Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 82

Alf Purvis had waited patiently, like Mr. Micawber, till something turned up—​the good Samaritan, who had relieved him in the hour of his despair, being, as we have already seen, our hero Charles Peace. There was good reason for this.

Peace had been attracted by the boy, whose features were familiar to him.

Upon a closer inspection he discovered that he was the lad whom he remembered having seen about the neighbourhood of Broxbridge during his sojourn in that locality, and hence it was that he had presented Alf with the shilling.

Peace did not care to make any enquiries as to why the lad was in London, as he had his newly-formed friend with him, and, therefore, contented himself by giving the much-prized coin.

Had he been alone he would have questioned Alf, but, under existing circumstances, prudence directed that he should refrain from doing so.

Peace at this time was passing himself off as a gentleman of independent means: to make use of a common phrase he was “cutting a dash.”

How long his means would last, or how long the character would suit him, time would show.

He did the grand at this time to his heart’s content, and half persuaded himself that the life of a gentleman was his proper and legitimate sphere of action.

Alf Purvis wended his way down Parliament-street towards Westminster. He was ravenously hungry, and upon his reaching Tothill-street his attention was directed to an eating-house on the opposite side of the way.

In the window of this the savoury steam from the joints proved to be too much for him; he crossed over and gazed wistfully at the dainties displayed so temptingly in the shop.

He entered and ordered a plate of meat and vegetables; these he devoured, as may be imagined, with infinite relish. He was still hungry, so he finished his repast with a slice of pudding, or “plum duff,” as it is termed.

After he had paid the reckoning he had but fourpence left out of the shilling Peace had given him.

He confessed to himself that he had been reckless and extravagant, but had enough left to pay for a bed.

He now directed his steps in the direction of a well-known lodging-house situated in one of the streets leading out of the one in which he had regaled himself so sumptuously.

Upon his arriving at the establishment in question he found that externally it did not present a very inviting appearance.

It was a low large building, which he at once boldly entered. At the side of the passage there was a glass window drawn up, and a kind of ledger or counter, on which were two piles of small round tickets. Behind the counter was a small room just large enough to hold a deformed old man, and a brawny forbidding-looking woman—​some such woman as Eugene Sue describes in the “Mysteries of Paris” as the “Ogress.” The title would apply with equal force to the Westminster landlady.

“Now then, young shaver,” cried the man, “what’s your pleasure, fourpenny or twopenny, eh? Twopenny, I suppose,” he added, glancing at the lad.

“No, guv’nor,” returned the latter, “I want a fourpenny.”

“Oh, you’re one of the haristocratic customers—​are you?” said the man, in a jocular tone.

“You’d better make him fork out. I should like to see his money first,” cried the woman, folding her arms across her breast like an Amazon.

“Now then, boy, down with the dust,” said the man.

Alf fumbled in his pocket; he wanted to keep a penny in his pocket for a loaf in the morning. He drew forth threepence.

“That won’t do, you fool,” said the landlord; “why here’s only three browns.”

“He hasn’t got another, I’ll take my davy of that,” observed the woman; “it’s just as I expected.”

“Well, it’s only a matter of a penny,” implored Alf, in his most persuasive tones; “don’t be hard upon a cove. I’ve had a bad day of it ’cos of the wet. Trust me for this once. I will pay you to-morrow—​indeed I will.”

“To-morrow be blowed,” exclaimed the man; “that game won’t do here. You know our prices, you know our rules; we don’t give credit. If we did we should be in the union in quick sticks.”

“Well, that’s right enough, master, I daresay, but look here,” said Alf, showing his basket, “this is how I make my living. Will you take some of these and keep them till I pay you the penny back again?”

“Umph, well I don’t know—​they are not ugly,” said the housekeeper, looking at them curiously and turning them over in his hands; “you’re a country lad, eh? Who’d have thought of seeing birds’ eggs in a back slum in Westminster? Well, London is a place, surely.”

“It’s hard lines to be walking about all day in the wet without even so much as one customer,” said the boy. “You can take the cuckoos if you like—​that’s the best one—​or you can take any of the others, whichever you please.”

“I used to go arter them myself years and years ago, when I was a kinchin. Ah, it puts me in mind of brighter and happier days. They minds me of my old mother, and how she used to scold me, because it was so cruel, she said—​bless her dear heart.”

“Don’t get sentimental, you old fool,” cried the woman, in a tone of disgust. “Them days are past wi’ both of us.”

“Right you are, missus—​long since past,” returned the man. “Well, hand us over an egg, and here’s the ticket for a fourpenny room.”

“Nonsense, Joe,” said the woman. “What do you want with a trumpery egg? Give the boy a penny back and a twopenny ticket.”

“Well, it’s hardly worth wrangling about,” returned the landlord. “A penny won’t hurt us much either way.”

As they were talking a man came in, and, drawing a large piece of bacon from his pocket, flung it on the counter.

“How much do you want for it?” said the lodging-house keeper.

“Sixpence.”

“Sixpence for a bit of sawney! (stolen bacon). Can’t give more than a joey for it.”

“Hand it over then, you mean ravenous old land shark.”

The money was laid on the counter and collared by the newcomer.

Two children came in. One of them paid for his bed and supper with fish got from the gate (stolen from Billingsgate), and the other with flesh found at Leadenhall (meat stolen from the butchers’ stalls in that market).

“That’s the way to get your grub and your shake-down,” said the woman, addressing herself to Alf.

“So it appears, marm.”

“Some bring a Moses (second-hand wearing apparel), some prigs tea from the docks, and there’s many as brings hens and chickens.”

These are the cant terms for publicans’ larger and smaller pewter measures, which go to the furnace and melting pot instead of to the fire and the dripping pan.

“Give me back a penny and I’ll have a twopenny ticket,” cried Alf, who did not care to argue the question further.

Before going upstairs he went into the kitchen of the lodging-house.

This was a long quaint room, its walls covered with disgusting figures; the floor was covered with dirt, and a wooden seat projected from the wall all round the room.

In front of this was ranged a series of tables on which lolled men and boys.

A number of inmates were grouped round the fire, some kneeling, washing herrings—​of which the place smelt strongly—​others without shirts seated on the ground, and others drying the ends of cigars they had picked up in the streets. As for the assembly, it was of the most heterogeneous description.

Some were, like Alf, in dirty smock frocks; others in old red plush waistcoats, with long sleeves. One was dressed in an old shooting jacket, with large wooden buttons; a second in a blue flannel sailor’s shirt; and a third, a mere boy, wore a long camlet cloak reaching to his heels, and both the ends of the sleeves hanging over his hands.

No. 19.

“DON’T MAKE ANY ROW,” SAID WRENCH; “YOU ARE MY PRISONER NOW.”

The features of the lodgers were of every kind of expression. Alf Purvis was certainly the best-looking of all present, even disguised as he was in his wretched attire.

Here the thieves and cadgers who frequented the place enjoyed their supper before going to bed, and here they might be seen employed in a dozen various occupations.

One was frying bacon, another mending an umbrella, a third washing his shirt in a hand-basin, while the majority were smoking short pipes and conversing in whispers.

Alf Purvis, who had gone to the fire to dry his things, was pushed on one side by a hulking fellow with a red herring on a fork.

Unfortunately for the lad, his smock frock came in contact with the handle of the frying-pan, which was jerked from the fire, its contents falling in the hearth.

The owner of the bacon was a strapping lad. With a horrible oath he sprang forward, and struck Alf a terrific blow on the jaw, which sent him reeling.

“It wasn’t the yokel’s fault,” cried one of the men at a side table. “At him ag’in, young un.”

To be thus assailed for an offence which was committed, in reality, by the herring toaster, was not to be borne.

The bacon frier was half a head taller and a deal bigger than the birds’-nest seller; but the latter had pluck. He rushed at his assailant and gave him a straightforward blow on the mouth, which astonished the young bully.

“Well done. Bravo, little’un!” cried a dozen voices. “Give it him right from the shoulder.”

A ring was formed, and the two lads went to work in real earnest.

Alf Purvis received several ugly knocks; but he was so agile and rapid in his movements that in a few minutes his antagonist’s face bore unmistakable marks of the other’s blows.

At length the young bird’s nest seller rushed in and gave the bacon frier a floorer.

“We’ve had enough of this,” cried a man, in a velveteen jacket. “Stop it—​stow it, I say. If you don’t, blow me if I don’t give the pair of you a thrashing.”

The combatants were separated, and peace was proclaimed. Alf was declared victor.

Two women were seated in one corner of the room; their dress and demeanour denoted that they were merely visitors, who had been attracted to the spot by curiosity or some other motive.

One of them was quite young and extremely good-looking, the other was elderly.

They had both been witnesses of the short but decisive battle between the two boys.

They were whispering to each other.

“I could see at a glance that he was no common boy,” murmured the younger female. He’s a brave little fellow—​that’s quite evident.”

“Oh! clearly so,” returned the other; “but what of that?”

“I tell you he comes from a good stock—​I’m sure of it. I’ll wager my existence that his father was a gentleman. Look at his hands, how small and delicate they are; look at his beautifully-formed features. Perhaps you can see no further than his smock frock.”

“Perhaps I am not able to understand these matters as well as you,” answered the elder female, looking abstractedly on the dirt-begrimed floor of the apartment. “We haven’t all the same powers of observation.”

“I dont think I am mistaken in my estimate of the lad. I don’t believe he is a low fellow, like the rest of the lawless young ruffians we see around us. We are all of us liable to mistakes; but that is the impression I have formed of him.”

“I don’t say you are mistaken. Have your way. Speak to him, if you will.”

“I am determined to do so,” said the youngest of the two women. “You may think me self-willed—​that you have often said—​but what of that?”

Alf Purvis had been looking curiously at the speaker during the foregoing conversation. When he had first entered the kitchen he had not been aware of their presence; but now his attention was attracted towards them, and his eyes were rivetted on their faces.

The younger of the two women beckoned to the young birds’-nest seller.

He drew towards them, having already guessed that their discourse related to himself. In this he was not mistaken.

As he approached, an extraordinary thing happened. The old woman and the boy started at the same moment, and each gazed earnestly into each other’s eyes, which were lighted up with a mingled expression of curiosity and surprise.

The effect was most remarkable. They both stood for one moment as if rendered motionless by some sudden thought, and petrified into stone.

This feeling, however, was but a transient one, and soon passed away. The woman turned impatiently on one side, as if to crush and smother the weakness which appeared reasonless because it was intuitive.

But she could not conceal from herself that some mysterious and overpowering influence had been plainly manifested for a brief period. What it was she was at a loss to discover.

There is always a reason for these magnetic impulses, which, instead of welcoming and cherishing, men and women but too often drive by main force from their hearts.

Alf Purvis stood motionless before the females.

“You’re a brave little fellow,” said the younger one. “What is your name, my lad?”

“Alfred Purvis, marm.”

“Ah, just so, and your trade?”

“I’ve been brought up to the farming business, but am now on my own hook. I’m a birds’-nest seller—​that is when I can get any customers.”

“And do you like the calling?”

“Pretty well.”

“Oh, not very well—​eh?”

“I should like it better if I could see my way towards something for the winter. It’s hard lines sometimes in the summer, but I don’t know how I shall get on in the cold weather. The birds don’t have no families when the snow is on the ground; they’ve enough to do to pick up enough for themselves at that time.”

“Quite true, boy.” Then, turning towards her companion, she said in an under tone, “You see the poor lad is no fool, as I said, and he has pluck at heart for all his poor thin body and pale face.”

The elder woman nodded, but said nothing.

“I was right!” exclaimed her companion; then turning towards Alf, she said, “I suppose you have run away from home, or something of that sort—​eh?”

“I wasn’t used well, and I did leave of my own accord. I half wish I hadn’t now; but it goes against the grain to return to Stoke Ferry Farm.”

“Ah, that’s where you came from?”

“Yes, marm. Do you know the place?” cried Alf, in a tone of evident anxiety.

“Not I, indeed, never heard of it before you mentioned the name. You street boys are a funny lot. After running about you cannot bear to be kept indoors, or be under any sort of control. It is natural it should be so, I suppose. Do you know how to read and write?”

“Ah, yes, marm, I can write pretty well, and as to reading I’m never tired of it; nothing pleases me better than an interesting book.”

“Indeed—​I should have hardly thought you could have much time for reading.”

“I have not since I’ve been in London, but before I left the farmhouse I had lots of time every evening.”

“And what kind of books do you like best?”

“Those that have lots of shipwrecks or battles in them,” said Alf, quickly. “I love battles, and tales of pirates—​those are my sort.”

The girl gave a murmur of assent or pleasure. It was like the purring of a tigress.

“And travellers who fight with lions, tigers, and all sorts of wild animals,” said the boy, in continuation. “And big knights, with polished armour, who kill dragons and rescue ladies. Oh, I can read anything of that sort. I like any book as makes me feel venturesome, but I hate them as keeps on talking and talking over nothing.”

The girl burst out in a loud laugh.

“Well, my brave young fellow, I think I may be able to do something for you. Will you call upon me to-morrow if I give you my address?”

“Yes, marm, I will be sure to do so.”

She wrote something down on a card, which she handed to Alf.

As she gave him this she slipped a shilling in his hand, and then she and the old woman rose and left the kitchen.

Alf Purvis was in a state of wonderment and delight. He changed his ticket for a fourpenny one, and proceeded upstairs to his luxurious sleeping apartment.

The reader must not suppose that we have presented to him the horrors of low lodgings, however, in the brief sketch given of the one in which Alf Purvis sought shelter. At this period those places were foul blots upon a civilised city. They were the nurseries for young thieves and lawless characters of every conceivable description. Personal narratives are given in “London Labour and the London Poor” by persons who have frequented these dens.

“Nothing can be worse than the health of these places,” says one witness.

Without ventilation, cleanliness, or decency, and with forty person’s breaths perhaps mingling together, they are the ready resort of thieves and all bad characters, and the keepers will hide them, if they can, from the police, or facilitate any criminal’s escape.

I never knew the keepers give any offender up, even when rewards were offered. If they did they might shut up shop.

These houses are but receptacles, with very few exceptions, for beggars, thieves, and prostitutes. The exceptions are those who must lodge at the lowest possible cost.

Fights, and fierce fights too, are frequent in them, and I have often been afraid murder would be done.

I never saw a clergyman of any denomination in any one of these places either in town or country.

In London the keepers know very well that stolen property is brought into their house. In some cases they will buy—​in others it is disposed of to some of the other inmates.

The influence of the lodging-house society on boys who have run away from home and have got thither, either separately or in company with lads who have joined them in the streets, is this—​boys there, after paying for their lodgings, may exercise the same freedom from every restraint as they see persons of maturer years enjoy.

This is often pleasant to a boy, especially if he has been severely treated by his parents or his master. He apes and often outdoes men’s ways, both in swearing and loud talk, and so he gets a relish for that sort of life.

After he has resorted to such places—​the sharper boys for three and the duller boys for six months—​they are adepts at any thieving or vice.

In the same work the statement of a young girl of sixteen years of age is given.

The narrative is that of a fallen female who was accustomed to sleep in the low lodging-houses where boys and girls were promiscuously huddled together. The account given disclosed a system of depravity, atrocity, and enormity, which certainly could not be paralleled in any nation, however barbarous, nor in any age, however dark.

The facts detailed are gross enough to make us all blush for the land in which such scenes could be daily perpetrated.

Happily for the morality of the lower classes, legislation has done much to abate the evil; the low lodging houses of the present day are under the surpervision of the police, who have done much to abate the evil which was so justly complained of. Nevertheless, the scenes which take place in lodging houses in the courts and alleys of London are, even at the present time, a scandal and disgrace to a Christian land.

The indiscriminate mixing of the sexes, the crowding of large families in one miserable room, does more to demoralise the youth of this country than those unacquainted with the subject can possibly imagine.

The language made use of by children of tender years is something shocking. The writer of this work has heard words fall from the lips of girls who were little more than children that were of too horrible a nature for him to repeat under any circumstances whatever.