WILFRED SMITH GOES TO THE JEWS.
THE lost Wilfred having been found, it seems proper to take this
opportunity of informing the reader of the events which followed his
banishment from home.
On leaving Holmcastle, as we have already seen, he took a third class
ticket to London; but on reaching Preston Junction, in pursuance of
a plan he had already formed, he left the train, and took a fresh
ticket to Liverpool. On arriving at that filthy and rowdy city, he
crossed the town, and took a small room in a little dirty inn in a
small thoroughfare off Water Street, which, however, rejoiced in the
imposing title of the “Great Atlantic Hotel.” Having taken his two
bags upstairs, Wilfred sat down to consider his prospects and his
future course of action. His after-plans he had already to a certain
extent determined on; at present the all-engrossing, overmastering
desire of his heart was to get away from England as soon as possible.
The question was, how to effect it. The poor lad took out and counted
his whole stock of money. The amount was small, too small he feared
to suffice for the payment of even a steerage passage across the
Atlantic, even if he should find a ship about to start at once. It
suddenly struck him that he could pawn or sell some of his clothes,
and the next moment he had opened his bags, and spread out his slender
wardrobe on the bed and floor of the tiny chamber he occupied. A spare
suit of clothes and a few flannel shirts were nearly all he would
want for his present purpose, and he soon made his selection, packed
the rest in a single bag, and was speedily on his way with them to a
pawnbroker’s. There was no disgrace in this; but when Wilfred found
himself in a small, stuffy compartment in the shop, and confronted by
a small, yellow-haired Jew, with inflamed eyes of a waterish blue, and
of most villainous aspect, he certainly felt far from comfortable.
The salutary rule of “first come, first served” was observed in the
establishment of Messrs. Cohen and Hart, and Wilfred had to wait until
an old Irish-woman, who bore the appearance of a resuscitated mummy--so
wrinkled and puckered was her face--had transacted her business.
“What! the same petticoat again, Mrs. Maguire?” said the young Jew; “I
wonder you’re not ashamed to bring that old rag again to a respectable
establishment like this.”
“Faith, thin,” said the old woman, “but it’s a dacent undergarmint
intirely, and it’s the wearing of it I’d rather injoy this could
weather; but what can an ould body like me do wid an ould husband
bed-ridden with the rheumatiz, and me daughter’s family down with the
fever? sure ye’ll be givin’ me eighteenpince upon it agen, Mr. Cohen,
and good luck to ye.”
“Devil a ha’penny will I give more than a shilling, Mrs. Maguire, and
that’s more than it would sell for to a rag merchant.”
“Och, honey, for the love o’ heaven, give me one-and-three.”
“A shilling, a shilling, a shilling, and no more!” cried the Jew; and
taking out a shilling from the till under the counter, he threw it
across to the poor old creature, who clutched it in her skinny claws,
and then put it into some receptacle under a thin and ragged, but
clean gown, which draggled around her emaciated form.
“Wait outside till I come out,” whispered Wilfred to the old woman,
who, receiving her pawn-ticket, left the shop.
“And now, young gentleman, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Cohen,
with a sly leer.
“I want to know what you’ll give me for these clothes and this leather
bag,” answered Wilfred, as he laid them on the counter.
The Jew spread out and examined the things one by one, and then named a
sum which appeared to the owner preposterously small.
“They must be worth much more than that,” said he.
The Jew seemed to examine the things more narrowly than before, and
then he said, “Well, we’ll see what can be done; but as we always like
to do things right and above board, I’d like to know your name first.”
Wilfred thought this a singular request, but he reflected that it might
be the rule of the establishment. But what name should he give? His
father had commanded him to change his surname--that he would do--it
was his father’s name, and in that respect he would obey his father’s
command, however unjust. But his Christian name was his own; no one
had any right to deprive him of _that_; and so, after a pause,
during which the Jew was narrowly scrutinising his face, he answered,
“Wilfred Smith.”
“And the linen’s all marked ‘W.M.,’ and ‘W.M.’ ’s engraved in a
mollorgrum on the lock of the bag--he, he! I thought so,” cried the
little Jew, triumphantly. “But I say, mister, I think yer ought to
be dev’lish glad to get what I offered, and have no questions asked.
Don’t yer know I might get yer into a peck of troubles along of them
fash’nable articles?”
“Why, what do you take me to be?” cried Wilfred, turning very red.
“May be a walley,” answered the Jew.
“What’s that?” asked Wilfred.
“What’s that? Why, a walley-de-sham, stoopid,” responded Mr. Cohen,
severely; “a genelman’s servant as has left his place without giving a
month’s warning--that’s what I mean.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Wilfred, “that you think I stole those
things, do you?”
“Stole ’em! no,” responded the Jew, grinning from ear to ear, “we never
uses bad language in this respectable establishment; we might get
prosecuted for libel if we said as a genelman _stole_ things,
that we might; but if yer want to know what I _think_, why, I
think yer _took_ ’em, just as a parquisite, you know, and I dessay
your master is at this moment breaking his heart over the loss. Now,
what do yer say? will yer take what I offered, or shall I keep these
things here till the perlice come to take yer to the station? Uncle
Abraham, are yer in?”
A shuffling noise was heard, and an old Jew appeared, a very cheerful
old Jew indeed, who mumbled his skinny lips together, which was his way
of laughing, and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
“Just go to the door, Uncle Abraham,” said Mr. Cohen, junior, “and if
yer see a perliceman about, ask him what he thinks of the weather,
while I finish my business with--Mr. _Smith_.”
“For heaven’s sake, give me what you can, and let me go,” cried
Wilfred, in an agony.
Mr. Cohen, junior, smiled a very unpleasant smile indeed, and proceeded
to put the money down on the counter, piece by piece. “There, no
hurry, Mr. _Smith_,” said he, leering at his victim, “no hurry in
the least. P’raps I can sell yer some’ut which will be useful on the
voyage out, for I presume yer are bound across the herring-pond. I hope
yer’ll find the air of New York saloobrious to yer health; change of
air is often useful, Mr. _Smith_; I’m sure I hope it ’ill----;”
but before young Mr. Cohen could finish his speech some other customers
came in, and Wilfred, seizing his money, made his escape. At the corner
of the street, in front of a gin-palace--the licensing magistrates
of Liverpool think it necessary to have a gin-palace at the corner
of every street--Wilfred found Mrs. Maguire. When he came up, he put
into her hand no small portion of the pittance he had just received
for his wardrobe. The old woman looked at the money, and then at him,
with amaze. “May God and S. Patrick bless ye,” she cried at length;
“here’s food, and fire, and medicine for me and mine. Ye’ve saved a
poor, honest family from starving, ye have, young gintleman. May the
Holy Angels make your bed. Ye seem in sorrow to-day, but there’s a
day comin’ when your sorrow shall be turned into joy! When that day
comes, remember ould Biddy Maguire, and be shure that to the last days
of her life she will pray to the Blessed Lord for you and yours;” and
so saying, the old woman seized his hand and kissed it, and wetted
it with her tears. Wilfred hurried away, for a crowd of roughs had
begun to gather, but it was with a less heavy heart than he could
have supposed possible a few minutes before. His behaviour was very
unpolitico-economical, no doubt--he ought to have applied to the
Charity Organisation Society, of course, before he relieved a starving
fellow-creature--but after all, he was perhaps rewarded, even in this
world, for not following the example of Archbishop Whately; and at
all events, an honest, needy family received the necessaries of life
without having to wait until some fussy old frump poked her nose into
the cottage, in order to investigate and report on “the circumstances
of the case.”