“Mornin’, mum,” said the next-door neighbour, a very red-faced man in a dungaree jacket. “Weather’s cleared up a bit. I’ve bin ’avin’ ’alf a day auf, touchin’ up things.” He sank with a bob behind the wall, and rose again with a paint-pot in his lifted hand. “Bit o’ red paint any use to ye?”
Thered paint-pot, and a blue one from the same quarter, together with a yellow one from the neighbours on the other side, a white one from an old lighterman in the house behind, and a suitable collection of brushes subscribed by all three, were Johnny’s constant companions till the end of that weary week. The shop-shutters grew to be red, with a blue border. The window-frames were yellow, the wall beneath was white, so was the cornice above; and the door and the door-posts were red altogether, because the red paint went farthest, and the red pot had been fullest to begin with. Not only did the length of the job work off Johnny’s first enthusiasm, but its publicity embarrassed him. Perched conspicuously on a step-ladder, painting a shop in such stirring colours as these, he was the cynosure of all wayfaring folk, the target of whatever jibes their wits might compass. Three out of four warned him that the paint was laid on wrong side out. Some, in unkindly allusion to certain chance splashes, reminded him that he hadn’t half painted the window-panes; and facetious boys, in piteous pantomime, affected to be reduced to instantblindness by sudden knowledge of Johnny’s brilliant performance. But he was most discomforted by those who merely stood and stared, invisible behind him. If only he could have seen them it would not have been so bad; the oppressive consciousness that some contemptuous grown man behind and below—possibly a painter by trade—was narrowly observing every stroke of the brush, shook his nerve and enfeebled his execution. Most of these earnest spectators seemed to have no pressing business of their own, and their inspections were prolonged. One critic found speech to remark, as he turned to go his way: “Well, youaremakin’ a bloomin’ mess up there!” But most, as if at a loss for words by mere amazement, sheered off with: “Well, blimy!” It was discouraging to find that all these people could have done it so much better, and, long before the job was finished, Johnny was sore depressed and very humble, as well as tired. Only one of all his witnesses offered help, and he was a surprising person: very tall, very thin, and very sooty from work; with splay feet, sloping shoulders, a long face of exceeding diffidence, and long arms, which seemed to swing and flap irresponsibly with the skirts of his long overcoat, and to be a subject of mute apology. He saw Johnny tip-toeing at the very top of the steps, making a bad shift to reach the cornice. He stopped, looked about him, and then went on a step or two; stopped again, and came back, with a timorousglance at the shop window; and when Johnny turned and looked, he said, in a voice scarce above a whisper: “Can’tcher reach it?”
“Not very well.”
“Let’s come.” And when Johnny descended, the long man, with one more glance about the street, went up three steps at a time and laid the paint on rapidly, many feet at a sweep. He came down and shifted the steps very easily with one hand—and they were heavy steps—went up again, and in three minutes carried the paint to the very end of the cornice. Then he came down, with a sheepish smile at Johnny’s thanks, and shambled as far as next door, where he let himself in with a latch-key. And on Friday, at dinner-time, perceiving Johnny’s progress from his window on the upper floor—he was a lodger, it seemed—he came stealthily down and gave the cornice another coat.
On Saturday morning the shop was opened in form, though Johnny’s painting was not finished till dusk. Very little happened. A few children stopped on their way, and stared in at the door. The first customer was a boy from among these, who came in to beg a piece of string; and infested Harbour Lane for the rest of the day, swinging a dead rat on the end of it. Hours passed, and Nan May’s spirits fell steadily. A few pounds, a very few—they could scarce be made to lastthree weeks—was all her reserve, and most of her scanty stock was perishable. If it spoiled it could never be replaced, and unless people bought it, spoil it must. What more could she do? Industry, determination, and all the rest were well enough, but when all was said and done, nothing could make people come and buy.
Near noon the second customer came—a little girl this time. She wanted a bottle of ink for a halfpenny. There were half-a dozen little bottles of ink in a row in the window; but the price was a penny, so the little girl went away. It was a dull dinner that day. Bessy invented ingenious conjectures to account for the lack of trade, and prophesied a change in the afternoon, or the evening, or perhaps next week, or at latest the week after. Her mother could not understand. Customers came to other shops; why not to this one?
She had seen nothing of Uncle Isaac since she had come to Harbour Lane, though he knew where to find her. She had hoped he would lend a hand with the painting, or with the display of the stock; but no doubt he had been too busy. True, Johnny thought he had seen him once from the steps, some way down the street, but that must have been a mistake; for Uncle Isaac would not have come so near them without calling, nor would he have bolted instantly round the nearestcorner at sight of the boy and his work, as Johnny had fancied he had.
The afternoon began no better than the morning. Nobody came but a child, who asked for sixpenn’orth of coppers, till about four. Then a hurried woman demanded a penn’orth of mixed pickles in a saucer, and grumbled at the quantity. She wouldn’t come into the shop again, at anyrate; a threat so discomposing (for was not the woman the first paying customer?) that for hours Nan May could not forgive herself for her illiberality; though indeed she gained but a weak fraction of a farthing by the transaction.
Half an hour more went, and then there came a truly noble customer. He looked like a bricklayer, and he was far from sober: so far, indeed, that Johnny, on the steps, spying the mazy sinuosity of his approach, got a step lower and made ready to jump, in case of accidents. But the bricklayer, conscious of the presence of many ladders, steered wide into the roadway, and there stopped, fascinated by the brilliancy before him. Some swaying moments of consideration resolved him that this was a shop: and after many steps up the curb, and as many back in the gutter, he picked a labyrinthine path among the myriad ladders, narrowly missing the real one as he went, shouldered against the wet door-post, and stumbled toward the counter. Here he regarded abladder of lard with thoughtful severity, till Nan May timorously asked what he wanted.
“Shumm for kidsh,” he replied sternly, to the lard. “Shummforkidsh.” For some moments his scowl deepened; then he raised his hand and pointed. “W—wha’sha’?” he demanded.
“Lard.”
“Tharr’ll do.” He plunged his hand into his trousers pocket. “Tharr’ll do. ’Ow mush?”
“Sevenpence halfpenny a pound.”
“Orrigh’? Gi’s ’oldovit.” He reached an unsteady hand, imperilling bottles; but Nan May was quicker, and took the bladder of lard from its perch.
“How much?” she asked.
“’Ow much? Thash wha’Iwan’ know. You give it ’ere, go on.” His voice rose disputatively, and he fell on the bladder of lard with both hands. “’Ow mush?”
Nan reflected that it weighed more than three pounds, and that she had paid Mr. Dunkin eighteenpence for it. “Two shillings,” she said.
“Two shillin’. Orrigh’,” and instantly what remained of the new customer’s week’s wages was scattered about the counter. Mrs. May took two shillings and returned the rest; which with some difficulty was thrust back into the pocket. And the new customer, after looking narrowly about him in search of his purchase, and at lastdiscovering it under his arm, sallied forth with a wipe against the other door-post, and continued his winding way: a solemn and portentous bricklayer, with red paint on his shoulders and whiskers, and a bladder of lard that slipped sometimes forward and sometimes backward from his embrace, and was a deal of trouble to pick up again.
Here was a profit of sixpence at a stroke, unlikely as the chance was to recur; and it raised Nan’s spirits, unreasonably enough. Still, the bricklayer brought luck of a sort. For there were three more customers within the next hour, two bringing a halfpenny and one a penny. And in the evening five or six came, one spending as much as fourpence. This was better, perhaps, but poor enough. At ten that night Nan May reckoned her profit for the day at ninepence farthing, including the bricklayer’s sixpence; and she was sick with waiting and faint with fear. At half-past ten Uncle Isaac turned up.
“Ah hum,” he said; “bin paintin’. Might ’a’ laid it on a bit evener. There’s right ways o’ layin’ on paint, an’ there’s wrong ways, an’ one way ain’t the same as the other.” He raised his finger at Johnny instructively. “Far from it and contrairy, there’s a great difference.” Uncle Isaac paused, and no further amplification of his proposition occurring to him, he turned to Mrs. May. “’Ow’s trade?” he asked.
Nan May shook her head sadly. “Very bad, uncle,” she said. “Hardly any at all.” And she felt nearer crying than ever since the funeral.
“Ah,” said Uncle Isaac, sitting on a packing case—empty, but intended to look full; “ah, what you want’s Enterprise. Enterprise; that’s what you want. What is it as stimilates trade an’ encourages prosperity to—to the latest improvements? Enterprise. Why is commercial opulentness took—at least, wafted—commercial opulentness wafted round the ’ole world consekince o’ what? Consekince o’ Enterprise.” Uncle Isaac tapped the counter with his forefinger and gazed solemnly in Nan May’s troubled face. “Consekince o’ Enterprise,” he repeated slowly, with another tap. Then he added briskly, with a glance at the inner door: “’Adjer supper?”
“No, uncle,” Nan answered. “I never thought of it. But, now you’re here, p’raps you’ll have a bit with us?”
“Ah—don’t mind if I do,” Uncle Isaac responded cheerfully. “That looks a nice little bit o’ bacon. Now a rasher auf that, an’ a hegg—got a hegg? O yus.” He saw a dozen in a basin. “A rasher auf that, an’ a hegg or two, ’ud be just the thing, with a drop o’ beer, wouldn’t it?”
Johnny fetched the beer, and Uncle Isaac had two rashers and four eggs; and he finished with a good solidpiece of bread, and the first slice—a large one—out of the Dutch cheese from the counter. Nan May made no more than a pretence at eating a little bread and cheese.
When at last the jug was empty, and Uncle Isaac was full, he leaned back in his chair, and for some minutes exercised his lips in strange workings and twistings, with many incidental clicks and sucks and fizzes, while he benignantly contemplated the angle of the ceiling. When at last the display flagged, he brought his gaze gradually lower, till it rested on the diminished piece of bacon. “None so bad, that bacon,” he observed, putting his head aside with a critical regard. “Though p’raps rayther more of a breakfast specie than a supper.” He laid his head to the other side, as one anxious to be impartial. “Yus,” he went on thoughtfully, “more of a breakfast specie, as you might say.” Then after a pause, he added, with the air of one announcing a brilliant notion:—“I b’lieve—yus, I do b’lieve I’ll try a bit for breakfast to-morrer mornin’!”
“If you like, uncle,” Nan answered, a little faintly. “But—but-” timidly—“I was thinking p’raps it’ll make it look rather small to—to put on the counter.”
“So it would—so it would,” Uncle Isaac admitted frankly; and indeed the remaining piece was scarce of four rashers’ capacity. “Pity to cut it, as you say, Nan. Thanks—I’ll just wrop it up as it is. It’ll come in forMonday too; an’ that large bit o’ streaky’ll look a deal more nobler on the counter.”
Uncle Isaac’s visit swept away the day’s profits and a trifle more. But certainly, Uncle Isaac must not be offended now that things looked so gloomy ahead.
Bessy lay, and strained her wits far into the night, inventing comfortable theories and assurances, and exchanging them with her mother for others as hopeful. But in the morning each pillow had its wet spot.
ButMonday saw another beginning. Johnny must rise soon after five now, to reach his work at six; but on this, the first morning, he was awake and eager at half-past four. Early as he was, his mother was before him, and as he pulled his new white ducks over his every-day clothes he could hear her moving below. Nan May was resolved that the boy should go out to begin the world fed and warm at least, and as cheerful as might be.
For this one morning Johnny felt nothing of the sleepy discomfort of any house in pitch dark a little before five. Two breakfasts were ready for him, one for the present moment (which he scarce touched, for he was excited), and another in a basin and a red handkerchief, for use at the workshop, with a new tin can full of coffee. For the half-hour allowed for breakfast would scarce suffice for the mere hurrying home and hurrying back again; and the full hour at midday would give him bare time for dinner with his mother.
Bessy was infected with the excitement, and stumped downstairs to honour Johnny’s setting out. He left theshop-door half an hour too soon, with a boot flung after him. The darkness of the street seemed more solid at this hour than ever at midnight, and it almost smothered the faint gas-lights. Now and again a touch of sleet came down the wind, and a little dirty, half-melted snow of yesterday made the ways sloppy. Nobody was about, to view the manly glory of Johnny’s white ducks, and he was not sorry now that his overcoat largely hid them, for the wind was cold. And he reflected with satisfaction that the warming of his coffee on a furnace would smoke the inglorious newness off the tin can ere he carried it home in the open day.
The one or two policemen he met regarded him curiously, for workmen were not yet moving. But the coffee-stall was open by the swing bridge, and here the wind came over the river with an added chill. The coffee-stall keeper had no customers, and on the bridge and in the straight street beyond it nobody was in sight. Till presently a small figure showed indistinctly ahead, and crossed the road as though to avoid him. It moved hurriedly, keeping timidly to the wall, and Johnny saw it was a girl of something near his own age. He tramped on, and the girl, once past, seemed to gather courage, turned, and made a few steps after him. At this he stopped, and she spoke from a few yards off. She was a decently-dressed and rather a pretty girl, as he could see by the bad light of the nearest lamp,but her face was drawn with alarm, and her eyes were wet.
“Please have you seen a lady anywhere?” she asked tremulously. “Ill?”
Johnny had seen no lady, ill or well, and when he said no, the young girl, with a weak “Thank-you,” hastened on her way. It was very odd, thought Johnny, as he stared into the dark where she vanished. Who should lose a lady—ill—in Blackwall streets at this time of a pitch dark morning? As he thought, there rose in his mind the picture of gran’dad, straying and bloody and sick to death, that night that seemed so far away, though it was but a month or two since. Maybe the lady had wandered from her bed in some such plight as that. Johnny was sorry for the girl’s trouble, and would have liked to turn aside and join in her search; but this was the hour of great business of his own, and he went his way about it.
The policemen were knocking at doors now, rousing workmen, who answered with shouts from within. An old night-watchman, too, scurrying his hardest (for he had farther to go than the policemen), banged impatiently at the knockers of the more conservative and old-fashioned. And as Johnny neared Maidment and Hurst’s, the streets grew busy with the earliest workmen—those who lived farthest from their labour.
Maidment and Hurst’s gate was shut fast; he wasfar too soon. He tried the little door that was cut in the great gate, but that was locked. He wondered if he ought to knock; and did venture on a faint tap of the knuckles. But he might as well have tapped the brick wall. Moreover, a passing apprentice observed the act, and guffawed aloud. “Try down the airey, mate,” was his advice.
So Johnny stood and waited, keeping the new tin can where the gaslight over the gate should not betray its unsmoked brightness, and trying to look as much like an old hand as possible. But the passing men grinned at each other, jerking their heads toward him, and Johnny felt that somehow he was known for a greenhorn. The apprentices, immeasurable weeks ahead of him in experience, flung ironic advice and congratulation. “Hooray! Extry quarter for you, mate!” two or three said; one earnestly advising him to “chalk it on the gaffer’s ’at, so’s ’e won’t forget.” And still another shouted in tones of extravagant indignation:—“What? On’y jes’ come? They bin a-waitin’ for ye ever since the pubs shut!”
At length the timekeeper came, sour and grey, and tugged at a vertical iron bell-handle which Johnny had not perceived. The bell brought the night-watchman, with a lantern and a clank of keys, and the timekeeper stepped through the little door with a growl inacknowledgment. He left the door ajar, and Johnny, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped in after him.
“Mr. Cottam told me to come this morning, sir,” he said, before the timekeeper had quite disappeared into his box. “My name’s May.”
The timekeeper turned and growled again, that being his usual manner of conversation. “Awright,” he continued. “You wait there till ’e comes in then.” And it was many months ere Johnny next heard him say so much at once.
The timekeeper began hanging round metal tickets on a great board studded with hooks, a ticket to each hook, in numbered order. Presently a man came in at the door, selected a ticket from the board, and dropped it through a slot into what seemed to be a big money-box. Then three came together, and each did the same. Then there came a stream of men and boys, and the board grew barer of tickets and barer. In the midst came Mr. Cottam, suddenly appearing within the impossibly small wicket as by a conjuring trick.
He tramped heavily straight ahead, apparently unconscious of Johnny. But as he came by he dropped his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and, gazing steadily ahead: “Well, me lad!” he roared, much as though addressing somebody at a window of the factory across the yard.
“Good-morning, sir,” Johnny answered, walking atthe foreman’s side by compulsion; for the hand, however friendly, was the heaviest and strongest he had ever felt.
Mr. Cottam went several yards in silence, still gripping Johnny’s shoulder. Then he spoke again. “Mother all right?” he asked fiercely, still addressing the window.
“Yes, sir, thank-you.”
They walked on, and entered the factory. “This ’ere,” said Mr. Cottam, turning on Johnny at last and glaring at him sternly: “this ’ere’s the big shop. ’Eavy work. There’s a big cylinder for the noo Red Star boat.” He led his prisoner through the big shop, this way and that among the great lathes and planers, lit by gas from the rafters; and up a staircase to another workshop. “’Ere we are,” said Mr. Cottam, releasing Johnny’s shoulder at last. “Y’ain’t a fool, are ye? Know what a lathe is, doncher, an’ beltin’, an’ shaftin’? Awright. Needn’t do nothin’ ’fore breakfast. Look about an’ see things, an’ don’t get in mischief. I got me eye on ye.”
The foreman left him, and began to walk along the lines of machines; and the nearest apprentice grinned at Johnny, and winked. Johnny looked about, as the foreman had advised. This place, where he was to learn to make engines, and where he was to work day by day till he was twenty-one, and a man, was a vastroom with skylights in the roof: though this latter circumstance he did not notice till after breakfast, when the gas was turned off, and daylight penetrated from above. A confusion of heavy raftering stretched below the roof, carrying belted shafting everywhere; and every man bent over his machine or his bench, for Cottam was a sharp gaffer. Johnny watched the leading hand scribing curves on metal along lines already set out by punctured dots. “Lining off,” said the leading hand, seeing the boy’s interest. And then, leaning over to speak, because of the workshop din: “Centre-dabs,” he added, pointing to the dots.That, at least, Johnny resolved not to forget: lining off and centre-dabs.
For some reason—perhaps the usual reason, perhaps another—three or four of the men were “losing a quarter” that Monday morning, and some of them were men with whom young apprentices had been working. Consequently, Cottam, in addition to his general supervision, had to keep particular watch on these mentorless lads, and Johnny learned a little from the gaffer’s remarks.
“Well, wotjer doin’ with that file?” he would ask of one. “You ain’t a-playin’ cat’s cradle now, me lad! Look ’ere, keep ’er level, like this! It’s a file, it ain’t a rockin’-’orse!”
Or he would come behind another who was chippingbye-metal, and using a hammer with more zeal than skill. He would watch for a moment, and then break out, “Well, you are fond o’ exercise, I must say! Good job you’re strong enough to stand it.Iain’t. My constitootion won’t allow me to ’old a ’ammer like this ’ere.” This with a burlesque of the lad’s stiff grasp and whole-arm action. “It ’ud knock me up. Bein’ a more delicate sort o’ person” (his arm was near as thick as the boy’s waist) “I ’old a ’ammer like this—see!” And he took the shaft end loosely in his fingers and hammered steadily and firmly from the wrist. Johnny saw that and remembered.
Again, half an hour later, stopping at the elbow of another apprentice, a little older than the last: “Come,” said the foreman, “that’s a noo idea, that is! Takin’ auf the skin from cast iron with a bran’ noo file! I ’ope you’ve patented it. An’ I ’ope you won’t come an’ want another file in about ’alf an hour, ’cos if you do you won’t git it!” Whereat Johnny, astonished to learn that cast iron had a skin, resolved not to forget that you shouldn’t take it off with a new file, and made a mental note to ask somebody why.
Presently, as he came by the long fitting-bench, Johnny grew aware of a fitter, immensely tall and very thin, who grinned and nodded in furtive recognition. It was, indeed, the next door lodger, who had painted the cornice. He was very large, Johnny thought, to be soshy; he positively blushed as he grinned. “You come to this shop?” he asked in his odd whisper, as he stooped to judge the fit of his work. “I’m beddin’ down a junk ring; p’raps the gaffer’ll put you to ’elp me after breakfast.”
Bedding down a junk ring sounded advanced and technical, and Johnny felt taller at the prospect. He would learn what a junk ring was, probably, when he had to help bed it down. Meanwhile he watched the tall man, as he brought the metal to an exact face.
“Stop in to breakfast?” the man asked, as he stooped again.
“Yes.”
“Some o’ the boys ’ll try a game with ye, p’raps. Don’t mind a little game, do ye?”
“No.”
“Ah, I couldn’t stand it when I was a lad. Made me mis’rable. When ye go in the smiths’ shop to git yer breakfast, look about ye, if they’re special kind findin’ y’ a seat. Up above, f’r instance.”
Johnny left the long man, and presently observed that the foreman was not in the shop. There was an instant slackness perceivable among the younger and less steady men, for the leading hand had no such authority as Cottam. One man at a lathe, throwing out his gear examined his work, and, turning to Johnny, said, “Look’ere, me lad; I want to true this ’ere bit. Jes’ you go an’ ask Sam Wilkins—that man up at the end there, in the serge jacket—jes’ you go an’ ask ’im for the round square.”
Johnny knew the tool called a square, used for testing the truth of finished work, though he had never seen a round one. Howbeit he went off with alacrity: but it seemed that Sam Wilkins hadn’t the round square. It was Joe Mills, over in the far corner. So he tried Joe Mills; but he, it seemed, had just lent it to Bob White, at the biggest shaping-machine near the other end. Bob White understood perfectly, but thought he had last seen the round square in the possession of George Walker. Whereas George Walker was perfectly certain that it had gone downstairs to Bill Cook in the big shop. Doubting nothing from the uncommonly solemn faces of Sam and Joe and Bob and George, Johnny set off down the stone stairs, where he met the ascending gaffer, on his way back from the pattern-maker’s shop.
“’Ullo boy,” he said, “where you goin’?”
“Downstairs, sir, for the round square.”
Mr. Cottam’s eyes grew more prominent, and there were certain sounds, as of an imprisoned bull-frog, from somewhere deep in his throat. But his expression relaxed not a shade. Presently he said, “Know what a round is?”
“Yes sir.”
“Know what a square is?”
“Yes sir.”
“S’pose somebody wanted a round square drored on paper, what ’ud ye do?”
There was another internal croak, and somehow Johnny felt emboldened. “I think,” he said, with some sly hesitation, “I think I’d tell ’em to do it themselves.”
Mr. Cottam croaked again, louder, and this time with a heave of the chest. “Awright,” he said, “that’s good enough. Better say somethink like that to them as sent ye. That’s a very old ’ave, that is.”
He resumed his heavy progress up the stairs, turning Johnny round by the shoulder, and sending him in front. There were furtive grins in the shop, and one lad asked “Got it?” in a voice cautiously subdued. But just then the bell rang for breakfast.
Most of the men and several of the boys made their best pace for the gate. These either lived near, or got their breakfasts at coffee-shops, and their half-hour began and ended in haste. The few others, more leisurely, stayed to gather their cans and handkerchiefs—some to wipe their hands on cotton waste, that curious tangled stuff by which alone Johnny remembered his father. As for him, he waited to do what the rest did, for he saw that his friend, the long man, had gone out with the patrons of coffee-shops. The boys took their cans andclattered down to the smiths’ shop, Johnny well in the rear, for he was desirous of judging from a safe distance, what form the “little game” might take, that the long man had warned him of, in case it came soon. But a wayward fate preserved him from booby-traps that morning.
In the first place, he had come in a cap, and so forfended one ordeal. For it was the etiquette of the shop among apprentices that any bowler hat brought in on the head of a new lad must be pinned to the wall with the tangs of many files; since a bowler hat, ere a lad had four years at least of service, was a pretension, a vainglory, and an outrage. Next, his lagging saved his new ducks. The first lads down had prepared the customary trap, which consisted of a seat of honour in the best place near the fire; a seat doctored with a pool of oil, and situated exactly beneath a rafter on which stood a can of water taken from a lathe; a string depending from the can, with its lower end fastened behind the seat. So that the victim accepting the accommodation would receive a large oily embellishment on his new white ducks, and, by the impact of his back against the string, induce a copious christening of himself and his entire outfit. But it chanced that an elderly journeyman from the big shop—old Ben Cutts—appeared on the scene early, wiping his spectacles on his jacket lining as he came. He knew nothing of afresh ’prentice, saw nothing but a convenient and warm seat, and hastened to seize it.
The lads were taken by surprise. “No—not there!” shouted one a few yards away.
“Fust come fust served, me lad,” chuckled old Ben Cutts, as he dropped on the fatal spot. “’Ere I am, an’ ’ere I—”
With that the can fell, and Johnny at the door was astonished to observe a grey-headed workman, with a pair of spectacles in his hand and a vast oily patch on his white overalls, dripping and dancing and swearing, and smacking wildly at the heads of the boys about him, without hitting any.
There were no more tricks that breakfast-time. For when at length old Ben subsided to his meal, he put a little pile of wedges by his side, to fling at the first boy of whose behaviour he might disapprove. And as his spectacles were now on his nose, and his aim, thus aided, was known to be no bad one, and as the wedges, furthermore, were both hard and heavy, breakfasts were eaten with all the decorum possible in a smiths’ shop.
Johnny’s new can was satisfactorily blackened, and his breakfast was well disposed of. Such youths as tried him with verbal chaff he answered as well as he might, though he had as yet little of the Cockney boy’s readiness. And at last the bell rang again, and the breakfasters went back to work.
Mr. Cottam, casting his glance about the shop in search of the simplest possible job for Johnny to begin on, with a steady man at hand to watch him, stopped as his gaze reached Long Hicks, and sent Johnny to help him with his bolts. And so Johnny found the tall man’s surmise verified, and the tall man himself received him with another grin a little less shy. He set him to running down bolts and nuts, showing him how to fix the bolt in a vice and work the nut on it with a spanner. Johnny fell to the task enthusiastically, and so the morning went.
WhenNan May opened shop, she saw that men were pulling down as much of the ship-yard wall opposite as stood between two chalk lines. She thought no more of the thing at the time, not guessing how nearly it concerned her. For this was to be a new workmen’s gate to the ship-yard and passing workmen might change the fortunes of a shop. For that day, however, there was no sign but the demand of a bricklayer’s labourer for a penn’orth of cheese.
It was as bad a day as Saturday, in the matter of trade—indeed there was no drunken man to buy lard—and the woman’s heart grew heavier as the empty hours went. Bessy stood at the back-parlour door, pale and anxious, but striving to lift a brave face. Before one o’clock there was dinner to be prepared; not that either Bessy or her mother could eat, but for Johnny. And at a quarter past one both met him at the door as cheerfully as they could; and indeed they were eager to hear of his fortunes. They wondered to see him coming with the long man who lived next door; and the long man, for his part, was awkward and nervous whenhe saw them. At first he hung back, as though to let Johnny go on alone; but he changed his mind, and came striding ahead hastily, looking neither to right nor to left, and plunged in at his door.
Johnny was hungry and in high spirits. He and Long Hicks, it seemed, had been bedding down a junk ring for a piston, Johnny easing the bolts and nuts, and Long Hicks doing the other work. He said nothing of the round square, but talked greatly of slide-valves and cranks, till Bessy judged him a full engineer already. Between his mouthfuls he illustrated the proper handling of hammer and file, and reprehended the sinful waste of spoiling the surface of a new file on the outer skin of a fresh iron casting. It cheered Nan May to see the boy taking so heartily to his work, through all her secret dread that she might lack the means to keep him at it. Johnny glanced anxiously at the clock from time to time, and at last declared that he must knock for Long Hicks, who was plainly forgetting how late it was. And in the end he rushed away to disturb the tall man ten minutes too soon, and hurried off to Maidment and Hurst’s, there to take his own new metal ticket from the great board, and drop it duly into the box.
The afternoon went busily at the factory, and busy days followed. Johnny acquired his first tool, a steel foot-rule, and carried it in public places with a fullquarter of its length visible at the top of its appointed pocket. It was the way of all young apprentices to do this; the rule, they would say, thus being carried convenient for the hand. But it was an exact science among the observant to judge a lad’s experience inversely by scale of the inches exposed, going at the rate of half an inch a year. A lad through two years of his “time” would show no more of his rule than two inches; by the end of four years one of these inches would have vanished; as his twenty-first birthday approached, the last inch shrank to a mere hint of bright metal; and nobody ever saw the foot-rule of a full journeyman, except he were using it.
Johnny’s christening, postponed by the accident of old Ben Cutts, came when he was first put to a small lathe to try his hand at turning bolts. For when, returning from breakfast, he belted his lathe, he did not perceive that the water-can had been tied to the belt; realising it, however, the next instant, when it flew over the shafting and discharged the water on his head. Then he was free of the shop; suffering no more than the rest from the workshop pranks habitual among the younger lads, and joining in them: gammoning newer lads than himself with demands for the round square, and oppressing them with urgent messages to testy gaffers—that a cockroach had got in the foo-foo valve, that the donkey-man wanted an order for a new nosebag, and the like.Grew able, moreover, in workshop policy, making good interest with the storekeeper, who might sometimes oblige with the loan of a hammer. For a lost hammer meant a fine of three-and-sixpence, and when yours was stolen—everybody stole everybody else’s hammer—a borrowed one would tide you over till you could steal another. Making friends, too, with the tool-smith, at a slight expense in drinks; though able to punish him also if necessary, by the secret bedevilment of his fire with iron borings. Learned to manufacture an apparent water-crack by way of excuse for a broken file—a water-crack made with a touch of grease well squeezed between the broken ends. In short, became an initiated ’prentice engineer. In the trade itself, moreover, he was not slow, and Mr. Cottam had once mentioned him (though Johnny did not know it) as “none so bad a boy; one as can work ’is own ’ead.” Until his first enthusiasm had worn off, he never ceased from questioning Long Hicks, in his hours of leisure, on matters concerning steam-engines; so that the retiring Hicks grew almost out of touch with the accordion that had been the solace of his solitude. The tall man had never met quite so inquisitive an apprentice; engineering was in the blood, he supposed. He had guessed the boy’s mother an engineer’s wife when first Johnny came to his bench, because of the extra button Nan May had been careful to sew on his jacket cuff; a button usedto tighten the sleeve, that it might not catch the driver on a lathe.
It was early in Johnny’s experience—indeed he had been scarce a fortnight at the engine-shop—when a man coming in from an outdoor job just before dinner told Cottam the foreman, that an old friend was awaiting him at the gate, looking for a job.
“An’ ’oo’s the ol’ friend?” asked Cottam, severely distrustful.
“Mr. ’Enery Butson, Esquire,” the man answered, with a grin.
“What? Butson?” the gaffer ejaculated, and his eyes grew rounder. “Butson? Agen? I’d—damme, I’d as soon ’ave a brass monkey!” And Mr. Cottam stumped indignantly up the shop.
“Sing’lar, that,” observed a labourer who was helping an erector with a little yacht engine near Johnny’s bench. “Sing’lar like what I ’eard the gaffer say at Lumley’s when Butson wanted a job there. ‘What?’ sez ’e. ‘Butson? Why, I’d rayther ’ave a chaney dawg auf my gran’mother’s mantelpiece,’ ’e sez. ‘’E wouldn’t spile castin’s,’ ’e sez.”
There were grins between the men who heard, for it would seem that Mr. Butson was not unknown among them. But when Johnny told his mother at dinner, she thought the men rude and ignorant; and she was especially surprised at Mr. Cottam.
For some little while Johnny wondered at the girl who was hunting for a sick lady in the street on that dark Monday morning. He looked out for her on his way to and from his work, resolved, if he met her, to ask how the search had fared, and how the lady was. But he saw nothing of her, and the thing began to drop from his mind. Till a Saturday afternoon, when he went to see a new “ram” launched; for half-way to the ship-yard he saw a pretty girl—and surely it was the same. In no tears nor trouble now, indeed, but most disconcertingly composed and dignified—yet surely the same. Johnny hesitated, and stopped: and then most precipitately resumed his walk. For truly this was a very awful young person, icily unconscious of him, her casual glance flung serenely through his head and over it. . . . Perhaps it wasn’t the same, after all; and if not—well it was lucky he had said nothing. . . . Nevertheless his inner feeling was that he had made no mistake; more, that the girl remembered him, but was proud and would not own it. It didn’t matter, he said to himself. But the afternoon went a little flat; the launch was less interesting than one might have expected. There was a great iron hull, tricked out with flags; and when men knocked away the dog-shores with sledge-hammers, the ship slid away, cradle and all, into the water. There wasn’t much in that. Of course, if you knocked away the dog-shores, the ship was boundto slide: plainly enough.Thatwasn’t very interesting. Johnny felt vaguely resentful of the proceedings. . . . But still he wondered afresh at the lost lady who was ill out of doors so early in the morning.
Butthis launch was when Johnny’s ’prentice teeth were cut: when the running down of bolts and pins was beneath his notice, and he could be trusted with work at a small nibbling machine; when he had turned stop-valve spindles more than once, and felt secretly confident of his ability to cut a screw.
Meantime history was making at the shop: very slowly at first, it is true. The holly had been made the most of; but it seemed to attract not at all. Penn’orths and ha’porths were most of the sales, and even they were few. Nan May grew haggard and desperate. Uncle Isaac had called once soon after the opening Saturday, but since had been a stranger. He had said that he was about to change his lodgings (he was a widower), but Nan knew nothing of his new address. In truth, such was Uncle Isaac’s tenderness of heart, that he disliked the sight or complaint of distress; and, in the manner of many other people of similar tenderness, he betook himself as far as possible from the scene thereof, and kept there.
It was within a few days of Christmas when thingsseemed hopeless. Johnny, indeed, had never ceased to hope till now. He had talked of the certainty of struggling on somehow till his wages were enough for all; indeed, even the six shillings a week seemed something considerable now, though he knew that the rent alone came to ten. But even Johnny’s cheerfulness fell in face of the intenser dejection, the more open tears, of his mother and sister, as the days wore on. Long Hicks found him a quieter, less inquisitive boy, and a duller help than at first; and dinner at home was a sad make-believe. Each knew that the other two were contrasting the coming Christmas with the last. Then, gran’dad was with them, hale and merry; to look out of window was to look through a world of frosty twigs to woody deeps where the deer waited, timid and shadowy, for the crusts flung out afar for them from the garden. Now . . . but there!
But it was just at this desperate time that a change came, as by magic. The men who pulled down the wall at the opposite side of the street gave place to others who built a mighty brick pier at each side of the opening: a pier designed to carry its half of the new gate. But ere the work was near complete, men and boys from the yard found it a convenient place to slip out and in at, on breakfast-time or dinner-time errands.
Now it chanced at the time that one of these men was in a domestic difficulty; a difficulty that a largepart of the eight or nine hundred men of the ship-yard encountered in turn at more or less regular intervals. His wife inhabited the bedroom in company with a monthly nurse; while he roosted sleeplessly at night on a slippery horsehair couch in the parlour, or wallowed in a jumble of spare blankets and old coats on the floor; spending his home hours by day in desolate muddling in the kitchen, lost and incapable, and abject before the tyranny of the nurse. On dark mornings he made forlorn attempts at raking together a breakfast to carry with him to work; but as he had taken no thought to put anything into the cupboard over night, he found it no easy matter to extract a breakfast from it in the morning. So it came to pass that on the second day of his affliction this bedevilled husband, his hunger merely aggravated by the stale lumps of bread he had thought to make shift on, issued forth at the new gate in quest of breakfast. There was little time, and most of the shops were a distance off; but just opposite was a flaming little chandler’s shop, newly opened. It was thinly stocked enough, but it would be hard luck indeed if it did not hold something eatable. And so Nan May’s first customer that day was the starved husband.
“Got anythink t’ eat?” he asked, his ravening gaze piercing the bare corners of the shop. “Got any bacon?”
“Yes, sir,” Nan May answered, reaching for the insignificant bit of “streaky” that was all she had.
“No—cooked, I mean. Aincher got any cold boiled ’ock?”
“No, sir.”
“Y’ ought t’ ave some cooked ’ock. Lots ’ud ’ave it in the yard. I can’t eatthat—the smiths’ shop ’s the other end o’ the yard, an’ I got nothing to toast it with. Aincher got nothing else?”
Nan May grasped the situation, and conceived an instant notion, for indeed she had inborn talent as a shopkeeper, though till now it had had no chance to show itself. “Will you wait five minutes?” she asked.
Yes, he would wait five minutes, but no more: and he sat on the empty case, from which Uncle Isaac had delivered his recommendation of Enterprise. Nan May cut two rashers and retired to the shop parlour. In three minutes the hungry customer was hammering on the counter, declaring that he could wait no longer. Pacified by assurances from within, he resigned himself to a minute and a half more of patience: when Mrs. May returned with a massive sandwich, wherein the two rashers, fresh frizzled, lay between two thick slices of bread. Lifting the top slice for a moment, as guarantee of good faith, Nan May exchanged the whole ration for threepence.
“If you’d like any cold boiled bacon, sir,” she said, “I shall have some at one o’clock.”
He heard, but he was off at a trot with his sandwich. In five minutes Nan May’s bonnet was on, and in five more Bessy was minding shop alone, while her mother hastened to Mr. Dunkin’s for a hock of bacon. Here was a possible change of fortune, and Nan May was not a woman to waste a chance.
Boiled and cooled—or cooled enough for the taste of hungry riveters—the hock stood in a dish on the counter at one o’clock, flanked by carving-knife and fork. A card, bearing the best 10 that Bessy could draw, advertised the price, and the first quarter-pound of slices was duly cut for the desolate husband, who came back, a little later, for two ounces more; for he had been ill-fed for two or three days, and the new baby made an event wherewith some extra expense was natural. Boys came for two other quarter-pounds, so that it was plain that the first customer had told others; and a loaf was cut up to go with the bacon.
Mrs. May announced the new branch of trade to Johnny when he came to dinner; and though as yet the returns were small enough, there was a new chance, and his mother was hopeful of it; so he went back to the lathe with a lighter heart.
That night the riveters worked overtime, and thebacon was in better demand still. More, at night two or three men took home a snack in paper, for supper; and from that day things grew better daily. The hock was finished by the afternoon of the next day, and the establishment was out of pickles; for men and boys who brought their own cold meat with them came now for pickles. Trade was better as the days went on, and Christmas, though it found them poor enough, was none so sad a festival after all. And in a month, when the gate had been formally opened for some time, and the men streamed by in hundreds, three large hocks would rarely last two days; and there was an average profit of three shillings a hock. More, the bread came in daily in batches, at trade price, and cheese and pickles went merrily. But what went best, and what increased in sale even beyond this point, was the bacon. Some customers called it ham, which pleased Nan May; for indeed her cooking hit the popular taste, and she began to feel a pride in it. Men who went home to dinner would buy bacon to take home for tea; and as many of these lived in Harbour Lane and thereabout, custom soon came from their wives, in soap and candles, treacle and pepper and blacking. Nan May’s trade instinct grew with exercise. She found the particular sort of bacon that best suited her purpose and her customers’ tastes; she had regular boilings throughout the week; she quickly found the trick of judging the quality ofwhatever she bought; and she bought to the best use of her money.
But here it must be said that Nan May, in her new prosperity, behaved toward one benefactor with an undutiful forgetfulness that was near ingratitude. For she bought almost nothing of Mr. Dunkin. He was reasonably grieved. True, she had begun by getting her first stock of him, but even then her critical examination of what was sent showed an unworthily suspicious attitude of mind. She even sent back many things and demanded better, wilfully blind to the fact that Mr. Dunkin could turn her out of the shop at a week’s notice if he pleased; though indeed in his own mind he was not vindictive, for another new tenant would be hard to find. He even submitted to outrage ending in actual loss and humiliation. For a large tin of mustard was Mrs. May’s first supply, and it was a tin from among those kept for sale to small shopkeepers, and not on any account to be sold from retail, across Mr. Dunkin’s own counter. But something in the feel and taste of this mustard did not please Nan May (though indeedshewas not asked to eat it), and it went back. Now it chanced that Mr. Dunkin had taken on a new shopman that week, and this bungling incapable straightway began selling mustard from the returned tin. He had served three customers before his blunder was perceived, and then the matter came to light purely because the third customer chancedto be a food and drug inspector. This functionary gravely announced himself as soon as he had good hold of the parcel, and handsomely offered the return of a third part of the mustard, in a sealed packet. And the upshot was a fine of five pounds and costs for Mr. Dunkin, on the opinionative evidence of an analyst, who talked of starch and turmeric and ginger—all very excellent substances, as anybody knows. Truly it was a vexatious blow for Mr. Dunkin, and an unjust; for certainly the fault was not his, and to sell such an article, retail, was wholly against his principles. But he never complained, such was his forbearance: never spoke of his hardship to a soul, in fact, except when he “sacked” the new assistant. It was even said that he had offered a reporter money to keep it out of the papers; and though itdidget into the papers (and at good length too) yet the effort was kindly meant. For truly it could but give Mrs. May pain to learn that she had been the cause of Mr. Dunkin’s misfortune, if she were a woman of any feeling at all.
But as time went, he began to doubt if she were, for her custom dropped away to nothing. The rate at which bacon was handed in from the cart of a firm somewhere in the Borough, was scandalous to behold. Before his very eyes, too, when he called for the rent. He employed a collector, but presently took to coming for the rent himself, that by his presence and his manner he might shameso thankless a tenant into some sense of decency, some order for bacon or mustard. He coughed gently and stared very hard at the incoming goods, but Nan May was in no wise abashed, and gave the carman his directions with shameless composure. With his sympathetic stop full out, Mr. Dunkin asked how trade was, and Nan May answered in proper shopkeeper terms, that “she mustn’t grumble.” With hums and purrs, he led back through casual questions and answers to the stock he had at first supplied, and asked her how she had done with this, and how that had “gone off.” But her answers were so artlessly direct, so inconsiderately truthful, that good Mr. Dunkin was clean baffled, and reduced at last to a desperate hint that if anything were wanted he could take the order back with him. But he got no order, so he purred and hummed his way into Harbour Lane, and so away; and after a time the collector came in his stead.
Mr. Dunkin resolved to wait. He had some doubts of the permanence of this new prosperity in the shop. The place had never brought anybody a living yet, and he should not feel convinced till he had seen steady trade there for some time. Nan May’s activities could always be kept from flagging by judicious increases of rent, andifthe thing grew well established by her exertions, and was certain to continue a paying concern, why, here would be a new branch of Mr. Dunkin’s business ready made.It needed but a week’s notice, given unexpectedly, at a properly chosen time, when no neighbouring shop was to let, and a good stroke of business was happily completed. Mrs. May would vanish, a man would go in to manage at a pound or twenty-five shillings a week and his quarters, there would be no interruption to trade (for the outgoing tenant would naturally keep at work till the last minute, to get what little she could), and Mr. Dunkin would have a new branch, paying very excellently, with no trouble to himself. Mr. Dunkin had established other branches in the same way, and found it a very simple and cheap arrangement. There was no risk of his own capital, no trouble in “working-up” the trade, no cost of goodwill, and rent was coming regularly while the tenant laboured with the zeal of a man who imagines he is working for his own benefit and his children’s. The important thing was to give nothing but a weekly tenancy; else the tenant might find time to get going somewhere near at hand, and so perhaps deprive Mr. Dunkin of the just reward of his sagacity, foresight, and patience. But there was little difficulty in that matter. Beginners were timid and glad of a weekly tenancy, fearing the responsibility of anything longer, at first; and afterwards—well, things were in a groove, and Mr. Dunkin was so very kind and sympathetic that it wasn’t worth while to bother about a change. And by this method Mr. Dunkin, judiciously selecting his purchases in shop property, had acquiredtwo or three of his half-dozen branches, and flourished exceedingly; which all kindly souls rejoiced to see.
In the beginning he had no thought of this plan for the Harbour Lane shop, being mainly concerned to get a tenant, no matter in what trade; and indeed in his eye the place was as little suited for chandlery as for anything. Even now he must wait, for he doubted the lasting quality of the new prosperity; better a few years of forbearance than a too hurried seizure of a weakening concern, to find little more than the same tenantless shop on his hands after all. And if it seemed that the trade owed anything to the personal qualities and connexions of Mrs. May, well, it would be a simple thing to keep her on to manage, instead of a man. It would be an act of benevolence, moreover, to an unfortunate widow, and come cheaper. But that was a matter for the future.
Meanwhile Nan May, active and confident, filled her shop by purchase from whatsoever factor sold best and cheapest, and travellers called for her orders. The hungry husband who first came for cooked bacon she always treated with particular consideration, finding him good cuts. He ceased his regular visits in three weeks or less, and Nan May, taught by experience in her earlier London life, well guessed the cause of his coming. In the spring, three months or so later, great crowds thronged about the ship-yard to see the launch of the battleship that overtime had so long been worked on; and when thelaunch was over, this man and his wife, the man carrying the baby, came into the shop for something to celebrate the occasion at tea. The parents did not altogether comprehend Nan May’s enthusiasm over the baby, which she took from its father’s arms and danced merrily about the shop, while customers waited. But they set it down to admiration of its personal beauty, though truly it was an ordinary slobbery baby enough. But it went away down the street in great state, triumphantly stabbing at its mouth with the sugarstick gripped by one hand, and at its father’s whiskers with that brandished in the other.
Ona Saturday afternoon about this time, Uncle Isaac, in his best black suit and very tall hat, and with the Turk’s-head walking-stick in his hand, started out to see a foreman. Work was rather slack just now (shipwrights’ work was slack everywhere), and the three holidays a week that once were the glory and boast of a free and independent shipwright, were now apt to be a woeful compulsion. Uncle Isaac had been of late poorer (because idler) than he liked, and in such case it was his way to seek the chance of meeting his foreman out of hours, in order to a display of rhetoric, oblique flattery, and dexterous suggestion, that might influence a distribution of short time that would be more favourable to the orator.
He had wondered much as to the fortunes of Nan and her children, but as it has been said, his tenderness of heart kept him as far as possible from what he believed must now be a scene of sheer failure and destitution: if, indeed, the shop were not abandoned; and he was by no means anxious that his poor relations should discover his new lodgings. So now he picked his waywith circumspection, and with careful cogitation of a mental map of the streets; because a thoughtless straightforward journey would take him much too near to Harbour Lane.
He crossed a swing bridge that gave access to a hundred and fifty yards of roadway ending in another swing bridge. But there was a crook in the road, and when he passed it he found that the second bridge was open. Now in Blackwall an “open” bridge did not mean one that the passenger could cross; that was a “shut” bridge. The “open” bridge was one swung aside to let a ship through, as a pair of gates is opened for a carriage. So Uncle Isaac resigned himself to wait, with an increasingly impatient group, till the bridge should swing into place again and give passage. He stood behind the chain that hung across the road to check traffic, and meditatively rubbed his nose with the Turk’s-head. Presently he grew conscious of a rusty figure on his left, edging unsteadily a little nearer.
“’Ow do, Mr. Mundy?” came a hoarse whisper. And Mother Born-drunk, a trifle less drunk than usual, but careful to grasp a post, leered a grimy leer and waved her disengaged hand in his face, as one saluting a friend at a great distance. Uncle Isaac emitted a non-committal grunt—one that might be taken for an accidental cough by the bystanders—and sidled a foot or two away. For he, too, had known Emma Pacey in her more decentdays, and, with other acquaintances of that time, was sometimes put to shifts to avoid her.
Mother Born-drunk left the post and followed her victim. “Don’ run ’way,” she ejaculated, unsteadily. “I’m ole pal. Mish’ Mundy!” She thrust out a foul paw, and dropped her voice coaxingly. “Len’sh twopence!” Uncle Isaac gazed uneasily in another direction, and took more ground to the right. The waiting passengers, glad of a little amusement, grinned one at another.
“J’year, Mr. Mundy!” This in a loud voice, with an imperious gesture. “J’year! Can’tche’ answer when a lady speaks t’ye?”
“Go on, guv’nor!” said a boy encouragingly, sitting on a post. “Where’s yer manners? Take auf yer ’at to the laidy!” And there was a snigger. Uncle Isaac shifted farther still, and put a group of men between himself and his persecutor. But she was not to be so easily shaken off. Drawing herself up with a scornful majesty that was marred by an occasional lurch, and the bobbing of the tangled bonnet hanging over one ear, she came after Uncle Isaac through the passage readily made by the knot of men.
“Ho! so it’s this, is it,” she declaimed, with a stately backward sweep of the arm. “If a lady asks a triflin’ favour you insult ’er. Ye low, common, scoundrel!” This very slowly, with a deep tragedy hiss and a longpause. Then with a piercing note of appeal: “Mr. Mundy! I demand an answer! Once more!Willyou lend me twopence?”
The people (a small crowd by this time) forgot the troublesome bridge, and turned to the new diversion. “Give the laidy twopence!” roared the boy on the post, in a deep bass. “’Arf a pint ’ud save ’er life!”
Uncle Isaac looked desperately about him, but he saw no sympathy. Dockmen, workmen, boys—all were agog to see as much fun as possible in the time at disposal. The pursuing harpy came a step nearer, and bawled again, “Willyou lend me twopence?”
“No!” cried Uncle Isaac, driven to bay at last. “No, I won’t! Go away! Go away, you—you infamious creacher!”
“You won’t?”
“No, not by no means. Go away. Y’ought to be ashamed of yerself, you—you—you opstroperous faggit!”
“Calls ’isself a gen’leman,” she said, lifting her gaze to the clouds. “Calls ’isself a gen’leman, an’ uses such language to a lady!”
“Shockin’,” said one in the hilarious crowd. “What a wicked ole bloke!”
Uncle Isaac gave another unquiet glance about him, and moved another yard. The woman brought her eyes to earth again, and: “Won’t gimme twopence,” sheproclaimed, “an’ I’m a orficer’s widow! Never mind, len’ me a penny; on’y a penny, Mr. Mundy. Do, there’sh a dear! O youarea ole duck!” And Mother Born-drunk stumbled toward Uncle Isaac with affectionately extended arms.
The crowd shrieked with joy, but Uncle Isaac turned and ran, one hand clapped to the crown of his very tall hat. He would wait for no bridge now, but get away as best he could. The boys yelled and whistled, and kept up at an easy trot with the quick scuttle of his short legs; behind them came Mother Born-drunk, tripping and floundering, spurred to infuriate chase by sight and sound of her unchanging enemies, the boys, and growing at every step more desirous of clawing at one of them than of catching Uncle Isaac.
As for him, he dropped his hat once, and nearly fell on it, in looking behind. So he thrust it under his arm as he scurried past the bend in the road; and there despair seized him, for now the other bridge was open too. Which escape might he make first? At the end from which he had turned back, a great liner was being towed through at a snail’s pace, funnels and masts scarce seeming to move across the street. But at this end a small coaster went out briskly, and her mizzen was more than half over now. The woman was less than twenty yards off, but though she still staggered nearer, she was engaged with boys. Uncle Isaac putpanic aside, and resolved on dignity. He took his hat from under his arm, and began to brush it on his sleeve.
Mother Born-drunk was in the hands of her enemies, though there were fewer than usual. She swore and swiped at them, and they flung and yelled and danced. But they drew nearer Uncle Isaac, for it was a new variation in the sport to involve an old gentleman with his Sunday clothes on. Then shouted the woman breathlessly: “P’lice! p’lice! Mish’ Mundy, I’ll give y’ in charge for annoyin’ me. ’J’ear!” She came very near and made a catch at him, which he dodged without regard to dignity. “Mish’ Mundy! Stand a drop—just a little drop for ole times! If ye don’t stand a drop I’ll give y’ in charge!”
The coaster was through, and soon the bridge would shut. Uncle Isaac moved up toward the chain amid shouts and jibes. “Y’ought to be ashamed o’ yerself,” bawled the woman, “a ole man like you, annoyin’ a lady!”
But the men were at the winch, and the bridge swung. First of all the impatient passengers, Uncle Isaac sprang on the moving iron and got across at peril of life and limb ere the sections were still. He heard a louder shout of laughter from behind, where Mother Born-drunk, forgetting the chain as she made for thebridge, had sprawled over it where it hung low in the middle; and he quickened his pace.
Now it chanced that Johnny May had been taken that week to his first out-door job, on a large steamer; and, full of the wonders of the ship, he had made interest with the “shippy” (who was officially called the shipkeeper) to bring Bessy on board on Saturday afternoon. The visit was a pure delight for both, with more than a spice of danger for Bessy in climbing gangways, companions, and greasy engine-room steps; indeed, the “shippy” carried her down the lower flights of these last. Johnny explained the prodigious engines with all the extreme technicality of a new hand, and with much pride pointed out the part whereon he (with the help of three or four journeymen) had been at work. Bessy stared and marvelled, and her admiration for her brother waxed into reverence. For was he not an engineer, master of these massy, shining immensities, so amazingly greater than any engines she had dreamed of, so awful in their monstrous stillness? Bessy peeped along the tunnel of the great shaft, and then, a minute after, up into the towering complexities above, and she was almost afraid—would have been afraid to stay there alone.
They walked home gay and talkative, and Bessy’s face had a light and a colour that it had lacked since Johnny and gran’dad had seen it together. For she hadseen great things, and had walked in passenger saloons more wonderful than all her palaces of romance. It struck Johnny, for the first time in his life, that Bessy was rather pretty; and as to her lameness though some would call it a blemish (as it certainly was a misfortune), yet she carried it trimly, and he almost thought it suited her.
And so they went till at a corner a hurried little man with a moon-face ran into them, hat first,—for he was brushing it again.
Now both Johnny and Bessy wore their best clothes, and both looked happy and well, so at a glance Uncle Isaac guessed that things had gone aright at Harbour Lane after all. Just as distress troubled and repelled him, so good fortune pleased his amiable genius and attracted his regards. So though he was still a little flushed and uneasy, he was glad of the encounter. He had been unwell, it seemed, and—and busy, and all that. But how was trade at the shop?
Johnny and Bessy told the tale of the new ship-yard gate, and of the cold bacon and the pickles and the new prosperity. Uncle Isaac was greatly pleased. He was sorry, very sorry, he said, that he had not been able to call lately, but he would delay no longer—he would be round that very evening. And, indeed, he came, and immensely approved of the bacon. And he came again, and approved immensely of the cheese andthe pickles and whatever else there was for supper, and again after that, and usually carried something home for trial in the calmer mood of the morning. And thus family ties were made whole, and avuncular love continued.
“Jest to think,” Uncle Isaac would say with a wave of his fork, “what a quantity o’ blessin’s you owe to my advice, Nan! What was my words o’ counsel to you prefarrotory? ‘Enterprise,’ sez I. ‘Enterprise is what you want,’ I sez; there’s alwis money in Enterprise! An’ what’s the result? Enterprise, representin’ biled ’ock o’ bacon, is done the trick wonderful. But, in regards to enterprise, why not call it ’am?”