted by some
lawyer or judge for his malpractices.
'But you are so unpunctual,' he said, having at last made up his mind
that he had made a very good thing of Charley, and that probably he
might go a _little_ further without much danger. 'I wish to oblige you,
Mr. Tudor; but pray do be punctual;' and so saying he slowly spread the
little document before him, across which Scatterall had already scrawled
his name, and slowly began to write in the date. Slowly, with his head
low down over the table, and continually twisting it inside his cravat,
he filled up the paper, and then looking at it with the air of a
connoisseur in such matters, he gave it to Charley to sign.
'But you haven't put in the amount,' said Charley.
Mr. M'Ruen twisted his head and laughed. He delighted in playing with
his game as a fisherman does with a salmon. 'Well--no--I haven't put in
the amount yet. Do you sign it, and I'll do that at once.'
'I'll do it,' said Charley; 'I'll say £15, and you'll give me £10 on
that.'
'No, no, no!' said Jabesh, covering the paper over with his hands; 'you
young men know nothing of filling bills; just sign it, Mr. Tudor, and
I'll do the rest.' And so Charley signed it, and then M'Ruen, again
taking the pen, wrote in 'fifteen pounds' as the recognized amount of
the value of the document. He also took out his pocket-book and filled
a cheque, but he was very careful that Charley should not see the amount
there written. 'And now,' said he, 'we will go to the bank.'
As they made their way to the house in Lombard Street which Mr. M'Ruen
honoured by his account, Charley insisted on knowing how much he was to
have for the bill. Jabesh suggested £3 10s.; Charley swore he would take
nothing less than £8; but by the time they had arrived at the bank, it
had been settled that £5 was to be paid in cash, and that Charley was
to have the three Seasons for the balance whenever he chose to send for
them. When Charley, as he did at first, positively refused to accede
to these terms, Mr. M'Ruen tendered him back the bill, and reminded
him with a plaintive voice that he was so unpunctual, so extremely
unpunctual.
Having reached the bank, which the money-lender insisted on Charley
entering with him, Mr. M'Ruen gave the cheque across the counter, and
wrote on the back of it the form in which he would take the money,
whereupon a note and five sovereigns were handed to him. The cheque
was for £15, and was payable to C. Tudor, Esq., so that proof might be
forthcoming at a future time, if necessary, that he had given to his
customer full value for the bill. Then in the outer hall of the bank,
unseen by the clerks, he put, one after another, slowly and unwillingly,
four sovereigns into Charley's hand.
'The other--where's the other?' said Charley.
Jabesh smiled sweetly and twisted his head.
'Come, give me the other,' said Charley roughly.
'Four is quite enough, quite enough for what you want; and remember my
time, Mr. Tudor; you should remember my time.'
'Give me the other sovereign,' said Charley, taking hold of the front of
his coat.
'Well, well, you shall have ten shillings; but I want the rest for a
purpose.'
'Give me the sovereign,' said Charley, 'or I'll drag you in before them
all in the bank and expose you; give me the other sovereign, I say.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr. M'Ruen; 'I thought you liked a joke, Mr.
Tudor. Well, here it is. And now do be punctual, pray do be punctual,
and I'll do anything I can for you.'
And then they parted, Charley going westward towards his own haunts, and
M'Ruen following his daily pursuits in the city.
Charley had engaged to pull up to Avis's at Putney with Harry Norman,
to dine there, take a country walk, and row back in the cool of the
evening; and he had promised to call at the Weights and Measures with
that object punctually at five.
'You can get away in time for that, I suppose,' said Harry.
'Well, I'll try and manage it,' said Charley, laughing.
Nothing could be kinder, nay, more affectionate, than Norman had been to
his fellow-lodger during the last year and a half. It seemed as though
he had transferred to Alaric's cousin all the friendship which he had
once felt for Alaric; and the deeper were Charley's sins of idleness and
extravagance, the wider grew Norman's forgiveness, and the more sincere
his efforts to befriend him. As one result of this, Charley was already
deep in his debt. Not that Norman had lent him money, or even paid bills
for him; but the lodgings in which they lived had been taken by Norman,
and when the end of the quarter came he punctually paid his landlady.
Charley had once, a few weeks before the period of which we are now
writing, told Norman that he had no money to pay his long arrear, and
that he would leave the lodgings and shift for himself as best he could.
He had said the same thing to Mrs. Richards, the landlady, and had gone
so far as to pack up all his clothes; but his back was no sooner turned
than Mrs. Richards, under Norman's orders, unpacked them all, and hid
away the portmanteau. It was well for him that this was done. He had
bespoken for himself a bedroom at the public-house in Norfolk Street,
and had he once taken up his residence there he would have been ruined
for ever.
He was still living with Norman, and ever increasing his debt. In his
misery at this state of affairs, he had talked over with Harry all
manner of schemes for increasing his income, but he had never told him
a word about Mr. M'Ruen. Why his salary, which was now £150 per annum,
should not be able to support him, Norman never asked. Charley the while
was very miserable, and the more miserable he was, the less he found
himself able to rescue himself from his dissipation. What moments of
ease he had were nearly all spent in Norfolk Street; and such being the
case how could he abstain from going there?
'Well, Charley, and how do 'Crinoline and Macassar' go on?' said Norman,
as they sauntered away together up the towing-path above Putney. Now
there were those who had found out that Charley Tudor, in spite of his
wretched, idle, vagabond mode of life, was no fool; indeed, that there
was that talent within him which, if turned to good account, might
perhaps redeem him from ruin and set him on his legs again; at least
so thought some of his friends, among whom Mrs. Woodward was the most
prominent. She insisted that if he would make use of his genius he
might employ his spare time to great profit by writing for magazines or
periodicals; and, inspirited by so flattering a proposition, Charley had
got himself introduced to the editor of a newly-projected publication.
At his instance he was to write a tale for approval, and 'Crinoline and
Macassar' was the name selected for his first attempt.
The affair had been fully talked over at Hampton, and it had been
arranged that the young author should submit his story, when completed,
to the friendly criticism of the party assembled at Surbiton Cottage,
before he sent it to the editor. He had undertaken to have 'Crinoline
and Macassar' ready for perusal on the next Saturday, and in spite of
Mr. M'Ruen and Norah Geraghty, he had really been at work.
'Will it be finished by Saturday, Charley?' said Norman.
'Yes--at least I hope so; but if that's not done, I have another all
complete.'
'Another! and what is that called?'
'Oh, that's a very short one,' said Charley, modestly.
'But, short as it is, it must have a name, I suppose. What's the name of
the short one?'
'Why, the name is long enough; it's the longest part about it. The
editor gave me the name, you know, and then I had to write the
story. It's to be called "Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale and the Baron of
Ballyporeen."'
'Oh! two rival knights in love with the same lady, of course,' and Harry
gave a gentle sigh as he thought of his own still unhealed grief. 'The
scene is laid in Ireland, I presume?'
'No, not in Ireland; at least not exactly. I don't think the scene is
laid anywhere in particular; it's up in a mountain, near a castle. There
isn't any lady in it--at least, not alive.'
'Heavens, Charley! I hope you are not dealing with dead women.'
'No--that is, I have to bring them to life again. I'll tell you how it
is. In the first paragraph, Sir Anthony Allan-a-dale is lying dead, and
the Baron of Ballyporeen is standing over him with a bloody sword. You
must always begin with an incident now, and then hark back for your
explanation and description; that's what the editor says is the great
secret of the present day, and where we beat all the old fellows that
wrote twenty years ago.'
'Oh!--yes--I see. They used to begin at the beginning; that was very
humdrum.'
'A devilish bore, you know, for a fellow who takes up a novel because
he's dull. Of course he wants his fun at once. If you begin with a long
history of who's who and all that, why he won't read three pages; but if
you touch him up with a startling incident or two at the first go off,
then give him a chapter of horrors, then another of fun, then a little
love or a little slang, or something of that sort, why, you know, about
the end of the first volume, you may describe as much as you like, and
tell everything about everybody's father and mother for just as many
pages as you want to fill. At least that's what the editor says.'
'_Meleager ab ovo_ may be introduced with safety when you get as far as
that,' suggested Norman.
'Yes, you may bring him in too, if you like,' said Charley, who was
somewhat oblivious of his classicalities. 'Well, Sir Anthony is lying
dead and the Baron is standing over him, when out come Sir Anthony's
retainers----'
'Out--out of what?'
'Out of the castle: that's all explained afterwards. Out come the
retainers, and pitch into the Baron till they make mincemeat of him.'
'They don't kill him, too?'
'Don't they though? I rather think they do, and no mistake.'
'And so both your heroes are dead in the first chapter.'
'First chapter! why that's only the second paragraph. I'm only to be
allowed ten paragraphs for each number, and I am expected to have an
incident for every other paragraph for the first four days.'
'That's twenty incidents.'
'Yes--it's a great bother finding so many.--I'm obliged to make the
retainers come by all manner of accidents; and I should never have
finished the job if I hadn't thought of setting the castle on fire. 'And
now forked tongues of liquid fire, and greedy lambent flames burst forth
from every window of the devoted edifice. The devouring element----.'
That's the best passage in the whole affair.'
'This is for the _Daily Delight_, isn't it?'
'Yes, for the _Daily Delight_. It is to begin on the 1st of September
with the partridges. We expect a most tremendous sale. It will be the
first halfpenny publication in the market, and as the retailers will get
them for sixpence a score--twenty-four to the score--they'll go off like
wildfire.'
'Well, Charley, and what do you do with the dead bodies of your two
heroes?'
'Of course I needn't tell you that it was not the Baron who killed Sir
Anthony at all.'
'Oh! wasn't it? O dear--that was a dreadful mistake on the part of the
retainers.'
'But as natural as life. You see these two grandees were next-door
neighbours, and there had been a feud between the families for seven
centuries--a sort of Capulet and Montague affair. One Adelgitha, the
daughter of the Thane of Allan-a-dale--there were Thanes in those
days, you know--was betrothed to the eldest son of Sir Waldemar de
Ballyporeen. This gives me an opportunity of bringing in a succinct
little account of the Conquest, which will be beneficial to the lower
classes. The editor peremptorily insists upon that kind of thing.'
'_Omne tulit punctum_,' said Norman.
'Yes, I dare say,' said Charley, who was now too intent on his own new
profession to attend much to his friend's quotation. 'Well, where was
I?--Oh! the eldest son of Sir Waldemar went off with another lady and so
the feud began. There is a very pretty scene between Adelgitha and her
lady's-maid.'
'What, seven centuries before the story begins?'
'Why not? The editor says that the unities are altogether thrown over
now, and that they are regular bosh--our game is to stick in a good bit
whenever we can get it--I got to be so fond of Adelgitha that I rather
think she's the heroine.'
'But doesn't that take off the interest from your dead grandees?'
'Not a bit; I take it chapter and chapter about. Well, you see, the
retainers had no sooner made mincemeat of the Baron--a very elegant
young man was the Baron, just returned from the Continent, where he had
learnt to throw aside all prejudices about family feuds and everything
else, and he had just come over in a friendly way, to say as much to Sir
Anthony, when, as he crossed the drawbridge, he stumbled over the corpse
of his ancient enemy--well, the retainers had no sooner made mincemeat
of him, than they perceived that Sir Anthony was lying with an open
bottle in his hand, and that he had taken poison.'
'Having committed suicide?' asked Norman.
'No, not at all. The editor says that we must always have a slap at some
of the iniquities of the times. He gave me three or four to choose from;
there was the adulteration of food, and the want of education for the
poor, and street music, and the miscellaneous sale of poisons.'
'And so you chose poisons and killed the knight?'
'Exactly; at least I didn't kill him, for he comes all right again after
a bit. He had gone out to get something to do him good after a hard
night, a Seidlitz powder, or something of that sort, and an apothecary's
apprentice had given him prussic acid in mistake.'
'And how is it possible he should have come to life after taking prussic
acid?'
'Why, there I have a double rap at the trade. The prussic acid is so
bad of its kind, that it only puts him into a kind of torpor for a week.
Then we have the trial of the apothecary's boy; that is an excellent
episode, and gives me a grand hit at the absurdity of our criminal
code.'
'Why, Charley, it seems to me that you are hitting at everything.'
'Oh! ah! right and left, that's the game for us authors. The press is
the only _censor morum_ going now--and who so fit? Set a thief to catch
a thief, you know. Well, I have my hit at the criminal code, and then
Sir Anthony comes out of his torpor.'
'But how did it come to pass that the Baron's sword was all bloody?'
'Ah, there was the difficulty; I saw that at once. It was necessary to
bring in something to be killed, you know. I thought of a stray tiger
out of Wombwell's menagerie; but the editor says that we must not
trespass against the probabilities; so I have introduced a big dog. The
Baron had come across a big dog, and seeing that the brute had a wooden
log tied to his throat, thought he must be mad, and so he killed him.'
'And what's the end of it, Charley?'
'Why, the end is rather melancholy. Sir Anthony reforms, leaves off
drinking, and takes to going to church everyday. He becomes a Puseyite,
puts up a memorial window to the Baron, and reads the Tracts. At last
he goes over to the Pope, walks about in nasty dirty clothes all full
of vermin, and gives over his estate to Cardinal Wiseman. Then there are
the retainers; they all come to grief, some one way and some another. I
do that for the sake of the Nemesis.'
'I would not have condescended to notice them, I think,' said Norman.
'Oh! I must; there must be a Nemesis. The editor specially insists on a
Nemesis.'
The conclusion of Charley's novel brought them back to the boat. Norman,
when he started, had intended to employ the evening in giving good
counsel to his friend, and in endeavouring to arrange some scheme by
which he might rescue the brand from the burning; but he had not the
heart to be severe and sententious while Charley was full of his fun.
It was so much pleasanter to talk to him on the easy terms of equal
friendship than turn Mentor and preach a sermon.
'Well, Charley,' said he, as they were walking up from the boat
wharf--Norman to his club, and Charley towards his lodgings--from which
route, however, he meant to deviate as soon as ever he might be left
alone--'well, Charley, I wish you success with all my heart; I wish you
could do something--I won't say to keep you out of mischief.'
'I wish I could, Harry,' said Charley, thoroughly abashed; 'I wish I
could--indeed I wish I could--but it is so hard to go right when one has
begun to go wrong.'
'It is hard; I know it is.'
'But you never can know how hard, Harry, for you have never tried,' and
then they went on walking for a while in silence, side by side.
'You don't know the sort of place that office of mine is,' continued
Charley. 'You don't know the sort of fellows the men are. I hate the
place; I hate the men I live with. It is all so dirty, so disreputable,
so false. I cannot conceive that any fellow put in there as young as I
was should ever do well afterwards.'
'But at any rate you might try your best, Charley.'
'Yes, I might do that still; and I know I don't; and where should I have
been now, if it hadn't been for you?'
'Never mind about that; I sometimes think we might have done more for
each other if we had been more together. But remember the motto you
said you'd choose, Charley--Excelsior! We can none of us mount the hill
without hard labour. Remember that word, Charley--Excelsior! Remember it
now--now, to-night; remember how you dream of higher things, and begin
to think of them in your waking moments also;' and so they parted.