The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Well, but, Peter,” continued Mrs Chopper, “you must be very careful; for, you see, I’m often called away here and there after wash clothes and such things; and then you must look out, and if they do take up anything, why, you must book it, at all events. You’ll learn by-and-bye who to trust, and who not to trust; for I know the most of my customers. You must not trust a woman—I mean any of the sailors’ wives—unless I tell you; and you must be very sharp with them, for they play all manner of tricks; you must look two ways at once. Now, there’s a girl on board the brig we are pulling to, called Nancy; why, she used to weather poor Peter, sharp as he was. She used to pretend to be very fond of him, and hug him close to her with one arm, so as to blind him, while she stole the tarts with the other; so, don’t admit her familiarities; if you do, I shall pay for them.”

“Then, who am I to trust?”

“Bless the child! you’ll soon find out that; but mind one thing; never trust a tall, lanky seaman without his name’s on the books; those chaps never pay. There’s the book kept by poor Peter; and you see names upon the top of each score—at least, I believe so; I have no learning myself, but I’ve a good memory; I can’t read nor write, and that’s why Peter was so useful.”

That Peter could read his own writing it is to be presumed; but certain it was that Joey could not make it out until after many days examination, when he discovered that certain hieroglyphics were meant to represent certain articles; after which it became more easy.

They had now reached the side of the vessel, and the sailors came down into the boat, and took up several articles upon credit; Joey booked them very regularly.

“Has Bill been down yet?” said a soft voice from the gangway.

“No, Nancy, he has not.”

“Then he wants two red herrings, a sixpenny loaf, and some ’baccy.”

Joey looked up, and beheld a very handsome, fair, blue-eyed girl with a most roguish look, who was hanging over the side.

“Then he must come himself, Nancy,” replied Mrs Chopper, “for, you know, the last time you took up the things he said that you were never told to do so, and he would not pay for them.”

“That’s because the fool was jealous; I lost the tobacco, Mrs Chopper, and he said I had given it to Dick Snapper.”

“I can’t help that; he must come himself.”

“But he’s away in the boat, and he told me to get the things for him. Who have you there? Not Peter; no, it’s not Peter; but, what a dear little boy.”

“I told you so,” said Mrs Chopper to our hero; “now, if I wasn’t in the boat, she would be down in it in a minute, and persuade you to let her have the things—and she never pays.”

Joey looked up again, and, as he looked at Nancy, felt that it would be very unkind to refuse her.

“Now, what a hard-hearted old woman you are, Mrs Chopper. Bill will come on board; and, as sure as I stand here, he’ll whack me. He will pay you, you may take my word for it.”

“Your word, Nancy!” replied Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.

“Stop a moment,” said Nancy, coming down the side with very little regard as to showing her well-formed legs; “stop, Mrs Chopper, and I’ll explain to you.”

“It’s no use coming down, Nancy, I tell you,” replied Mrs Chopper.

“Well, we shall see,” replied Nancy, taking her seat in the boat, and looking archly in Mrs Chopper’s face; “the fact is Mrs Chopper, you don’t know what a good-tempered woman you are.”

“I know, Nancy, what you are,” replied Mrs Chopper.

“Oh, so does everybody: I’m nobody’s enemy but my own, they say.”

“Ah! that’s very true, child; more’s the pity.”

“Now, I didn’t come down to wheedle you out of anything, Mrs Chopper, but merely to talk to you, and look at this pretty boy.”

“There you go, Nancy; but ain’t he like Peter?”

“Well, and so he is! very like Peter; he has Peter’s eyes and his nose, and his mouth is exactly Peter’s—how very strange!”

“I never see’d such a likeness!” exclaimed Mrs Chopper.

“No, indeed,” replied Nancy, who, by agreeing with Mrs Chopper in all she said, and praising Joey, and his likeness to Peter, at last quite came over the old bumboat-woman; and Nancy quitted her boat with the two herrings, the loaf; and the paper of tobacco.

“Shall I put them down, Mrs Chopper?” said Joey.

“Oh, dear,” replied Mrs Chopper, coming to her recollection, “I’m afraid that it’s no use; but put them down, anyhow; they will do for bad debts. Shove off, William, we must go to the large ship now.”

“I do wish that that Nancy was at any other port,” exclaimed Mrs Chopper, as they quitted the vessel’s side; “I do lose so much money by her.”

“Well,” said the waterman, laughing, “you’re not the only one; she can wheedle man or woman, or, as they say, the devil to boot, if she would try.”

During the whole of the day the wherry proceeded from ship to ship, supplying necessaries; in many instances they were paid for in ready money, in others Joey’s capabilities were required, and they were booked down against the customers. At last, about five o’clock in the evening, the beer-barrel being empty, most of the contents of the baskets nearly exhausted, and the wherry loaded with the linen for the wash, biscuits, empty bottles, and various other articles of traffic or exchange, Mrs Chopper ordered William, the waterman, to pull on shore to the landing-place.

As soon as the baskets and other articles had been carried up to the house, Mrs Chopper sent out for the dinner, which was regularly obtained from a cook’s-shop. Joey sat down with her, and when his meal was finished, Mrs Chopper told him he might take a run and stretch his legs a little if he pleased, while she tended to the linen which was to go to the wash. Joey was not sorry to take advantage of this considerate permission, for his legs were quite cramped from sitting so long jammed up between baskets of eggs, red herrings, and the other commodities which had encompassed him.

We must now introduce Mrs Chopper to the reader a little more ceremoniously. She was the widow of a boatswain, who had set her up in the bumboat business with some money he had acquired a short time before his death, and she had continued it ever since on her own account. People said that she was rich, but riches are comparative, and if a person in a seaport town, and in her situation, could show 200 or 300 pounds at her bankers, she was considered rich. If she was rich in nothing else, she certainly was in bad and doubtful debts, having seven or eight books like that which Joey was filling up for her during the whole day, all containing accounts of long standing, and most of which probably would stand for ever; but if the bad debts were many, the profits were in proportion; and what with the long standing debts being occasionally paid, the ready-money she continually received, and the profitable traffic which she made in the way of exchange, etcetera, she appeared to do a thriving business, although it is certain the one-half of her goods were as much given away as were the articles obtained from her in the morning by Nancy.

It is a question whether these books of bad debts were not a source of enjoyment to her, for every night she would take one of the books down, and although she could not read, yet, by having them continually read to her, and knowing the pages so exactly, she could almost repeat every line by heart which the various bills contained; and then there was always a story which she had to tell about each—something relative to the party of whom the transaction reminded her; and subsequently, when Joey was fairly domiciled with her, she would make him hand down one of the books, and talk away from it for hours; they were the ledgers of her reminiscences; the events of a considerable portion of her life were all entered down along with the ’baccy, porter, pipes, and red herrings; a bill for these articles was to her time, place and circumstance; and what with a good memory, and bad debts to assist it, many were the hours which were passed away (and pleasantly enough, too, for one liked to talk, and the other to listen) between Mrs Chopper and our little hero. But we must not anticipate.

The permission given to Joey to stretch his legs induced him to set off as fast as he could to gain the high road before his little friend, Emma Phillips, had left her school. He sat down in the same place, waiting for her coming. The spot had become hallowed to the poor fellow, for he had there met with a friend—with one who sympathised with him when he most required consolation. He now felt happy, for he was no longer in doubt about obtaining his livelihood, and his first wish was to impart the pleasing intelligence to his little friend. She was not long before she made her appearance in her little straw bonnet with blue ribbons. Joey started up, and informed her that he had got a very nice place, explained to her what it was, and how he had been employed during the day.

“And I can very often come out about this time, I think,” added Joey, “and then I can walk home with you, and see that you come to no harm.”

“But,” replied the little girl, “my mother says that she would like to see you, as she will not allow me to make acquaintance with people I meet by accident. Don’t you think that mother is right?”

“Yes, I do; she’s very right,” replied Joey; “I didn’t think of that.”

“Will you come and see her, then?”

“Not now, because I am not very clean. I’ll come on Sunday, if I can get leave.”

They separated, and Joey returned back to the town. As he walked on, he thought he would spend the money he had got in a suit of Sunday clothes, of a better quality than those he had on, the materials of which were very coarse. On second thoughts, he resolved to apply to Mrs Chopper, as he did not exactly know where to go for them, and was afraid that he would be imposed upon.

“Well, Peter,” said his new mistress, “do you feel better for your walk?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

“Peter,” continued Mrs Chopper, “you appear to be a very handy, good boy, and I hope we shall live together a long while. How long have you been at sea?”

“I was going to sea; I have never been to sea yet, and I don’t want to go; I would rather stay with you.”

“And so you shall, that’s a settled thing. What clothes have you got, Peter?”

“I have none but what I stand in, and a few shirts in a bundle, and they are Sunday ones; but when I left home I had some money given me, and I wish to buy a suit of clothes for Sunday, to go to church in.”

“That’s a good boy, and so you shall; but how much money have you got?”