Bob Fagin was very good to me on the occasion of a bad attack of my old
disorder, cramps. I suffered such excruciating pain that time that
they made a temporary bed of straw in my old recess in the
counting-house, and I rolled about on the floor, and Bob filled empty
blacking-bottles with hot water, and applied relays of them to my side,
half the day. I got better, and quite easy toward evening; but Bob
(who was much bigger and older than I) did not like the idea of my
going home alone, and took me under his protection. I was too proud to
let him know about the prison; and after making several efforts to get
rid of him, to all of which Bob Fagin, in his goodness, was deaf, shook
hands with him on the steps of a house near Southwark Bridge on the
Surrey side, making believe that I lived there. As a finishing piece
of reality in case of his looking back, I knocked at the door, I
recollect, and asked, when the woman opened it, if that was Mr. Robert
Fagin's house.
My usual way home was over Blackfriars Bridge, and down that turning in
the Blackfriars Road which has Rowland Hill's chapel on one side, and
the likeness of a golden dog licking a golden pot over a shop door on
the other. There are a good many little low-browed old shops in that
street, of a wretched kind; and some are unchanged now. I looked into
one a few weeks ago, where I used to buy bootlaces on Saturday nights,
and saw the corner where I once sat down on a stool to have a pair of
ready-made half-boots fitted on. I have been seduced more than once,
in that street on a Saturday night, by a show-van at a corner; and have
gone in, with a very motley assemblage, to see the Fat Pig, the Wild
Indian, and the Little Lady. There were two or three hat manufactories
there then (I think they are there still); and among the things which,
encountered anywhere, or under any circumstances, will instantly recall
that time, is the smell of hat-making.
I was such a little fellow, with my poor white hat, little jacket, and
corduroy trousers, that frequently, when I went into the bar of a
strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter to wash down the
saveloy and the loaf I had eaten in the street, they didn't like to
give it me. I remember, one evening (I had been somewhere for my
father, and was going back to the Borough over Westminster Bridge),
that I went into a public-house in Parliament Street, which is still
there, though altered, at the corner of the short street leading into
Cannon Row, and said to the landlord behind the bar, "What is your very
best--the VERY _best_--ale a glass?" For the occasion was a festive
one, for some reasons: I forget why. It may have been my birthday, or
somebody else's. "Twopence," says he. "Then," says I, "just draw me a
glass of that, if you please, with a good head to it." The landlord
looked at me, in return, over the bar, from head to foot, with a
strange smile on his face; and instead of drawing the beer, looked
round the screen and said something to his wife, who came out from
behind it, with her work in her hand, and joined him in surveying me.
Here we stand, all three, before me now, in my study in Devonshire
Terrace. The landlord in his shirt-sleeves, leaning against the bar
window-frame; his wife looking over the little half-door; and I, in
some confusion, looking up at them from outside the partition. They
asked me a good many questions, as what my name was, how old I was,
where I lived, how I was employed, etc., etc. To all of which, that I
might commit nobody, I invented appropriate answers. They served me
with the ale, though I suspect it was not the strongest on the
premises; and the landlord's wife, opening the little half-door and
bending down, gave me a kiss that was half-admiring and
half-compassionate, but all womanly and good, I am sure.