Some natures are better than others. There can be no question about
that. Some dispositions are born moderately sweet, others are born
slightly sour. If you doubt the fact, reader, go study Nature, or get
you to an argumentative friend and dispute the point. We refuse flatly
to enter into a discussion of the subject.
Look at that little boy sleeping there under the railway arch in the
East End of London--not the boy with the black hair and the hook nose
and the square under-jaw, but the one with the curly head, the extremely
dirty face, and the dimpled chin, on the tip of whose snub nose the
rising sun shines with a power that causes it to resemble a glowing
carbuncle on a visage still lying in shadow.
That little boy's disposition is sweet. You can see it in every line,
in every curve, in every dimple of his dirty little face. He has not
been sweetened by training, he has had no training--at least none from
man or woman with a view to his good. He has no settled principles of
any kind, good or bad. All his actions are the result of impulse based
on mere animal propensity, but, like every other human being, he has a
conscience. At the time of his introduction to the reader his
conscience is, like himself, asleep, and it has not as yet been much
enlightened. His name is Stumpy, but he was never christened.
Critical minds will object here that a boy would not be permitted to
sleep under a railway arch, and that London houses would effectually
prevent the rising sun from entering such a place. To which we reply
that the arch in question was a semi-suburban arch; that it was the
last, (or the first), of a series of arches, an insignificant arch under
which nothing ever ran except stray cats and rats, and that it spanned a
morsel of waste ground which gave upon a shabby street running due east,
up which, every fine morning, the rising sun gushed in a flood of glory.
Each fleeting moment increased the light on Stumpy's upturned nose,
until it tipped the dimpled chin and cheeks and at last kissed his
eyelids. This appeared to suggest pleasant dreams, for the boy smiled
like a dirty-faced angel. He even gave vent to an imbecile laugh, and
then awoke.
Stumpy's eyes were huge and blue. The opening of them was like the
revealing of unfathomable sky through clouds of roseate hue! They
sparkled with a light all their own in addition to that of the sun, for
there was in them a gleam of mischief as their owner poked his companion
in the ribs and then tugged his hair.
"I say, you let me alone!" growled the companion, turning uneasily on
his hard couch.
"I say, you get up," answered Stumpy, giving the companion a pinch on
the tender part of his arm. "Come, look alive, Howlet. I sees a
railway porter and a bobby."
Owlet, whose nose had suggested his name, had been regardless of the
poke, the tug, and the pinch, but was alive to the hint. He at once
came to the sitting posture on hearing the dreaded name of "bobby," and
rubbed his eyes. On seeing that there was neither policeman nor guard
near, he uttered an uncomplimentary remark and was about to lie down
again, but was arrested by the animated expression of his comrade's face
and the heaving of his shoulders.
"Why, what ever is the matter with you?" he demanded. "Are you goin' to
bust yourself wi' larfin', by way of gettin' a happetite for the
breakfast that you hain't no prospect of?"
To this Stumpy replied by pulling from his trousers pocket four shining
pennies, which he held out with an air of triumph.
"Oh!" exclaimed Owlet; and then being unable to find words sufficiently
expressive, he rubbed the place where the front of his waistcoat would
have been if he had possessed one.
"Yes," said Stumpy, regarding the coppers with a pensive air, "I've
slep' with you all night in my 'and, an' my 'and in my pocket, an' my
knees doubled up to my chin to make all snug, an' now I'm going to have
a tuck in--a blow out--a buster--a--"
He paused abruptly, and looking with a gleeful air at his companion,
said--
"But that wasn't what I was laughin' at."
"Well, I suppose it warn't. What was it, then?"
The boy's eyes sparkled again, and for some moments a half-suppressed
chuckling prevented speech.
"It was a dream," he said at last.
"A dream!" exclaimed Owlet contemptuously.
"I hate dreams. When I dreams 'em they're always about bobbies and
maginstrates, an' wittles, an' when other fellows tells about 'em
they're so long-winded an' prosy. But I had a dream too. What was
yours?"
"My dream was about a bobby," returned his friend. "See, here it is,
an' I won't be long-winded or prosy, Howlet, so don't growl and spoil
your happetite for that 'ere breakfast that's a-comin'. I dreamed--let
me see, was it in Piccadilly--no, it was Oxford Street, close by Regent
Street, where all the swells go to promynade, you know. Well, I sees a
bobby--of course I never can go the length my little toe without seein'
a bobby! but this bobby was a stunner. You never see'd sitch a feller.
Not that he was big, or fierce, but he had a nose just two-foot-six
long. I know for certain, for I'm a good judge o' size, besides, I went
straight up to him, as bold as brass, and axed him how long it was, an'
he told me without winkin'. The strange thing about it is that I wasn't
a bit surprised at his nose. Wery odd, ain't it, eh, Howlet, that
people never is surprised at anything they sees in dreams? I do
b'lieve, now, if I was to see a man takin' a walk of a' arternoon with
his head in his coat-tail pocket I'd take it quite as a matter of
course.
"Well, w'en that bobby had told me his nose was two-foot-six inches long
I feels a most unaccountable and astonishin' gush of indignation come
over me. What it was at I don't know no more nor the man in the moon.
P'r'aps it was the sudden thought of all the troubles that bobbies has
brought on me from the day I was born till now. Anyhow, I was took
awful bad. My buzzum felt fit to bust. I knowed that I must do
somethin' to him or die; so I seized that bobby by the nose, and hauled
him flat down on his breast. He was so took with surprise that he never
made any struggle, but gived vent to a most awful howl. My joy at
havin' so easily floored my natural enemy was such that I replied with a
Cherokee yell. Then I gave his nose a pull up so strong that it
well-nigh broke his neck an' set him straight on his pins again! Oh!
Howlet, you can't think what a jolly dream it was. To do it all so
easy, too!"
"Well, what happened arter that?" asked Owlet.
"Nothin' happened after that," returned Stumpy, with a somewhat sad
expression on his usually gleeful visage. "It's a wery strange thing,
Howlet, that dreams inwariably wanishes away just at the most
interestin' p'int. Did you ever notice that?"
"Notice it! I should think I did. Why the dream that I had w'en I was
layin' alongside o' you was o' that sort exactly. It was all about
wittles, too, an' it's made me that 'ungry I feels like a ravagin'
wolf."
"Come along, then, Howlet, an' you an' me will ravage somethin' wi' them
browns o' mine. We'll 'ave a good breakfast, though it should be our
last, an' I'll stand treat."
"You're a trump, Stumpy; an' I'll tell you _my_ dream as we goes along."
"Hall right--but mind you don't come prosy over me. I can't stand it no
more nor yourself."
"You mind Dick Wilkin, don't you?"
"What--the young man from the country as I've see'd standin' at the dock
gates day after day for weeks without getting took on?"
"That's him," continued Owlet, with a nod, as he shoved his hand into
his trousers pockets. "He brought a wife and five kids from the country
with him--thinkin' to better hisself in London. Ha! a sweet little town
for a cove as is 'ard up to better hisself in--ho yes, certingly!"
remarked the precocious boy in a tone of profound sarcasm.
"Well," he continued, "Dick Wilkin came to better hisself an' he set
about it by rentin' a single room in Cherubs Court--a fine saloobrious
spot, as you know, not far from the Tower. He 'ad a few bobs when he
came, and bought a few sticks o' furniture, but I don't need for to tell
_you_, Stumpy, that the most o' that soon went up the spout, and the
Wilkins was redooced to beggary--waried off an' on with an odd job at
the docks. It was when they first comed to town that I was down wi'
that fever, or 'flenzy, or somethink o' that sort. The streets bein' my
usual 'abitation, I 'ad no place in partikler to go to, an' by good
luck, when I gave in, I lay down at the Wilkins' door. O! but I _was_
bad--that bad that it seemed as if I should be cleared out o' my mortal
carcase entirely--"
"Mulligrumps?" inquired his sympathetic friend.
"No, no. Nothin' o' that sort, but a kind of hot all-overishness, wi'
pains that--but you can't understand it, Stumpy, if you've never 'ad
it."
"Then I don't want to understand it. But what has all this to do wi'
your dream?"
"Everythink to do with it, 'cause it was about them I was dreamin'. As
I was sayin', I fell down at their door, an' they took me in, and Mrs
Wilkin nussed me for weeks till I got better. Oh, she's a rare nuss is
Mrs Wilkin. An' when I began to get better the kids all took to me. I
don't know when I would have left them, but when times became bad, an'
Dick couldn't git work, and Mrs Wilkin and the kids began to grow thin,
I thought it was time for me to look out for myself, an' not remain a
burden on 'em no longer. I know'd they wouldn't let me away without a
rumpus, so I just gave 'em the slip, and that's 'ow I came to be on the
streets again, an' fell in wi' you, Stumpy."
"'Ave you never seen 'em since?"
"Never."
"You ungrateful wagibone!"
"What was the use o' my goin' to see 'em w'en I 'ad nothin' to give
'em?" returned Owlet in an apologetic tone.
"You might 'ave given 'em the benefit of your adwice if you 'ad nothin'
else. But what did you dream about 'em?"
"I dreamt that they was all starvin'--which ain't unlikely to be true--
an' I was so cut up about it, that I went straight off to a butcher's
shop and stole a lot o' sasengers; then to a baker's and stole a loaf
the size of a wheel-barrer; then to a grocer's and stole tea an' sugar;
an' the strange thing was that neither the people o' the shops nor the
bobbies seemed to think I was stealin'! Another coorious thing was that
I carried all the things in my pockets--stuffed 'em in quite easy,
though there was 'arf a sack o' coals among 'em!"
"Always the way in dreams," remarked his friend philosophically.
"Yes--ain't it jolly convenient?" continued the other. "Well, w'en I
got to the 'ouse I set to work, made a rousin' fire, put on the kettle,
cooked the wittles as if I'd bin born and bred in a 'otel, and in less
than five minutes 'ad a smokin' dinner on the table, that would 'ave
busted an alderman. In course the Wilkins axed no questions. Father,
mother, five kids, and self all drew in our chairs, and sot down--"
"What fun!" exclaimed Stumpy.
"Ay, but you spoilt the fun, for it was just at that time you shoved
your fist into my ribs, and woke me before one of us could get a bite o'
that grub into our mouths. If we'd even 'ad time to smell it, that
would 'ave bin somethink to remember."
"Howlet," said the other impressively, "d'ye think the Wilkins is livin'
in the same place still?"
"As like as not."
"Could you find it again?"
"Could I find Saint Paul's, or the Moniment? I should think so!"
"Come along, then, and let's pay 'em a wisit."
They were not long in finding the place--a dirty court at the farther
end of a dark passage.
Owlet led the way to the top of a rickety stair, and knocked at one of
the doors which opened on the landing. No answer was returned, but
after a second application of the knuckles, accompanied by a touch of
the toe, a growling voice was heard, then a sound of some one getting
violently out of bed, a heavy tread on the floor, and the door was flung
open.
"What d'ee want?" demanded a fierce, half-drunken man.
"Please, sir, does the Wilkins stop here?"
"No, they don't," and the door was shut with a bang.
"Sweet creature!" observed Stumpy as they turned disappointed away.
"Wonder if his mother 'as any more like 'im?" said Owlet.
"They've 'ad to change to the cellar," said a famished-looking woman,
putting her head out of a door on the same landing. "D'ye want 'em?"
"In course we does, mother, else we wouldn't ax for 'em. W'ereabouts is
the cellar?"
"Foot o' this stair."
Descending to the regions below, the two boys groped their way along an
underground passage till they came to a door. It was opened by a woman,
who timidly demanded what they wanted.
"It's me, Missis Wilkin. 'Ave you forgotten Howlet?"
With an exclamation of surprise and joy the woman flung the door wide,
seized Owlet, dragged him into the room, and embraced him with as much
affection as if he had been her own child. Instantly there arose a
shout of juvenile joy, and Stumpy could see, in the semi-darkness, that
four little creatures were helping their mother to overwhelm his friend,
while a fifth--a biggish girl--was prevented from joining them by the
necessity that lay on her to take care of the baby.
When the greetings were over, the sad condition of the family was soon
explained, and a single glance round sufficed to show that they had
reached the lowest state of destitution. It was a back room rather than
a cellar, but the dirty pane of thick glass near the roof admitted only
enough of light to make its wretchedness visible. A rickety table, two
broken chairs, and a bedstead without a bottom was all the furniture
left, and the grate was empty.
"We've been obleeged to pawn everything," said Mrs Wilkin, with
difficulty suppressing a sob, "and I need hardly tell you why," she
added, with a glance at the children, who were living skeletons.
The baby was perhaps the saddest object there, for it was so thin and
weak that it had not strength to cry--though the faces which it
frequently made were obviously the result of an effort to do so.
Much interested in the scene, young Stumpy stood admiring it
patronisingly for a little, but when he heard the poor woman tell of
their desperate struggle to merely keep themselves alive, his feelings
were touched, and when he learned that not a bite of food had passed
their lips since the previous morning, a sudden impulse swelled his
little breast. He clutched his four pennies tightly; glanced quickly
round; observed an empty basket in a corner; caught it up, and left the
place hurriedly.
He had scarcely gone when the father of the family entered. The
expression of his face and his whole bearing and aspect told eloquently
of disappointment as he sat down with a heavy sigh.
"Stumped again," he said; "only a few hands took on."
The words sounded as a death-knell to the famishing family, and the man
himself was too much cut up to take notice of the return of his friend
Owlet, except by a slight nod of recognition.
Meanwhile Stumpy ran along several streets in quest of food. He had not
far to run in such a locality. At a very small grocer's shop he
purchased one halfpenny worth of tea and put it in his basket. To this
he added one farthing's worth of milk, which the amiable milkman let him
have in a small phial, on promise of its being returned. Two farthings
more procured a small supply of coal, which he wrapped in two cabbage
leaves. Then he looked about for a baker. One penny farthing of his
fund having been spent, it behoved him to consider that the staff of
life must be secured in preference to luxuries.
At this point the boy's nose told him of a most delicious smell which
pervaded the air. He stood still for a moment and sniffed eagerly.
"Ah, ain't it prime? I've jist 'ad some," said another much smaller and
very ragged street-boy who had noticed the sniff.
"What ever is it?" demanded Stumpy.
"Pea-soup," answered the other.
"Where?"
"Right round the corner. Look alive, they're shovellin' it out like one
o'clock for _fard'ns_!"
Our hero waited for no more. He dashed round the corner, and found a
place where the Salvation Army was dispensing farthing and halfpenny
breakfasts to a crowd of the hungriest and raggedest creatures he had
ever seen, though his personal experience of London destitution was
extensive.
"Here you are," said a smiling damsel in a poke bonnet. "I see you're
in a hurry; how much do you want?"
"'Ow much for a fard'n?" asked Stumpy, with the caution natural to a man
of limited means.
A small bowl full of steaming soup was placed before him and a hunk of
bread.
"For _one_ fard'n?" inquired the boy in surprise.
"For one farthing," replied the presiding angel in the poke bonnet.
"Here, young 'ooman," said Stumpy, setting down his basket, "let me 'ave
eleven fard'n's worth right away. There's a big family awaitin' for it
an' they're all starvin', so do make haste."
"But, dear boy, you've brought nothing to carry the soup in."
Stumpy's visage fell. The basket could not serve him here, and the rate
at which the soup was being ladled out convinced him that if he were to
return for a jug there would not be much left for him.
Observing his difficulty, the attendant said that she would lend him a
jug if he would promise to bring it back. "Are you an honest boy?" she
asked, with an amused look.
"About as honest as most kids o' the same sort."
"Well, I'll trust you--and, mind, God sees you. There, now, don't you
fall and break it."
Our hero was not long in returning to the dreary cellar, with the eleven
basins of soup and eleven hunks of bread--all of which, with the
previously purchased luxuries, he spread out on the rickety table, to
the unutterable amazement and joy of the Wilkin family.
Need we say that it was a glorious feast? As there were only two
chairs, the table was lifted inside of the bottomless bed, and some of
the young people sat down on the frame thereof on one side, and some on
the other side, while Mrs Wilkin and her husband occupied the places of
honour at the head and foot. There was not much conversation at first.
Hunger was too exacting, but in a short time tongues began to wag. Then
the fire was lighted, and the kettle boiled, and the half-pennyworth of
tea infused, and thus the sumptuous meal was agreeably washed down.
Even the baby began--to recover under the genial influence of warm food,
and made faces indicative of a wish to crow--but it failed, and went to
sleep on sister's shoulder instead. When it was all over poor Mrs
Wilkin made an attempt to "return thanks" for the meal, but broke down
and sobbed her gratitude.
Reader, this is no fancy sketch. It is founded on terrible fact, and
gives but a faint idea of the wretchedness and poverty that prevail in
London--even the London of _to-day_!