Toilers of Babylon: A Novel
Then there was the printer, Mr. Edenborough. In his window were displayed specimens of cheap printing, cards, billheads, handbills, and what not, but there were clear spaces through which the children could peep at the master printer at his work. His stock in trade consisted of one frame, containing about a dozen cases of fancy type, which, with three pairs of cases of small pica, comprised his treasures in metal; there was also a rack of large wood letter for display bills; also an old Albion press. The youngsters stared their eyes out at him as he stood before the frame, composing-stick in hand, picking up the types with that swaying motion of his body which the spectators did not know was the sign of an inferior workman, for the skilful and expert compositor, the one who has generally earned his reputation as a "whip," keeps his body still as his hands travel over the case; they stared the harder when they saw him lock up the chase in which the card or handbill was inserted; and they stared the harder still when he worked ink-roller and press, and pulled off the impressions of the job in hand. He was rather proud of his audience, and made no attempt to disperse them; their admiration was a tribute, and it sweetened his labors.
Then there was the cook-shop, in which, at stated hours of the day, hot dishes made their appearance, smoking. A great attraction, these; tantalizing perhaps, but at all events the youngsters had the smell for nothing. Sometimes a stray ha'penny from the juvenile throng found its way into the cook-shop till. Thereafter would ensue, in some convenient nook, such a feast as Caligula never enjoyed.
Then there was Mr. Sly, the proprietor of the sweet-stuff shop. Such mysteries of sweetness, sticky or otherwise, but generally sticky, were in his window, that the children, once they got there, had the greatest difficulty in tearing themselves away. Ha'pence and farthings-the latter largely predominating-burned holes in the pockets of small breeches, and invariably, unless the plum-duff of the cook-shop stopped the way, were swept into Mr. Sly's till. There was, besides, in this man's establishment a strange and overwhelming temptation which lured the children on, and filled them now with visions of ineffable happiness, and now with visions of dark despair. The exquisite feelings of Manfred were repeated again and again in the breasts of these small morsels of mortality. In a little room at the back of his shop Mr. Sly kept what was spoken of as a "dolly," which may be described as a species of roulette board, the ball-a marble-being sent spinning down a corkscrew tower till it reached the numbers, and finally settled in its resting-place. The rule of this gambling game was the easiest imaginable, and will be understood by the words "double or quits," a system which, in its results, was painfully comprehensible to the young reprobates who patronized it. A case in point occurred at the precise time that Mr. Loveday and Timothy Chance were talking together, and what ensued may be accepted as an illustration of Mr. Sly's method of conducting that part of his business.
A juvenile of the male sex had come unexpectedly into possession of a farthing. It had not been given to him "to be good;" he had picked it up in Church Alley. He looked at it first in wonder and delight at his good luck, then he flourished it triumphantly. Forthwith he was surrounded, and far and wide the news spread that "Billy Forester had picked up a farden." This caused the meeting to be a numerous one. Before proceeding to discuss how it should be spent there was a difficulty to smooth over.
"I cried, ''Arves!'" said little Bob Bracey.
"You didn't," said Billy Forester.
"I did!"
"You didn't!"
"Look 'ere; I'll fight you for it!"
"No, yer won't. It's mine, and I means to stick to it."
"What are you goin' to do with it?" was asked in a chorus.
"Spend it," said Billy.
"In course he is. The farden's Billy's, and he's goin' to spend it. We'll all 'ave a lick."
Then ensued a discussion upon ways and means.
"I think," said Billy, "I'll spend it in burnt almonds."
This caused dismay. A farthing's worth of burnt almonds among so many, Billy by right taking the lion's share, would go a very little way; the majority of Billy's comrades would not get even a "lick."
"I tell yer wot to do, Billy," said a shrewd youngster. "'Ave a spin at old Sly's dolly, and double it."
"Yes, do, Billy, and double it ag'in. Then we'll all 'ave a taste."
Why they called Mr. Sly "old Sly" cannot be explained, the vender of sweet-stuff being comparatively a young man; but it is a way poor children have.
Billy Forester was at heart a gambler.
"I'll do it," he said.
Away he marched, followed by the admiring crowd. Billy, having found a farthing, was a hero.
"Now then," said Mr. Sly as they flocked into his shop, "not so many of yer. Hallo, Billy, it's you. What do you want?"
Billy replied by crooking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Mr. Sly's back room. That the gambling had to be carried on in secrecy made it all the more tempting to the juveniles. It was supposed by many that Mr. Sly would be beheaded if the government caught him at it.
"All right," said Mr. Sly, "you and me, Billy. Now, clear out, every one of yer, or I'll shut up shop. You can wait outside for Billy."
He hustled them out like a flock of sheep, and they clustered in the alley in pleasurable expectation, waiting for Billy. Meanwhile Mr. Sly conducted the hero to the little back room.
"'Ow much for, Billy?" asked Mr. Sly.
"A farden."
"Only a farden! Well, never mind; little fish is sweet. 'And it over."
Billy parted with his farthing.
"Will you go fust, Billy?"
"No, you," said Bill.
"'Ere goes, then." Down the screw turret went the marble, spinning round and round, and when it landed Mr. Sly called, "Eight. Rather a low number that, Billy."
Billy took the marble, spitting first in his hand for luck, and put it in the hole at the top of the tower.
"Twelve," said Mr. Sly.
Billy, having won, was entitled to one half-penny's worth of sweet-stuff for his farthing. He could choose, at liberty, almond-rock, acid drops, peppermint-stick, barley-sugar, hard-bake, toffee, treacle-rock, or any other sweet condiment he preferred. He was debating what to do when the voice of Mephistopheles fell upon his ear.
"You've got a ha'porth, Billy. Make it a penn'orth. Go in and win."
Billy remembered what one in the meeting had said, "and double it ag'in." He would.
"I'll go fust this time, Mr. Sly," he said.
Down went the marble, and, with a long face, Mr. Sly called out "Twenty-three. But it's to be beaten, Billy."
He did not beat it, however, his number being fourteen.
"That makes a penn'orth, Mr. Sly," said Billy, exultantly.
"That makes a penn'orth," said Mr. Sly, despondently. "Make it tuppence or nothink. Yer sure to win."
"Am I?"
"Sure. You'll see."
Billy, in a kind of desperation, seized the fatal marble, and sent it spinning down the corkscrew turret.
"The same number ag'in," he cried. "Twenty-three."
"A true bill," said Mr. Sly, his face darkening. "Down I go. Well, of all the luck! Twenty-two."
"I've won," said Billy, trembling from excitement.
"I told yer yer would, and yer'll win ag'in if yer not chicken 'earted. Fourpence or nothink? What do yer say?"
"I say, yes," replied Billy, in a loud tone, he was tasting for the first time the delirious excitement of gambling and winning largely, and his blood was in a ferment. "Fourpence or nothink. 'Ere goes."
There did go the marble, and landed in twenty-one. Mr. Sly was not more fortunate than before. His number was seven. His face grew darker and darker.
"Fourpenn'orth!" cried Billy. "Hooray!"
"Try ag'in," urged Mephistopheles. "Eightpenn'orth or nothink! Why, yer in sech luck that yer'd break the Bank of England. There's no standing ag'in yer. I'm desperate, I am. I shouldn't wonder if yer was to break me."
Flushed with victory, and dazzled with visions of armsful of sweet-stuff, Billy for the fifth time sent the marble down, and for the fifth time won. He screamed out the fact at the top of his voice.
"That's Billy cryin' out," said one of the throng outside. "He's winnin'."
"He'll 'ave the 'ole bloomin' shop," said another.
"If I was Billy I'd stash it," remarked a clear-brained juvenile. "I know 'ow it'll end. I've been there myself."
"Oh, you? you've got no pluck! Go in and win, Billy!"
This exhortation was shouted out, and it reached Billy's ears.
"There," said Mr. Sly, in a tone of suppressed excitement, and striving hard to smother his resentment at Billy's good-fortune, "d'yer 'ear wot they say? 'Go in and win.' Yer've got eightpenn'orth, make it sixteenpenn'orth or nothink. There was a boy 'ere last week" – and Mr. Sly gazed meditatively before him at the visionary boy he was referring to-"who commenced with a farden, just like you, and he won nine times runnin'. It's nothink much at fust-a farden, a ha'penny, a penny. It's now that it begins to mount up. Yes, nine times running he won-ten shillings and eightpence, that's wot he got the worth of. He went out loaded. Four pound of 'ard-bake, a pound of burnt almonds, a pound of barley-sugar, three pound of peppermint-rock, same of toffee, and I don't know what else. I didn't mind a bit; it did me good. That's the way to make a forchen."
The recital of the catalogue of treasures was too much for Billy, and the marble being insidiously slipped into his palm by the cunning tradesman-who was quite aware that if you go on doubling or nothing it must eventually come to nothing-Billy, with quivering nerves, dropped it down the corkscrew turret.
"Three!" shouted Mr. Sly. "But I might git one or two. 'Ere goes. Seventeen! Nothink."
Billy was sobered. Ruined and chapfallen he preceded Mr. Sly into the shop, and thence emerged into the alley, where he related his misfortune, while Mr. Sly, standing at the door, wiped his heated brows, and called out:
"Never say die, Billy. Better luck next time."
But Billy was not to be consoled. His companions, disgusted with his bad luck and disappointed in their expectations, fell off from him one by one, and he was left quite alone. A few minutes ago he was a personage, now he was nobody. He felt the fall.
CHAPTER XII
Timothy Chance went from Mr. Loveday's shop with the warm new-laid egg in his hand. By permission of the bookseller he left his one possession, the fowl rescued from the burning schoolhouse, behind him, Mr. Loveday saying, jocosely,
"If it lays another egg to-day, Timothy, I shall claim it."
"All right, sir," Timothy had replied. "It won't lay another to-day, but there will be one to-morrow. It's a bird that can earn its own living."
A remark which caused Mr. Loveday to laugh, and to think: "You're a clever fellow, Timothy. There's stuff in you."
Nearly everybody within hail of Church Alley who was familiar with Timothy's face was always pleased to see him, and indeed it may with truth be averred that he had not an enemy. This pleasant fact was the reward of his willing and cheerful spirit, which invariably prompted him to do a good turn if it was in his power. But he had one especial friend for whom, above all others, he had a deep regard. The name of this friend was Teddy Meadows, a lad about the same age as himself, and of about the same build. The liking for each other which existed between these lads might have ripened into a firm and lasting bond of friendship in their manhood, had circumstances been favorable. It had commenced with a timely service which Timothy rendered Teddy some years before. Teddy, although as tall as Timothy, was of a weakly constitution, and suffered from lameness. One day, while crossing the Whitechapel Road, he fell under the feet of a horse which was drawing a loaded hay-cart, and had it not been for Timothy rushing forward and dragging him away, he would probably have received fatal injuries. As it was, he was much shaken, and Timothy had to carry him home. The parents were grateful to Timothy for the rescue, and thus the bond between him and Teddy was commenced. Teddy's father was a carpenter, and not a bad one, and being a steady man and a capable, was successful in obtaining pretty steady work. He had a fairly comfortable home, and, without being able to put by much money for a rainy day, kept his family in comfort. Their one sorrow was Teddy's lameness and his weak constitution.
It was to Teddy's house that Timothy wended his way when he left Mr. Loveday's shop, not only because of his desire to see his friend and to relate his adventures, but because he had a vague hope that Teddy might be able to advise how he was to obtain a decent suit of clothes. On the road he met Mr. Meadows, and he fancied that Teddy's father was graver than usual; there were certainly signs of trouble in Mr. Meadows's face. "Perhaps he's out of work," thought Timothy. He went up to Mr. Meadows, and accosted him.
"It's a long time since we've seen you," said Mr. Meadows. He spoke absently, and did not seem to observe how poorly Timothy was dressed.
"I've been in the country," said Timothy, "but the gentleman I worked for was burnt out last week."
"That's unfortunate," said Mr. Meadows. "There's more trouble in the world than there ought to be."
Timothy supposed that Mr. Meadows made this remark because he was out of employment, and he did not think it right to comment upon it. From a young lad to a grown man with a family it might savor of impertinence.
"I have just come back to London," he said, "and I was going to see Teddy."
"Were you?" The father's face brightened a little, then fell again. "He'll be glad to see you. He has often spoken of you, especially lately. My poor boy!" He almost broke down.
Timothy's heart sank within him.
"Is Teddy unwell?" he asked.
"He is very ill," replied Mr. Meadows, turning his head.
"Very ill?" said Timothy, with sudden terror.
"Very, very ill." He turned his face again to Timothy, grateful for the note of sympathy in the lad's voice, and then Timothy saw that his eyes were filled with tears.
"Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry!" said Timothy, unable to restrain his own tears. "Not seriously, Mr. Meadows; not seriously, I hope."
"Yes, seriously," said Mr. Meadows, sadly, and he laid a kind hand on Timothy's shoulder. "But go and see him. He will be glad." And saying this, and afraid to trust himself further, Mr. Meadows hurried away to his work.
Timothy walked slowly on, greatly shocked by the sorrowful news. Mr. Meadows's voice and manner denoted that he feared the worst. The worst? Yes, perhaps death.
It stirred Timothy's heart deeply; a wave of sorrow was passing over it, and he had never till this moment realized how much he loved the young friend who was lying in such peril. His own troubles were forgotten; he thought only of poor Teddy.
He quickened his steps, and soon reached Mr. Meadows's house. He was about to knock at the street door, when it opened, and a gentleman came from the house, saying to Mrs. Meadows, who stood on the door-step:
"Remember-a new-laid egg."
Timothy started, and looked after the doctor. Then he went up to Mrs. Meadows.
"Oh, Tim!" sobbed the woman, "my poor boy is dying!"
"Is the new-laid egg for Teddy?" asked Timothy, in a shaking voice.
"Yes. It is the only thing, mixed with a little wine, the doctor says, that will keep strength in him till his father comes back from work."
"I have brought one, Mrs. Meadows," said Timothy, sadly. "You may be sure it is new-laid-only half an hour ago."
"God bless you!" said Mrs. Meadows. "Come in, my dear. Teddy will be so glad to see you!"
CHAPTER XIII
In all his after-life Timothy never forgot that night he spent with Teddy. It left upon him an abiding impression for good, and if in his manhood he stepped out of his way to do a kindness, he would sometimes think that he was urged to it by the spirit of his dear friend.
Teddy was more than glad to see him; he said it was the one thing he had been wishing for before he-, and then he stopped, and looked at his friend with a half-wistful, half-whimsical expression on his face.
"Before you what, Teddy?" asked Timothy, a great lump rising in his throat.
"Before I go to another place," replied Teddy.
"Where?"
"Ah! now you ask a question, Tim." He paused awhile, and added: "But somewhere. You've been talking to mother, haven't you?"
"Yes-and I met your father as I was coming here."
"He was cut up, wasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Speaking of me?"
"Yes. He could hardly get his words out."
"He has been a good father-I couldn't have had a better; no boy could. My dear, good mother, too, she will feel it. They told you I was dying, didn't they?"
The mournful look in Timothy's eyes was an eloquent answer.
"It's true, Tim; I knew it before they did, before even the doctor did. Long ago I knew I should never live to be a man. I don't know whether I'm sorry or glad. There's Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott-I say, isn't 'Ivanhoe' splendid?"
"I don't know, Teddy. I never read it. But what about Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott?"
"They're dead, aren't they?"
"Of course they are."
"There it is, you see. It comes to the same thing. The only difference is in being born earlier or later."
"I say, Teddy, where did you get all this from?"
"All what, Tim?"
"This way of talking."
"Wasn't I always so?"
"Not quite so; it's new, a lot of it-at least to me."
"Comes from reading, I suppose, and thinking a bit, like a parrot."
His mother here entered the room, with a tumbler of wine in which Timothy's new-laid egg was beaten up.
"Timothy brought the egg, my love," she said; "it is new-laid."
"Did he, now? Lift me up, Tim, please."
Timothy raised the dying lad, and supported him in his arms, and Teddy drank the wine and egg slowly.
"It's nice," he said; "it seems to make me strong."
"The doctor said it would, my dear," said his mother; "it will help to make you well."
Teddy looked tenderly at her.
"Kiss me, mother."
She took him from Timothy's arms, and for a little while the mother and son lay in a close embrace. When she was gone Teddy said:
"Did you bring the new-laid egg for me, Tim?"
"I must have done," replied Timothy, more cheerfully, hailing with hope the delusive sign of renewed strength in his friend, "because you've eaten it."
"But intentionally?"
"No Teddy, not intentionally."
"It's funny you should have had one, though, just when the doctor ordered it for me. Perhaps you're in the egg business now?"
This caused Timothy to laugh and Teddy to smile.
"I'm not in the egg business yet," said Timothy. "How I got it is part of a story."
"Your story, I can guess. You've been away a long time. Tell me everything about yourself, and everything that has happened-everything!"
"It will take so long, Teddy."
"All the more reason," said Teddy, with a grave smile, "why you should begin soon. Fire away, Tim. It will be a pleasure for me to lie and listen."
It is not so uncommon as may be supposed to chance upon a lad in Teddy's station in life able to express himself so well. Looking round upon the familiar faces in the gallery of art and literature, and recognizing in this one and that one portraits of earnest workers, the fruit of whose labors have imparted intellectual pleasure to hundreds of thousands of men and women, one cannot fail to be struck by the fact that it is not from the ranks of the rich and powerful that the majority of these bright stars have emerged. It may be that the rich have not that incentive to succeed-the spur of necessity forming part of it-which the poor have, but the fact remains. Thus it is not surprising to find a lad of Teddy's stamp in the squalid East, and his weak physical frame may be set down to his intellectual advantage.
He lay and listened to Timothy's story. Timothy spoke softly and slowly, and when, at the expiration of fifteen or sixteen minutes, he saw Teddy's eyes close, and judged that he had fallen into slumber, he stopped till Teddy, after the lapse of another few minutes, opened his eyes, and said:
"Yes, Tim, and then-"
Then Timothy resumed his story, pausing again when Teddy closed his eyes again, and continuing when the dying lad was sensible once more of what was going on around him. Now and then the mother would enter the room, very softly, and, in obedience to Timothy's finger at his lips, would close the door behind her and step to the bedside so quietly and noiselessly that she might have been a pitying spirit of air instead of a suffering mother whose heart was filled with woe. Then would she bend over the bed, sometimes with a terrible fear that her son had passed away; but she would raise her head and look at Timothy with tears in her eyes, and whisper:
"Thank God, he only sleeps!"
Ah! in these vigils of love, kept through day and night in the homes of the rich and poor, drawing the sick ones together until they stand upon the eternal platform of equality, there is much to be thankful for. If the lessons they teach were more enduring the world would be more human than it is, and justice-not that kind of justice we seek in wig and gown-would be dispensed more equally.
At length the story was finished, and Teddy, awake, but growing weaker and weaker, lay and thought over it. His voice now sometimes wandered away, and the sense of his words was blurred by the approaching change, but for the most part he held himself in control, and spoke intelligently, with a full consciousness of what he was saying.
"It was a lucky thing you got into that school, Tim."
"Yes, Teddy, it was."
"I always knew you were clever, and only wanted teaching. You must read 'Ivanhoe.'"
"I will, Teddy."
"And 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' and 'The Cricket on the Hearth.' Oh, how I've laughed and cried over them. Is Miss Emily pretty?"
"Very pretty, Ted."
"That's nice. I like pretty things-faces, flowers, and pictures. I can shut my eyes and see them-oh, such crowds of them, disappearing and coming up again. I am sorry for poor Dr. Porter. Perhaps you will see Miss Emily again."
"I hope so."
"There was little Alice Goldsmid; she was my sweetheart" – he was wandering now-"and she died a long, long time ago. I shall see her. She wore a white dress and a blue necklace. Is that you, father?"
"Yes, my boy," replied Mr. Meadows, who, with his wife, had just entered the room; "do you feel better?"
"Much better; oh, so much better! Give me your hand, father." He took it and held it to his lips. "Did you hear about Timothy and his new-laid egg?"
"Mother has told me about it, my boy."
"Is mother here?"
"Yes, my dearest."
A sudden strength animated Teddy's frame. "I could almost sit up alone," he said; and he strove to rise.
"You had better lie and rest, my boy," said his father.
"But I have something to do," he said, "that mightn't be thought of afterwards. Though if you did think of it I am sure you would do it, because it would give me pleasure."
"We would do anything to give you pleasure, my boy."
"I know you would, father, and thank you for all your goodness to me. It shall never be forgotten-never. Please help me up."
They humored him, and propped him up with pillows. Timothy was now sitting at the foot of the bed, and the dying lad's parents one on each side at the head. Their hands were clasped at his back, forming a frame for their dear one, in which he found support.
"Mother and father," he said, "I am going to make my will."
As he said this Timothy saw in his face the same half-wistful, half-whimsical expression he had observed upon his first entrance into the sick-room. The tears which welled into the mother's eyes at mention of a will-a strange fancy to enter the brain of one so young-almost blinded her. Mr. Meadows's eyes were tearless, but he suffered none the less.
"First, though, I must say good-bye to Harry and Joe and Nelly."
These were Teddy's brothers and sisters, all younger than he. "Good-bye!" murmured the mother. "Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!"
"It is right," said Teddy; "it is, isn't it, father? I shall see them again; but after to-night they won't see me, perhaps, for a long, long time. No, don't take your arm away, father; I like it where it is, and mother's." He turned to each of them, and received their loving kiss. "Tim will go and bring them up. And, Tim, don't say anything to them about my dying; it might frighten them, and they wouldn't understand. Tell them that Teddy wants to kiss them good-night. Not good-bye, Tim, good-night."
