Original Penny Readings Part 24

To ha' seen him stare you might ha' thought he'd never had a good word said to him in his life; and when he had had his stare out, if he didn't lay hold o' them pies and eat 'em in a way as made one uncomfortable, it seemed so un-Christian like and wolfish.

Well, sir, I never did like my job a takin' him, but now I hated myself, and s'elp me, sir, if he'd ha' cut and run if I wouldn't ha' gone after him down the wrong street.

When he'd done he looked as if another half-dozen would ha' been welcome; but I know'd what was what, so I takes him into the first public we pa.s.ses and orders a pint o' dog's-nose, what we calls purl, yer know, and then I does my half pull o' that, for I knows in his state he couldn't stand much; and then we goes on towards the station; while the stuff made him open his lips, and he begs on me to go as I had said, and if I could, take half the loaf too. For, says he--

"They're nearly starved."

"Who is?" says I.

"My wife and the little ones," he says.

"More shame for you to let 'em," says I.

"Man, man," says he, and he looks me so savage in the face that I thought he meant to hit me. "Man, man," he says, "I've tried all, everything that a husband and father could do; I've fought for, prayed for, begged for work; I've tramped the great city through day after day; I've sought work till I've turned home heartsick and weary, to sell, piece by piece, everything we could sell, till look at me," he says, "look at me; who'd give me work? Who'd believe me honest? Who wouldn't drive me away as a vagabond if I asked for work? And what did I do to-night? I took what no man would give me--bread for my starving wife and children, and now--G.o.d help them, for I can't!"

He'd been speaking as fierce as a lion at first, and now he broke down all at wunst, and seemed as though he was a-goin' to bust out a crying again; but he didn't. And so we walks on, and I breaks the loaf in two pieces, pulls it apart, yer know, sir, crummy way, and when the charge was made, for I found the baker a-waitin' at the station, for he got there first, I waited to see my prisoner into a cell, and afore he was locked up, I shoves the half-loaf under his arm, and a great-coat as lay over a bench as we went along. Then off I goes arter the baker, who was one o' your red-faced, chuffy little chaps, one o' them coves as has sech a precious good opinion o' themselves. He'd only jest got round the corner when I hails him, and he stops short.

"Well, governor," I says, "what'll yer take to drink? give it a name."

"Oh," says he, with a bit of a sneer, "you mean what am I a-goin' to stand?"

"No I don't," I says, "for I've jest had plenty."

"What d'yer mean?" sez he.

"Why, that there poor chap as we've jest locked up."

"Why, I never knowed you p'leecemen could come the soft like that," sez he; "but what d'yer mean about 'poor chap?'"

"Well, come in here," I says, "and I'll tell yer."

So we goes in, and as it was cold we has two fours o' gin hot, with sugar, and as I was now up, I begins to tell him about what took place comin' to the station, and I says as I was a-goin' to take something to Number 99, King's Court, and see if all he'd said was true.

"Here," says baker to the barman, "fill these here gla.s.ses again, Charles," and then turnin' to me, says he:--

"Governor, if I'd ha' known all this when that pore chap come in to my shop to-day I'd ha' give him a dozen loaves; I'm hanged if I wouldn't."

Which was rather hot of him, yer know, sir, and I hope you'll excuse me a-sayin' it, but them was his very words, and if he didn't look as excited as if he didn't know what to do with hisself.

"Tip that gla.s.s off, p'leeceman," he says, "and let's be off."

"Well, good night," I says, "and if I was you, I don't think I should press the charge agin him to-morrow."

"May I never rise another batch if I do," he says; "but come on."

"Well, once more good night," I says.

"Wait a bit," says he, "I'm goin' with you."

"Are yer?" I says.

"I just am," says he.

"Then come on," says I; and away we went.

On the way I gets a sixpenny Watling at a public, and then at a tater-can a dozen hot mealies, which I shoves in my coat pockets, and the pie in my hat; while the baker he slips into the fust shop we comes to, and picks out a couple of the best crusted cottages as he could find.

Well, sir, we gets at last to Number 99, King's Court, and afore we goes in I says to the baker, says I--

"Now if this is a do, we'll just have a friendly supper off what we've bought, and a drop of hot."

"Agreed," says life.

And we went up the stairs, and knocked at the fust floor front.

"Mrs Graham lodge here?" says I.

"Three pair back," says the lodger, a-slamming the door in our faces.

"You'd better go fust," says I to baker; "they don't like the looks o'

my hat." That was afore we took to 'elmets, yer know, sir.

So baker goes up fust, and I follows--up the dirty old staircase, till we stood on the landing, opposite to the door, where we could hear a young 'un a whimperin'. So baker knocks, and some one says, "Come in,"

and in we goes; and Lord, sir, it was a heart-breaking sight, sure-ly.

I'm a rough 'un, sir, and used to all sorts of things, and it takes a good deal to get a rise out o' me; but I was done this time, and so was baker. I never see nought as upset me like that did, and I hopes I never shall again. No light--no fire--and pretty nigh no furniture, as far as we could see from the light as shined up into the room from a court at the back, where there was a gas lamp, and that warn't much, as you may suppose, sir. And jest then the lodger in the front room opens the door and offers her candle. I steps back and takes it, and then comes back and shuts the door arter me. Good Lord--Good Lord, what they must ha' suffered. There was a thin, half-dressed, pinched-faced woman, huddling up three little children together; and though they didn't know it, sir, I do. They didn't know as death had knocked at their doors, and was only a-waiting a bit before he came in. Think, sir, a cold November night in a bare garret-like room, and no fire, and no proper coverin', and no proper food, but the mother and children, close up together on a straw mattress, with some rags and an old blanket to cover 'em.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" said baker. You see, sir, he was rayther strong in what he said, and he pulls off his coat and claps it over the poor wife's shoulders. "Here, pull out them hot taters," he says, and he hurries me so I could hardly get 'em out, but he soon has a hot 'un in each o' the child's hands, and tellin' me to keep 'em goin', he cuts down stairs as hard as he could pelt, and afore you could think it possible, back he comes again, with his arms full o' bundles o' wood, an' he sticks a couple all loose and sets light to 'em, and soon makes a cheerful blaze as made the poor things creep up to, and so close as I was almost obliged to keep the two littlest back, or they would ha' singed baker's coat. Away goes baker agen, and very soon back he comes with one o'

them little sacks o' coals--half hundreds yer know, such as they sells poor folks coals in, and then he rams these coals on like fury while the poor woman looks on quite stupid like.

"G.o.d forgive me," says baker; looking ready to bust, "what could I ha'

been thinking of? Here, Bobby," he says, holdin' out a shilling, "go down and get a pot of hot ale and some gin in; a drop'll do even them kids good."

I goes down in such a hurry that I forgets all about his shilling, and when they'd all had a taste round, it was wonderful how much better they looked; and then baker says, says he--

"Now you jest stop here half an hour till I gets back."

And stop I did, sir, a talkin' to the poor woman, an' I told her all about the loaf, and made her sob and cry to hear where her husband was.

But she brightened up when I told her as he'd had a good feed and was well wrapped up; and how baker wouldn't prosecute, I was sure. And then back comes baker, and his wife with him, and they'd got a couple o'

blankets and a rug, and at last, sir, there was such goin's on that I'm blest if I warn't obliged to go out on the landin', for the poor woman wanted to kiss me; and if I'd ha' stayed in the room a minute longer I knows I should have disgraced the force by acting like a soft.

Soon afterwards baker and his wife comes out, and we all goes off, but not till it was settled that I was to go and have dinner with 'em on the next Sunday, which I did, and I'm blowed--which I hope you'll excuse, sir--if I knew Mr Graham, which was the poor fellow I took, for baker had rigged him out, and got him a place to go to; and since then I've often seen--Well, if it ain't half-past ten, sir, and--Not a drop more, thank ye, or I shall have the key of the street.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A WEIRD PLACE.