A Child of the Jago Part 10

Father Sturt chatted with d.i.c.ky till the boy could scarce plait for very pride. Would not d.i.c.ky like to work regularly every day, asked Father Sturt, and earn wages? d.i.c.ky could see no graceful answer but the affirmative; and in sober earnest he thought he would. Father Sturt took hold of d.i.c.ky's vanity. Was he not capable of something better than other Jago boys? Why should he not earn regular wages, and live comfortably, well fed and clothed, with no fear of the police, and no shame for what he did? _He_ might do it, when others could not. They were not clever enough. They called themselves 'clever' and 'wide;'

'but,' said Father Sturt, 'is there one of them that can deceive me?'

And d.i.c.ky knew there was not one. Most did no work, the vicar's argument went on, because they had neither the pluck to try nor the intelligence to accomplish. Else why did they live the wretched Jago life instead of take the pleasanter time of the decent labourer?

d.i.c.ky, already zealous at work as exampled in rush bag-making, listened with wistful pride. Yes, if he could, he would work and take his place over the envious heads of his Jago friends. But how? n.o.body would employ a boy living in the Jago. That was notorious. The address was a topsy-turvy testimonial for miles round.

All the same when Mrs Bates at last took away her belongings, d.i.c.ky ran off in delighted amaze to tell his mother and Em that he was going to tea at Father Sturt's rooms.

And the wreckers tore down the foul old houses, laying bare the secret dens of a century of infamy; lifting out the wide sashes of the old 'weavers' windows'--the one good feature in the structures; letting light and air at last into the subterraneous bas.e.m.e.nts where men and women had swarmed, and bred, and died, like wolves in their lairs; and emerging from clouds of choking dust, each man a colony of vermin. But there were rooms which the wreckers--no jack-a-dandies neither--flatly refused to enter; and nothing would make them but much coaxing, the promise of extra pay, and the certainty of much immediate beer.

XVIII

Mr Grinder kept a shop in the Bethnal Green Road. It was announced in brilliant lettering as an 'oil, colour and Italian warehouse,' and there, in addition to the oil and the colour, and whatever of Italian there might have been, he sold pots, pans, kettles, brooms, shovels, mops, lamps, nails, and treacle. It was a shop ever too tight for its stock, which burst forth at every available opening, and heaped so high on the paving that the window was half buried in a bank of shining tin.

Father Sturt was one of the best customers: the oil, candles and utensils needed for church and club all coming from Mr Grinder's. Mr Grinder was losing his shop-boy, who had found a better situation; and Father Sturt determined that, could but the oil-man be persuaded, d.i.c.ky Perrott should be the new boy. Mr Grinder was persuaded. Chiefly perhaps, because the vicar undertook to make good the loss, should the experiment end in theft; partly because it was policy to oblige a good customer; and partly, indeed, because Mr Grinder was willing to give such a boy a chance in life, for he was no bad fellow, as oil-and-colourmen go, and had been an errand boy himself.

So that there came a Monday morning when d.i.c.ky, his clothes as well mended as might be (for Hannah Perrott, no more than another Jago, could disobey Father Sturt), and a cut-down ap.r.o.n of his mother's tied before him, stood by Mr Grinder's bank of pots and kettles, in an eager agony to sell something, and near blind with the pride of the thing. He had been waiting at the shop-door long ere Mr Grinder was out of bed; and now, set to guard the outside stock--a duty not to be neglected in that neighbourhood--he brushed a tin pot here and there with his sleeve, and longed for some Jago friend to pa.s.s and view him in his new greatness.

The goods he watched over were an unfailing source of interest; and he learned by much repet.i.tion the prices of all the saucepans, painted in blue distemper on the tin, and ranging from eightpence-halfpenny, on the big pots in the bottom row, to three-halfpence on the very little ones at the top. And there were long ranks of little paraffin lamps at a penny--the sort that had set fire to a garret in Half Jago Street a month since, and burnt old Mother Leary to a greasy cinder. With a smaller array of a superior quality at fourpence-halfpenny--just like the one that had burst at Jerry Gullen's, and burnt the bed. While over his head swung doormats at one-and-eightpence, with penny mousetraps dangling from their corners.

When he grew more accustomed to his circ.u.mstances, he bethought him to collect a little dirt, and rub it down the front of his ap.r.o.n, to give himself a well-worked and business-like appearance; and he greatly impeded women who looked at the saucepans and the mousetraps, ere they entered the shop, by his anxiety to cut them off from Mr Grinder and serve them himself. He remembered the boy at the toy-shop in Bishopsgate Street, years ago, who had chased him through Spitalfields; and he wished that some lurching youngster would s.n.a.t.c.h a mousetrap, that he might make a chase himself.

At Mr Grinder's every call d.i.c.ky was prompt and willing; for every new duty was a fresh delight, and the whole day a prolonged game of real shopkeeping. And at his tea--he was to have tea each day in addition to three and sixpence every Sat.u.r.day--he took scarce five minutes. There was a trolley--just such a thing as porters used at railway stations, but smaller--which was his own particular implement, his own to pack parcels on for delivery to such few customers as did not carry away their own purchases: and to acquire the dexterous management of this trolley was a pure joy. He bolted his tea to start the sooner on a trolley-journey to a public-house two hundred yards away.

His enthusiasm for work as an amus.e.m.e.nt cooled in a day or two, but all his pride in it remained. The fight with Dove Lane waxed amain, but d.i.c.ky would not be tempted into more than a distant interest in it. In his day-dreams he saw himself a tradesman, with a shop of his own and the name 'R. Perrott,' with a gold flourish, over the door. He would employ a boy himself then; and there would be a parlour, with stuff-bottomed chairs and a shade of flowers, and Em grown up and playing on the piano. Truly Father Sturt was right: the hooks were fools, and the straight game was the better.

Bobby Roper, the hunchback, went past the shop once, and saw him. d.i.c.ky, minding his new dignity, ignored his enemy, and for the first time for a year and more, allowed him to pa.s.s without either taunt or blow. The other, astonished at d.i.c.ky's new occupation, came back and back again, staring, from a safe distance, at d.i.c.ky and the shop. d.i.c.ky, on his part, took no more notice than to a.s.sume an ostentatious vigilance: so that the hunchback, baring his teeth in a sn.i.g.g.e.r of malice, at last turned on his heel and rolled off.

Twice Kiddo Cook pa.s.sed, but made no sign of recognition beyond a wink; and d.i.c.ky felt grateful for Kiddo's obvious fear of compromising him.

Once old Beveridge came by, striding rapidly, his tatters flying, and the legend 'Hard Up' chalked on his hat, as was his manner in his town rambles. He stopped abruptly at sight of d.i.c.ky, stooped, and said:--'d.i.c.ky Perrott? Hum--hum--hey?' Then he hurried on, doubtless conceiving just such a fear as Kiddo Cook's. As for Tommy Rann, his affections were alienated by d.i.c.ky's outset refusal to secrete treacle in a tin mug for a midnight carouse; and he did not show himself. So matters went for near a week.

But Mr Weech missed d.i.c.ky sadly. It was rare for a day to pa.s.s without a visit from d.i.c.ky, and d.i.c.ky had a way of bringing good things. Mr Weech would not have sold d.i.c.ky's custom for ten shillings a week. So that when Mr Weech inquired, and found that d.i.c.ky was at work in an oil-shop, he was naturally annoyed. Moreover, if d.i.c.ky Perrott got into _that_ way of life, he would have no fear for himself, and might get talking inconveniently among his new friends about the business affairs of Mr Aaron Weech. And at this reflection that philanthropist grew thoughtful.

XIX

d.i.c.ky had gone on an errand, and Mr Grinder was at the shop door, when there appeared before him a whiskered and smirking figure, with a quick glance each way along the street, and a long and smiling one at the oil-man's necktie.

'Good mornin', Mr Grinder, good mornin' sir.' Mr Weech stroked his left palm with his right fist and nodded pleasantly. 'I'm in business meself, over in Meakin Street--name of Weech: p'r'aps you know the shop? I--I jist 'opped over to ask'--Grinder led the way into the shop--'to ask (so's to make things quite sure y'know, though no doubt it's all right) to ask if it's correct you're awfferin' bra.s.s roastin'-jacks at a shillin' each.'

'Bra.s.s roastin'-jacks at a shillin'?' exclaimed Grinder, shocked at the notion. 'Why, no!'

Mr Weech appeared mildly surprised. 'Nor yut seven-poun' jars o' jam an'

pickles at sixpence?' he pursued, with his eye on those ranged behind the counter.

'No!'

'Nor doormats at fourpence?'

'Fourpence? Cert'nly not!'

Mr Weech's face fell into a blank perplexity. He pawed his ear with a doubtful air, murmuring absently:--'Well I'm sure 'e _said_ fourpence: an' sixpence for pickles, an' bring 'em round after the shop was shut.

But there', he added, more briskly, 'there's no 'arm done, an' no doubt it's a mistake.' He turned as though to leave, but Grinder restrained him.

'But look 'ere,' he said, 'I want to know about this. Wotjer mean? _'Oo_ was goin' to bring round pickles after the shop was shut? _'Oo_ said fourpence for doormats?'

'Oh, I expect it's jest a little mistake, that's all,' answered Weech, making another motion toward the door; 'an' I don't want to git n.o.body into trouble.'

'Trouble? Nice trouble I'd be in if I sold bra.s.s smoke-jacks for a bob!

There's somethink 'ere as I ought to know about. Tell me about it straight.'

Weech looked thoughtfully at the oil-man's top waistcoat b.u.t.ton for a few seconds, and then said:--'Yus, p'raps I better. I can feel for you, Mr Grinder, 'avin' a feelin' 'art, an' bein' in business meself. Where's your boy?'

'Gawn out.'

'Comin' back soon?'

'Not yut. Come in the back-parlour.'

There Mr Weech, with ingenuous reluctance, a.s.sured Mr Grinder that d.i.c.ky Perrott had importuned him to buy the goods in question at the prices he had mentioned, together with others--readily named now that the oil-man swallowed so freely--and that they were to be delivered and paid for at night when d.i.c.ky left work. But perhaps, Mr Weech concluded, parading an obstinate belief in human nature, perhaps the boy, being new to the business, had mistaken the prices, and was merely doing his best to push his master's trade.

'No fear o' that,' said Grinder, shaking his head gloomily. 'Not the least fear o' that. 'E knows the cheapest doormats I got's one an'

six--I 'eard him tell customers so outside a dozen times; an' anyone can see the smoke-jacks is ticketed five an 'nine'--as Mr Weech had seen, when he spoke of them. 'I thought that boy was too eager an' willin' to be quite genavin,' d.i.c.ky's master went on. ''E ain't 'ad me yut, that's one comfort: if anythin' 'ud bin gawn I'd 'a' missed it. But out 'e goes as soon as 'e comes back: you can take yer davy o' that!'

'Ah,' replied Mr Weech, 'it's fearful the wickedness there is about, ain't it? It's enough to break yer 'art. Sich a neighb'r'ood, too! Wy, if it was known as I'd give you this 'ere little friendly information, bein' in business meself an' knowin' wot it is, my life wouldn't be safe a hower. It wouldn't, Mr Grinder.'

'Wouldn't it?' said Mr Grinder. 'You mean them in the Jago, I s'pose.'

'Yus. They're a awful lot, Mr Grinder--you've no idear. The father o'

this 'ere boy as I've warned you aginst, 'e's in with a desprit gang, an' they'd murder me if they thought I'd come an' told you honest, w'en you might 'a' bin robbed, as is my nature to. They would indeed. So o'

course you won't say wot I toldjer, nor 'oo give you this 'ere honourable friendly warnin'--not to n.o.body.'

'That's awright,' answered the simple Grinder, 'I won't let on. But out 'e goes, promp'. I'm obliged to ye, Mr Weech. Er--r wot'll ye take?'

Weech put away the suggestion with a virtuous palm:--'Nothink at all, Mr Grinder, thanks all the same. I never touch nothink; an' I'm glad to--to do any moral job, so to speak, as comes in my way. 'Scatter seeds o'

kindness' you know, as the--the Psalm says, Mr Grinder. Your boy ain't back, is 'e?'

And after peering cautiously, Mr Weech went his way.

XX