Kitobni o'qish: «Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches»

Chapter One.
Paying the Footing

Now, it don’t matter a bit what sort of clay a pot’s made of, if when it’s been tried in the fire it turns out sound and rings well when it’s struck. If I’m only common red ware, without even a bit of glaze on me, and yet answer the purpose well for which I’m made, why I’m a good pot, ain’t I, even if I only hold water? But what I hate is this – to see the pots that we come against every day of our lives all on the grumble and murmur system, and never satisfied. The pot of common clay wishes he was glazed, and the glazed pot wishes he was blue crockery, and the blue crock pot wishes he was gilt, and the gilt pot ain’t satisfied because he ain’t china; and one and all are regularly blind to the good they have themselves, and think their neighbours have all the pleasures of this world. They’re so blind that they can’t see the flaws in some of the china. “Oh! if I had only been that beautiful vase!” says the common yellow basin that the missus washes the tea-things up in – “Oh! if I had only been that beautiful vase!” says the basin, alluding to a piece of china as stands on our mantel-piece – a vase that I picked up cheap at a sale. Why, the jolly old useful basin can’t see the cracks, and flaws, and chips in our aristocratic friend; he can’t see the vein-like marks, where he has been put together with diamond cement, nor that half-dozen brass rivets let into him with plaster of Paris. There, go to, brother yellow basin; and look alive, and learn that old saying about all not being gold that glitters. Aristocratic china is very pretty to look at – very ornamental; but if we put some hot water into the mended vase, and tried to wash up in it, where would it be, eh? Tell me that; while you, brother yellow basin, can bear any amount of hard or hot usage; and then, after a wipe out, stand on your side, dry, and with the consciousness of being of some use in this world; while the bit of china – well, it is werry pretty to look at, certainly. It’s werry nice to look at your heavy swell – the idle man of large means, who gives the whole of his mind to his tie or his looking-glass; the man with such beautiful whiskers, and such nice white hands; and when you’ve done looking at him you can say he’s werry ornamental, werry chinaish, but he ain’t much good after all. But there; instead of grumbling about having to work for your living, just thank God for it. Look at your dirty, black, horny fists: stretch ’em out and feel proud of them, and then moisten ’em, and lay hold of whatever tool you work with, and go at it with the thought strong on you that man had mind, hands, and power given him to work with; and though toil be hard sometimes, why, the rest after ’s all the sweeter; while over even such poor fare as bread and cheese and an onion there’s greater relish and enjoyment than the china vase gets over his entrées, which often want spice and sauce-piquante to help them down. Man wasn’t meant to be only ornamental; so don’t grumble any more about being a yellow basin.

But don’t mistake me in what I mean; don’t think I turn up my nose at china: it’s right enough in it’s way, and at times vastly superior to your common crockery. I honour and feel proud of the china pots which, having no occasion to work, throw aside idleness, and with the advantages of power and position, work, and work hard – work with their heads, and do great things – men who live not to eat, but eat to live and benefit their fellows in some way. Don’t mistake my meaning, for I don’t want to make a man look with contempt on those above him; but learn to see how that, whatever his position in life, he can do some good, and that he is of service; and above all things, learn to see that your yellow basin – your working man – is of quite as much value in this world of ours as the china ornaments of society, whose aim and end is often to – there I’m almost ashamed to say it – to kill time.

“Thou saidst they was good crows, Tommy; and they was nobbut booblins,” says the old Lincolnshire man who wanted a rook pie, and bought his rooks without seeing them, when they proved poor half-fledged birds; and what lots of us believes what others say, – takes things for granted; and after all only gets “booblins” for our dinner. If men would only judge for themselves – look before they leap – turn the china ornament up and look at the cracks and rivets, or, even if it is sound, consider how frail, fragile, and useless it is – they would be a little more satisfied with their own lot in life, and not be so given to grumbling. Things are precious hard sometimes, but that’s no reason why we should make them harder by our own folly. We see and know enough of the misery of our great towns, and I mean to say that we have ourselves to thank for a good – no, I mean a bad – half of it. Now, just take away – I wish we could – just take away out of London all the dirt, all the drunkenness, and all the other vice, and how do you think it would look then, eh? You can’t tell me; but I can tell you something: it would ruin half the doctors, half the undertakers, and three parts of the brewers, and gin-spinners, and publicans; and that being rather a strong dose for any man to digest at one sitting, I’ll let you think it over without putting any more on that subject. I won’t go on preaching about the everlasting pipe that men make a common tunnel or chimney to carry off all the sense in their heads through the abuse of tobacco; nor yet say anything about drowning the good feelings of his heart by the abuse of beer; for I want to get to the way in which yellow basins get jarring together, as if they were never happy till the fresh one that comes amongst them is cracked, and on the way to join the rest of the potsherds over whose dust we walk during our journey of life.

I want to talk about “paying your footing;” for there was a paragraph in a paper only a few days ago that brought up a good many old thoughts on old subjects. Now, this paragraph gave an account of a poor chap – at Sheffield, I think – being ill-used by his fellow-workmen for not paying his footing.

Now, I’ll just ask any decent, honest, hard-working man, whether he can imagine anything that comes nearer to dead robbery than making a poor fellow, just took on at any trade, pull out perhaps his last coin to find beer for a pack of thoughtless fellows who don’t want it, and who would be better without it. I’ve opened my mouth on this subject before, but it will bear touching again; for I think it a disgrace to the British workman to keep up such dirty, mean old practices. I’m not preaching total abstinence or anything of the kind; let every man take his own road. I for one love a good glass of ale at proper time and place; but sooner than drink at the expense of a poor, hard-up fellow-worker, I’d drink water to the death.

I’ve seen it all again and again – in busy London, and in the sweet country, where you can draw a hearty breath laden with vigour between every stroke of hammer, or trowel, or brush – and I say that the sooner the custom is kicked out of the workshop the better. If it must be kept up, and men won’t turn it out, why, then, let them put the boot on the other foot, and treat the new comer.

Nice young fellow comes into our shop once, fresh out of the country. Times had been very flat, and he looked terribly seedy. He’d come out of one of your little offices where a man’s printer, and bookbinder, and all; and he was one of your fellows as would take a book, paste end leaves on, and then leather away with a twelve-pound hammer at the beating stone till the impression was all gone, and it was solid as a board, take and nip it in the press, then sew the back, fit up his bands in the sewing frame, and stitch the whole book; end leaves again, and a bit o’ paste in your first section; then glue your back, round him, ravel out your bands, lace on your boards, and then sharpen up the plough-knife, and cut all the edges smooth as glass; sprinkle or marble, red edge or gilt and burnish – what you will; and then, how’s it to be, cloth? Well, then, cut out, and glue on. Half-calf? Cut up your leather, pare and trim your corners and back bit; and then, when the open cartridge paper back is dry, and the head bands firm, pop on your leather, then again your marble paper; paste down the end leaves; nip the book in the plough press, and there you are, ready for gilding the back and lettering to taste; or you may paste down your end leaves when you’ve done.

But that ain’t our way in town; ours is mostly cheap publication work, done in fancy cloth; and a country hand might well feel strange to see gals doing all the folding and stitching; one set of men at the glue-pot, another set trimming edges with a great carving-knife, another set rounding backs, another set cutting millboards, others making the fancy cloth covers, others lettering and gilding with a machine, and so on – division of labour, you know – when there the books are, stacks of them – big stacks too; while if it wasn’t for this scheming and working the oracle the binding would never be done.

Well, this young fellow was working aside me; and he was put on at the trimming – which is the cutting the edges of new books to be bound in cloth; for if they were pressed too hard the ink would set off on to the opposite sides; while this being considered as only the first binding till they get thoroughly dry, only the front and bottom of the book is cut. You do the rest with your paper-knives. Well, we’re paid piecework – fair money, you know – so much a dozen or score, so that a man has what he earns; and with my hands all corny and hard, I was letting go at a good rate, while my poor mate aside me was fresh at that work, and doing precious little good beyond blistering his hands and making his fingers sore; and I could see with half an eye as his bill would only be a small one o’ Saturday.

Now, the rule in most shops in London is, take care of yourself, and let others look out o’ their own side; but I never found myself any the worse off for helping a lame dog over a stile: so I kept on giving my mate a lift in the shape of a word here or there, so that he got on a little better, but very slowly; for a man can’t fall into the knack of it all at once. But he’d a good heart, and that “will do it” sorter stuff that makes men get on in the world and rise above their fellows; and he stuck at it till I saw him tear a strip off his handkerchief and bind it round his chafed finger, so that the blood shouldn’t soil the books; and though he didn’t say much, I could see by his looks as he thanked me.

Towards afternoon, while the foreman was out of the way, one of the men comes up for this new chap’s footing; and being a big shop, where good wages were made, it was five shillings. I didn’t take much notice, for it warn’t my business; but I saw the young fellow colour up and hesitate, and stammer, as he says, —

“You must let me off till wages are paid;” but my gentleman begins to bluster, and he says, —

“That comes o’ working aside Tom Hodson, a scaly humbug as never paid his own footings; but we ain’t a-going to stand any more o’ that sort o’ thing; and if you can’t come the reg’lar, you’ll soon find the place too hot to hold you.”

I felt as if I should have liked to give my man one for his nob, but went on with my work; and after a bit more rowing, they left the young chap alone; for I could see how the wind lay – he hadn’t got the money, and no wonder; but all that afternoon and next morning the chaps were pitching sneers and jeers about from one to another; about the workus, and a lot more of it, till, being quite a young chap, I could see more than once the tears in his eyes. Everybody cut him, and when he asked a civil question no one would answer; and after tea the second night, when I got back, there was a regular chorus of laughter, for the young chap was standing red and angry by his lot of books, where some one had been shying a lot o’ dirty water over them, so as would spoil perhaps four shillings’ worth of sheets, and get the poor chap into a row as well as having to pay for them.

Now, when we went to tea that night, I’d on the quiet asked him how he stood, and lent him the money, thinking it would be better paid, for they’d always have had a spite against him else; and now seeing this I felt quite mad and spoke up: —

“Looks like one of that cowardly hound Bill Smith’s tricks,” I says; and Bill, being a great hairy, six-foot-two fellow, puts on the bully, and comes across the shop to me as if he was going to punch my head.

“If you can’t pay your footing,” he says to me, “don’t think as we’re a-goin’ to take it in mouth; so just shut up,” he says, “and mind your own business;” and then, afore I knew what was up, that slight little fellow with cheeks flaming, and eyes flashing, had got hold of Bill, big as he was, and with his fingers inside his handkerchief, shook away at him like a terrier does a rat – shook him till his teeth chattered; and the great cowardly bounceable chap roared for mercy, and at last went down upon his knees, while, with his teeth set, that young fellow shook him till the whole shop roared again with laughter.

“Give it him, little ’un,” says one; “Stick to him, young ’un,” says another; while big Bill Smith looked as if he was being murdered, till the young chap sent him over against a plough-tub, where he knocked against a glue-kettle, and the half-warm stuff came trickling over his doughy white face, and he lay afraid to move.

“There’s your beggarly footing,” says the young chap, shying down two half-crowns on the big bench; and then, without another word, he walked to his place and tried to go on with his work.

I never did see a set of men look more foolish in my life than ours did that night; and first one and then another slipped into his work, till all were busy; while them two half-crowns lay on the table winking and shining in the gaslight, and not a man had the face to come forward to pick them up and send for the beer.

Last of all, it was getting towards seven, when, now quite cool, the young chap beckons one of the boys and sends him out for two gallons and a half of sixpenny; and when it came, goes himself and pours for the whole shop, even offering the pot to Bill Smith; but he wouldn’t take it, but growled out something, when the whole shop laughed at him again, and the rest of that evening he got chaffed awfully.

Next morning I’d been thinking how to get some fresh sheets stitched in the young chap’s books, so as to be as little expense as possible, and when I got to the shop he was there looking at his heap, when I found that though working men do wrong sometimes, there’s the real English grit in them; and here, before we came, if the chaps hadn’t walked off the damaged copies, shared them amongst ’em, and put fresh ones from their own heaps, so as it never cost my young mate a shilling.

But it’s a bad system, men. Have your beer if you like, but don’t ask a poor hard-up fellow to rob self, wife, and child to pay his footing.

Chapter Two.
Aboard a Light-Ship

Goes in for salvage, sir; and when a ship’s going on to the sands, where she must be knocked to pieces in no time, and a party of our company goes off and saves her, why we deserves it, don’t we? That’s our place, you see; and them’s old names of ships and bits o’ wreck nailed up again it. We keeps oars, and masts, and sails in there; ropes, and anchors, and things as don’t want to be lying out on the beach; and then, too, it serves for a shelter and lookout place. Them’s our boats – them two – yawls we call ’em; and I mean to say that, lifeboat, or other boat, you’ll never find aught to come anigh ’em for seaworthiness. There’s a build! there’s fine lines! Why, she goes over the water like a duck; and when we’ve a lot of our chaps in, some o’ them sand-bags and irons at the bottom for ballast, the two masts, and a couple o’ lug sails up, it’ll be such a storm as I ain’t seen yet as’ll keep us from going out. Why, we’ve gone out, when in five minutes – ah! less than that – you couldn’t see the shore – nought but wild sea and spray all round; but there, we’re used to it, you see; and when we get to a ship in trouble, and save her, why, there’s some satisfaction in it. And, after all, ’tain’t half so bad as being in a light-ship.

Light-ship? yes, there’s one out yonder. No, not that – that’s one o’ the harbour lights. Out more to sea. There, you can’t see her now; but if you take a look you’ll see her directly. Not the ship, o’ course, but the light. There; that’s her, bo. Don’t you see her? That’s a revolving light. Goes round and round, you know, so that sometimes you see it, and sometimes you don’t; and that’s on the top of a mast aboard a light-ship, moored head and starn on the sands, two mile out; and sooner than spend a night aboard her when there’s a storm on, I’d go out to fifty wrecks.

Pretty sight that, ain’t it? Surprises many people as comes to the sea-side. Seems as if the sea’s on fire, don’t it? There now, watch that boat as the oars dip – quite gives flashes o’ light. But that ain’t nothing, that ain’t, to what I’ve seen abroad. I was in one of the Queen’s frigates out in the Pacific, and when we lay in the harbour at Callao one night, the officers had a ball on board, and we chaps had plenty to do taking the ladies backwards and forwards. Well, when it was over we in the first cutter were taking a party ashore – officers and ladies – when they were singing, and so on, and they made us pull slowly, for it was just as if the whole bay was afire, and when we dipped the flash was enough to light up all our faces with the soft pale light.

But you should be out in the light-ship there for a night when there’s a heavy sea on and the waves makes a clean breach over you. It’s a dull life out there at any time, for there’s not much to do – only the light to keep trimmed and the glass and reflectors well polished. When I was there we used to pass the time away making models of ships and rigging them, or doing any little nick-nack jobs as took our fancies. Four of us used to be there at a time; and when the dark winter’s night was setting in, and the wind and sea getting up, you couldn’t help feeling melancholy and low. The place we were in, you see, was a dangerous one, and one where there had been no end of wrecks; while in more than one place you could see the timbers of a half broke-up ship, lying stuck in the sands. Then, as it got dark, and you stood on deck, you could almost fancy the tall white waves were the ghosts of them as had gone down and been lost there – hundreds upon hundreds of them; and that puts me in mind of one night when a full-rigged ship came on the sands.

It was a horribly rough afternoon, with a heavy gale blowing; cold, and dark, and dismal it looked all round, and there we were watching this here ship trying hard to give the sands a wide berth, but all to no good, for there she was slowly drifting down nearer and nearer – now lost to sight almost in the fog and spray, and now when it lifted, plain again before us, till she seemed close in amongst the heavy surf.

At times our light-ship, heavily moored and strong-built as she was, pitched and strained dreadful, so that it seemed as she must drag or break away, while every now and then a wave would come with such a shock that the heavy timbers quivered again; and of us four men there, every one would have gladly been ashore, and out of those fierce roaring breakers. But no one showed the white feather, and there we were, as I said, watching the big ship, till just as the gloomy winter’s night set in, and the gale came shouting by as though the storm meant to make a night of it, we saw the ship for a moment, lost sight of her again, and then, just as there was a bit of an opening in the fog, there she came with a regular leap starn on to the sands, and “snap, snap,” two of her masts went overboard in an instant.

We had to hold on pretty tightly ourselves, I can tell you, and the water that came aboard at times almost choked us; but with such a scene as that before us, not a man could have gone below, and we stood straining our eyes and trying to make out what was going on.

She was too far off for us to make out anything very plainly; but as we looked, up went a rocket, rush into the air, and, leaving its fiery train behind, broke into a shower of sparks. Then there was another and another sent up, and in the flashes of light we could make out as one mast crowded with people still stood, while a regular shudder went through one to think what it would be if that fell.

What seemed so cruel was that though we were only a quarter of a mile off we couldn’t help the poor creatures; all the good we were was to keep our light burning brightly to warn ships off, but once they were on the sands, with a heavy sea running, the stoutest shoremen shook their heads, and when the lifeboat was run out knew well enough that the chances were ever so much against the lives being all saved.

“Hooray!” says Bob Gunnis all at once; “here they come.”

“Where?” I says; “and who’s coming?”

Looking where he pointed, for the wind swept his words away, I held on my tarpaulin hat, and peered out to leeward, where every now and then I could just see the white and blue sides of the lifeboat with her sail up, and seeming to dance like a gull on the top of the water. Now she’d be quite hid in the dim misty clouds that kept flying across, half rain, half spray. Now she’d be seen plainer and nearer, coming on between us and the wreck; and then it would come over so dark again we could make nothing out. But the lightly-painted boat and her white sail soon showed again quite pale and ghost-like, now getting fast on towards the vessel; though I couldn’t help giving my head a shake as I held on and looked.

“What water is there where she lies?” I says to Bob Gunnis – for, you see, he was a chap as knew to a foot what water there was anywhere for far enough round.

“Let’s see,” he says, “it’s about low water now, or should be if there warn’t this gale on, but she won’t go down no lower anyhows. Let’s see, there’ll be just enough to float the lifeboat over, and that’s all; while if they give a scrape or a bump once it won’t be no wonder.”

And now we could just make out the lifeboat lay out for a bit, and then let go her kedge and drop down towards the ship, as seemed at times to be completely buried under water. It made your eyes ache to watch, for the spray came dashing into your face, while the lanthorn looked quite dull and dripping, with the water splashing and beating against it.

All at once we had a grand view of the lifeboat, for she lay just where the light from our lanthorn fell. All four of us saw her as we hung together by the bulwarks, and then there seemed something wrong, for she was lifted on a great wave; and then one’s heart seemed to come in one’s mouth, for she capsized.

I remember it all so well – the white frothy water, with the strong light from our lanthorn upon it, and the pale, ghostly-looking boat capsizing, while we held our breath to see her come right again; but she didn’t, but lay tossing in the water, for there was not depth enough for the mast to pass under, or else the boat, being made self-righting, would have come up again all right.

Just then, the light turning round, all was darkness again, and whether it was fancy, or only the wind rushing by, there came one of the wildest and most awful shrieks I ever heard in my life. Then the light worked round again, and shone down towards where the lifeboat and the ship lay; but we could see nothing but the tremendous sea beating upon the sands, boiling up and rising like mountains of foam, whilst our light-ship rolled and plunged and tugged at her moorings, so that we could not keep our feet.

Bound come the light again, and we strained our eyes to look, but there was nothing but the tumbling sea in one great froth; and then darkness, and light once more as the lanthorn revolved; and we then fancied that in the dark part, between where the light fell and our ship, we could make out the lifeboat drifting along on one side, with here and there something dark clinging to it; but we couldn’t be sure, and even if they had floated close by us, we could have done nothing to help them, for the sea on was something fearful.

There wasn’t a man of us that night as didn’t feel sure as the old light-ship would be dragging her anchors and going ashore somewhere, when, “Lord ha’ mussy upon us,” I says. Of course, it was watch and watch of a night; but, there, who could go and turn in with the sea thundering on deck, and washing over you – the chain cables groaning and creaking; the wind shrieking by, and the mast, atop of which stood the lanthorn, quivering and jarring and shaking, as though it would snap off by the deck? Sleep! No, not much of that; for we all stayed on deck, talking when there was a lull, and holding on so as to keep from being swept overboard.

Ah! it’s a nice berth – tenter of a light-ship, moored at the end of the dangerous sands – a place too bad for other vessels to come; so, fair weather or foul, there you are, to keep your light bright and trimmed so that you may warn other folks off.

We could see the lights ashore now and then, and knew how the folks would be looking out for the lifeboat, and the very thought of it all gave one a shudder, for it seemed that they were all lost – ship’s crew and lifeboat’s crew – while we four had been looking idly on.

I’d crept along to the bows of the ship, and was trying to peer out into the thick haze ahead, when all at once I gave a start, for I seemed to hear a cry like some one hailing very faintly.

I looked out again and again on both sides, and then settled as it was fancy, for the noise of the wind and water was deafening; but just as I’d made up my mind that it was nothing I hears the cry again, and this time it made me shiver, for I knew that any one of the ship’s crew, or the lifeboat’s crew, must have been swept away half an hour before. So, as I said, I gave quite a shiver and crept back to where my mates stood, and shouts in Bob Gunnis’s ear, “There’s some one a hailing of us!”

“Don’t be a fool,” he says, quite crusty; but I stuck out as there was, and then he crept forward too, and stood listening. “Now then,” he says, “where’s your hailin’ now? Why, it was the – ”

“Help!” came a faint cry from somewhere ahead, and Bob stopped short with his mouth open, and his hand over his eyes, gazing out to sea.

“Say, mate,” he says, ketching hold of my arm, and whispering in my ear, with his mouth quite close – “say, mate, let’s get back; ’taint nat’ral.”

Well, feeling a bit queer after hearing that wild cry from somewhere off the water, and knowing that nothing could live in the sea then on, we thought it was what Alick Frazer, another of our chaps, called “No canny,” and we crept back along the bulwarks to where t’other two stood, and “I say, bo,” says Bob to Alick, “you can hear ’em drowning out there now;” and Bob was obliged to shout it all.

“Ah!” says Alick, “and so we shall every storm night as comes, laddie; and I’ll no stay in the ship if we do.”

“Help!” came the cry again off the water – such a long low cry, heard in the lull, that it seemed to go through us all, and we stood there trembling and afraid to move.

“’Tain’t human,” says Alick – “it’s a sperrit;” but somehow or other we all went up to the ship’s head again, and stood trying to make something out as the light turned round. All just in front of us was dark, for it was some little way out before the light struck the water; but we could see nothing; and shaking our heads, we were about going back again, when a sea came aboard with a rush, and made us hold on for dear life; and then directly after came very faintly the cry, “Help!” so close at hand that it seemed on board.

“Why, there’s a chap on the chain?” cried Bob Gunnis excitedly. “Look here, mates,” he cried; and there right below, and evidently lashed on to the big mooring cable, we could make out a figure, sometimes clear of the water, and sometimes with it washing clean over him.

“Ahoy!” I sings out; but there was no answer, and during the next minute as we stood there no cry for help came, for it seemed the poor fellow was beat out.

“Well,” I says, “we must fetch him aboard somehow.”

“Ah!” says Bob Gunnis, “that’s werry easy said, mate; p’raps you’ll go down the cable and do it.”

That was home certainly, for with the sea, as we kept shipping, it was hard enough to hold your own in the shelter of the bulwarks, without going over the bows, where you would have to hang on, and get the full rush. “Well, but,” I say, “some one must go;” and I shouted it out, and looked at the other two. But they wouldn’t see it, and Bob Gunnis only said it was bad enough there as we were; so I goes down below, feeling all of a shiver as if something was going to happen, and they shouted at me, but I came up again, and shoved the hatch on, and then crept forward with some inch rope in my hand; makes one end fast round my waist, and gives them the rest to pay out; and then gets ready to go over the bows and slip down the cable.

I waited till a sea had struck us, and then climbed over and began to swarm down the cold, slippery iron links; and not being far, I soon got hold of the poor fellow hanging there; then the sea came right over us, and it seemed as if I was going to be torn away; but I held on, and then as it went down I got lower, and held tight hold of the poor chap – both arms round him, and fancying how it would be if my knot wasn’t fast, or the rope parted. I shouted for them to haul us aboard; but they couldn’t have heard me, for while I was watching the black bows of the ship, another wave come over us, and I was almost drowned before it sank. But now they began to haul on tight, and dragged so that the rope cut awfully, for I found that the poor chap didn’t move; and loosing one hand as they slackened a moment, I could feel as he had lashed himself to the cable, and then the rope tightened again, and before I could shout I was being dragged away, and the next moment they had me over the side.