Without a moment’s deliberation I marched in and bought my supper—a faggot—(it cost me a pang to be compelled to forego the liberal spoonful of gravy that accompanied each one, in consequence of having no vessel to hold it,) on a big cabbage leaf, a ha’porth of peas-pudding, and a ha’porth of baked potatoes. I longed to be at it at once, but I had heard of unprincipled scoundrels who waylaid children going errands and robbed them of their goods: so I bundled up my supper in the cabbage-leaf, and, hiding it in the breast of my jacket, made haste back to the pig-market, and, sitting in a secluded corner, devoured it with great relish.
I don’t mean to say that I couldn’t have eaten more—indeed, I am sure that I could have eaten three times as much—still I felt very much better for my supper. I felt better every way; the goodness of the supper had softened my heart as well as assuaged my hunger. How was little Polly? I thought of her more than of father, home, anything; nor was it any great wonder that I should. Without doubt she was a dead weight on my liberty during the daytime, and a serious draw-back of nights, but she was a dear little soul. She couldn’t speak to me, but she couldn’t bear to see me cry; and often and often after Mrs. Burke had beaten me, and I felt so bad I didn’t know what to be at, poor Polly would put her little arms round my neck, and her lips against my cheek to kiss me. She was all the comfort I had, and I believe I was all the comfort she had, poor child.
These and a hundred other such melancholy reflections passed through my mind as I sat in the pig-shambles, until I could bear them no longer, and determined at all hazards to venture home and make inquiries, or at least to approach our alley, and lurk about till I saw somebody who lived there, and of whom I could make inquiries.
It was quite dark by this time, and the way from Smithfield to our alley was not a much frequented one; nevertheless I stepped along with extreme caution, darting into doorways if I saw approaching any one looking in the distance the least like my father or Mrs. Burke. I met nobody that I knew, however, and presently reached Turnmill Street in safety. As luck would have it, while I was as yet twenty yards from Frying-pan Alley, whom should I run against but my old friend Jerry Pape?
I have said whom I ran against, but it would be more correct to say that he ran against me. He ran right at me from across the road, and embraced me with both his arms, as though he was so jolly glad to see me he could scarcely contain himself.
“What, Jim? what cheer, old boy? Where was you goin’?” said Master Pape, his affectionate embrace abating nothing.
“I don’t know quite where I am going, Jerry,” I replied, shaking hands with the good-natured fellow. “I was thinking of going home just to see”—
“Then you hain’t been home?” asked Jerry, eagerly.
“No.”
“You hain’t been home since the mornin’—not since you hooked it away?”
Jerry’s voice was tremulous with excitement as he asked the question.
“No,” I replied, “I’ve been away all day. How are they all, Jerry? Have you seen young Polly out this arternoon?”
Master Pape made no reply to my question.
“If you hain’t been home, you’d better come now,” said he, griping the collar of my jacket with something more than friendly ardour, and giving me a jerk in the direction in which he wished me to go. “Come on, you’ve got to go home, you know.”
Jerry’s behaviour at once aroused my worst suspicions.
“I hain’t going home without I like,” said I, and down I sat on the pavement.
The treacherous villain appeared to be suddenly made aware of the faultiness of his tactics.
“You hain’t a-going home?” said he with affected astonishment, and at the same time taking his hand from my collar.” Well, you are a rummy chap. You just said you was.”
“I can go without your pulling, Jerry Pape. What do you want to pull me for?”
“Me pull you? What should I pull yer for, Jimmy? How is it worth my while to pull yer? Next time I does you a good turn you’ll know it, young feller.”
“How’s it a good turn, Jerry?”
“How! Why, there they are all a-cryin’ arter you up the alley.”
“Who’s cryin’?”
“Who? Why, yer father and yer mother and young Poll, and all the whole bilin’. I couldn’t stand it no longer. Ses I to myself, ‘Here they are a-breakin’ their ’arts arter him, and won’t get their suppers without he comes home, though it’s a stunnin’ meat puddin’ with hot taters, and all the while p’r’aps he’s hangin’ about afeard to wenture home, and expectin’ a whackin’. Jim knows me,’ I ses to myself; ‘I won’t say nothink to nobody, but I’ll slip out and let him know as it’s all right.’ And I does do it, and here you are, chucking of yourself on the stones, and as good as callin’ me a liar.”
There was a gas-lamp near, and as Jerry spoke it was easy to see that he meant every word he had spoken, and that my suspicions as to his fidelity had wounded his feelings very deeply. I couldn’t help believing him, and yet what he told me was altogether astounding. Everybody crying for me, and a meat pudding getting cold on my account! Remorse filled me to the brim, and, sympathizing with my weeping friends, my eyes filled with tears.
“Are you quite sure, Jerry?” I asked, getting on my legs, and squeezing his friendly hand in gratitude. “You are quite sure you hain’t made no mistake? ’cos it will go very hard against me, you know, Jerry, if you should. It ain’t at all unbeknown to you, Jerry, how she punches me about and pulls my hair.”
“Mistake about what?” asked the traitor, evasively.
“About the cryin’ and that.”
“That’s right enough, I tell you. They’re all a-cryin’ arter you like a house a-fire.”
“My father too, Jerry?”
“Harder ’un the whole lot put together,” replied Master Pape, emphatically. “Don’t take my word on it; come up to the alley and arks anybody. You can hear him a owlin’ as high up as Winkship’s. He’ll do hisself a hinjury, that’ll be the end on it.”
“And little Polly, is she, too, all right Jerry?” “Right as ninepence; never seed her look better.”
“She didn’t break any of her bones when I dropped her down the steps this morning? She didn’t make her nose bleed, or get another bump on her head, Jerry?”
“Oh, that’s what you’re afeard on?” said Jerry, lightly. “Lor’, bless yer, when they picked her up she was a larfin fit to kill herself.
When they took her to the doctor’s”—
“What! took her to the doctor’s? Oh! what for, Jerry? I thought you said she wasn’t hurt at all, but laughing?”
“Did I say anythink about the doctor’s? I’ve no recollections of it,” replied Jerry Pape, turning his head away to hide his embarrassment.
“You did; you did, Jerry. You said they took her to the doctor’s”
“Well, did I tell you what they took her for?” asked Jerry, turning about again with the tarnish of perplexity quite cleared off from his brazen countenance.
“No. Do tell me, please, Jerry.”
“Didn’t I tell you that when they picked her up she was larfin werry hearty?”
“Yes, so you did, but”—
“Werry well, then; it was wus than that. Since you must know, she was a-larfin’ so that they thought she’d go into conwulsions. That’s what they took her to the doctor’s for.”
Completely reassured and comforted by this plausible explanation, I turned towards Fryingpan Alley at a brisk trot, Jerry keeping well up with me and chatting in the cheerfullest manner. It was not until we had arrived within a stone’s-cast of the alley that my eyes were opened to his cruel perfidy.