Sawn Off Part 18

"Well, he killed him with ill-usage, that's all. I shouldn't like to kill you, you know, so don't you get chucking any more of your copy-book texts at me again."

"All right, master," said the boy, wiping his eyes.

"Now, look here, mother: once for all, I won't have it. I'm as poor as I can be to get along; and though we've swallowed my watch, and the sugar-tongs and spoons, I haven't swallowed my little bit of pride; and the next time that Tom or that Fred comes here, see if I don't call him a son of a purse-proud, stuck-up father, and slam the door in his face.--Now, you be off."

"Yes, d.i.c.k," said his wife meekly; and she rose and gathered together her work. "But, d.i.c.k, you're not very cross with me?"

"Well, perhaps not," he said; and his eyes endorsed his words.

"But, look here, d.i.c.k: if Tom comes back with Jessie, you won't say anything unkind to him--for her sake?"

"Won't I?" cried d.i.c.k sharply. "I'll shy the lapstone at him! If he's too good for my Jessie, she's too good for him."

"But don't hurt their feelings, d.i.c.k," she whispered, so that the boy should not hear.

"I don't want to hurt her feelings," said d.i.c.k, yielding to his wife's influence. "But there, you're trying to come the soft on me again, as you always do, and I won't have it. Now be off."

"Yes, d.i.c.k--I'm going," she said quickly, as she put on her bonnet and shawl. "But I know you won't be unkind."

"Won't I?" said d.i.c.k, as the door closed. "I'll show some of them yet!

I can be a regular savage when I like--can't I, Jack?"

"Please, what did you say, master?" whined the boy.

"I can be a regular savage when I like--can't I?" shouted d.i.c.k.

"Yes, master.--Please, master, I'm so hungry."

"So what?"

"So hungry, please, master."

"Hungry? Why, the boy's mad!" cried d.i.c.k, looking up in mock astonishment. "How dare you, sir? Hungry, indeed! There, take that wax-out of your mouth. You're always trying to ruin me by eating the wax or chewing leather."

"I can't help it, master," said the boy. "Please, I'm so hungry."

"Hungry!" exclaimed d.i.c.k, with mock heroic diction. "Brought up, too, as you were, at one of the first workhouses in the kingdom!"

"Please, master, I can't help it," said the boy. "I feel so hollow inside."

"Hollow? Nonsense, sir! It's bad tendencies, or desire for gluttony and wine-bibbing. And after I've been such a good master to you!"

"Yes, master; and I'll never, never, never--"

"`Never, never, never shall be slaves,'" sang d.i.c.k, in his musical tenor voice. "But don't you say that, Jack, my boy; because if you keep on running out of your trousers as you do, and looking like something growing out of two beans, which is your boots, and then joining in the middle and running up to a head, I sha'n't want you, specially if you're going to be hollow, and want filling out."

"But I don't want filling out, master, only just a little sometimes. I can't help feeling hollow, and as if something was gnawing me."

"Gnawing? Yes, that's it," cried d.i.c.k. "I always told you so. That's it. You will devour your food in such a way that it don't digest; and that's what you feel, sir--gnawing pains. There, fix up them bristles.

You ain't hungry."

"It feels very much like as I used to feel at the House, master," said the boy. "We all of us used to feel hollow there sometimes on rice days. I can't help it, please."

"Now, look ye here, my fine fellow, it won't do, so I tell you. I'm your master, ain't I?"

"Yes, please," said the boy, making a scoop with his hand. "Leave off!

I won't have it!" cried d.i.c.k. "You ain't to bow to me. I say as your master I ought to know best, and I say you ain't hungry; and, look here, don't you chew wax and leather any more, because they're my property, and you'll be tempted to swallow them, when it will not only be petty larceny, but they'll disagree with you. Now, go on sorting out the best o' them bits o' leather."

"Yes, master," said the boy.

d.i.c.k rose from his bench, and went to the cupboard to see if there was a crust of bread and some b.u.t.ter to give to the boy; but it was quite empty, and he began to walk up and down, talking to himself.

"It's very hard," he muttered dolefully; "but the more I try to get on the more I don't, and if things don't mend G.o.d knows what's to become of us. Poor Polly! she frets a deal, only she hides it; and as for Jessie--There, there, there, I can't bear to think of it!" he groaned.

"I must have been a fool, and so can't get on."

He scuffled back to his seat, for a familiar step was heard in the court; and, taking up his work, he began to sing merrily, after adjuring the boy to go on ahead.

"Hollo, mother!" he cried, as his wife entered the room: "brought the money?"

"No, d.i.c.k," said Mrs Shingle sadly; "they don't pay till next week."

"Don't pay for a week!" said d.i.c.k, letting his hands drop, but recovering himself directly. "All right!" he cried,--"so much in store.--`Cheer up, Sam, and don't let your spirits go down,'" he sang.

"I say, mother, ain't it time that Jessie was back?"

"Yes," said Mrs Shingle sadly; "she'll be back soon. It's very hard, though, and it seems as if it never rained but it poured."

"Never does," said d.i.c.k cheerily; "`So put up your gingham and drive away care,'" he sang. "Hang it, mother, I hope it won't really rain before she comes back. Did she take the big umbrella?"

"No, father."

"Ah! bad job; but never mind--perhaps it won't rain. Go along, Jack, my lad: you don't feel hollow inside now, do you?"

"Yes, please, master--ever so much hollower," said the boy pitifully.

"I never see such a boy," cried d.i.c.k. "Here, open the door, mother,-- it's Jessie. Hollo!" he cried, jumping up; "what's the matter?"

"Oh, father, father!" sobbed the girl, running to his arms.

"Why, my precious!" he exclaimed, patting her cheek, "what is it? Has any one dared? Oh, that's it, is it?" he muttered; for his brother, closely followed by his younger step-son, entered the room.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER FOUR.

A BROTHERS' QUARREL.

Maximilian Shingle was a heavy, broad-faced man, very cleanly shaven, and with grey hair very smoothly brushed. His black suit was as glossy as a first-cla.s.s undertakers, and he always wore an old-style bunch of seals beneath his vest, with which he played as he spoke, spinning them round, while his other hand flourished a black ebony stick, with a gold top and a good deal of ta.s.sel.

Metaphorically speaking, there was a good deal of ta.s.sel all about Maximilian, for he swung and flourished about in his words and deeds, and always seemed to be more showy than substantial; and even now, when he was very white, and evidently in a towering pa.s.sion, he flourished his seals and stick, and turned threateningly upon his brother; whilst the boy, who seemed to see in him a workhouse official or Poor-law guardian, softly stole into the back room, and surveyed the proceedings through the crack of the door.

In fact, the moment you saw Max Shingle, you said to yourself, "What a splendid man for a beadle!" And so he was: put him in uniform, and he would have been simply perfect--from the soft roll of fat under his chin to the well-rounded calf of his leg, which showed so prominently through his well-cut trousers. His very appearance aggravated you, and caused an itching beneath the nail of your right toe; for he was one of those men whom nature out of pure beneficence moulded to be kicked as a relief to abnormal irritation. His appearance at every turn suggested it, inasmuch as he was padded with tissue of the most elastic nature, such as would yield easily to the foot; and thus the kicker would run no risks either of hurting himself or committing homicide, while he obtained the satisfaction all the same.