The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Well, now, it’s very odd; but do you know you are like poor Peter, and the more I look at you the more you are like him: poor Peter! did you hear how I lost him?”

“Yes, the sailor lad told me this morning.”

“Poor fellow! he held on too fast; most people drown by not holding on fast enough: he was a good boy, and very smart indeed; and so it was you who helped me this morning when I missed poor Peter so much? Well, it showed you had a good heart, and I love that; and where did you meet with Jim Paterson?”

“I met him first in a slop-shop, as he calls it, when I was buying my clothes.”

“Well, Jim’s a wild one, but he has a good heart, and pays when he can. I’ve been told by those who know his parents, that he will have property by-and-bye. Well, and what can you do? I am afraid you can’t do all Peter did.”

“I can keep your accounts, and I can be honest and true to you.”

“Well, Peter could not do more: are you sure you can keep accounts, and sum up totals?”

“Yes, to be sure I can; try me.”

“Well, then, I will: here is pen, ink, and paper. Well, you are the very image of Peter, and that’s a fact. Now write down beer, 8 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see: duck for trousers, 3 shillings, 6 pence; beer again, 4 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down? Well, then, say beer again, 8 pence. Now sum that all up.”

Joey was perfect master of the task, and, as he handed over the paper, announced the whole sum to amount to 5 shillings, 10 pence.

“Well,” says Mrs Chopper, “it looks all right; but just stay here a minute while I go and speak to somebody.” Mrs Chopper left the room, went downstairs, and took it to the bar-girl at the next public-house to ascertain if it was all correct.

“Yes, quite correct, Mrs Chopper,” replied the lass.

“And is it as good as Peter’s was, poor fellow?”

“Much better,” replied the girl.

“Dear me! Who would have thought it? and so like Peter too!”

Mrs Chopper came upstairs again, and took her seat—“Well,” said she, “and now what is your name?”

“Joey.”

“Joey what?”

“Joey—O’Donahue,” replied our hero, for he was fearful of giving the name of McShane.

“And who are your parents?”

“They are poor people,” replied Joey, “and live a long way off.”

“And why did you leave them?”

Joey had already made up his mind to tell his former story; “I left there because I was accused of poaching, and they wished me to go away.”

“Poaching; yes, I understand that—killing hares and birds. Well, but why did you poach?”

“Because father did.”

“Oh, well, I see; then, if you only did what your father did we must not blame his child; and so you come down here to go to sea?”

“If I could not do better.”

“But you shall do better, my good boy. I will try you instead of poor Peter, and if you are an honest and good, careful boy, it will be much better than going to sea. Dear me! how like he is,—but now I must call you Peter; it will make me think I have him with me, poor fellow!”

“If you please,” said Joey, who was not sorry to exchange his name.

“Well, then, where do you sleep to-night?”

“I did intend to ask for a bed at the house where I left my bundle.”

“Then, don’t do so; go for your bundle, and you shall sleep in Peter’s bed (poor fellow, his last was a watery bed, as the papers say), and then to-morrow morning you can go off with me.”

Joey accepted the offer, went back for his bundle, and returned to Mrs Chopper in a quarter of an hour; she was then preparing her supper, which Joey was not sorry to partake of; after which she led him into a small room, in which was a small bed without curtains; the room itself was hung round with strings of onions, papers of sweet herbs, and flitches of bacon; the floor was strewed with empty ginger-beer bottles, oakum in bags, and many other articles. Altogether, the smell was anything but agreeable.

“Here is poor Peter’s bed,” said Mrs Chopper; “I changed his sheets the night before he was drowned, poor fellow! Can I trust you to put the candle out?”

“Oh, yes; I’ll be very careful.”

“Then, good night, boy. Do you ever say your prayers? poor Peter always did.”

“Yes, I do,” replied Joey; “good night.”

Mrs Chopper left the room. Joey threw open the window—for he was almost suffocated—undressed himself, put out the light, and, when he had said his prayers, his thoughts naturally reverted to the little Emma who had knelt with him on the road-side.

Chapter Twenty Three

In which our Hero goes on Duty

At five o’clock the next morning Joey was called up by Mrs Chopper; the waterman was in attendance, and, with the aid of Joey, carried down the various articles into the boat. When all was ready, Mrs Chopper and Joey sat down to their breakfast, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and red herrings; and, as soon as it was finished, they embarked, and the boat shoved off.

“Well, Mrs Chopper,” said the waterman, “so I perceive you’ve got a new hand.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs Chopper; “don’t you think he’s the moral of poor Peter?”

“Well, I don’t know; but there is a something about the cut of his jib which reminds me of him, now you mention it. Peter was a good boy.”

“Aye, that he was, and as sharp as a needle. You see,” said Mrs Chopper, turning to Joey, “sharp’s the word in a bumboat. There’s many who pay, and many who don’t; some I trust, and some I don’t—that is, those who won’t pay me old debts. We lose a bit of money at times, but it all comes round in the end; but I lose more by not booking the things taken than in any other way, for sailors do pay when they have the money—that is, if ever they come back again, poor fellows. Now, Peter.”

“What! is his name Peter, too?”

“Yes, I must call him Peter, William; he is so like poor Peter.”

“Well, that will suit me; I hate learning new names.”