I speedily discovered that it was not a private house into which Mouldy had pulled me, but a low and narrow passage, with a paving of cobblestones, just such as Fryingpan Alley was paved with. The air of the place blew against my face, damp and deadly cold, and it was so pitchy dark that to see even a foot before you was impossible. After permitting myself to be led into the frightful passage for a few yards, my terror brought me to a stand-still.
“Is this—this where you live, Mouldy?” I asked.
“Down here,” answered he; “down here a good step yet. Come on; what are you frightened of?”
“It’s so dark, Mouldy.”
“I dessay—to coves wot always gets reg’lar wittles, and burn wax candles in their private bed-rooms; but we ain’t so pertikler in these parts. Come on, or leave go my hand, and let me go.”
I had him by the hand as tight as I could hold him. I didn’t know what to do. Mouldy must have felt my arm tremble, I think.
“Lor’, there’s nothink to funk about, young ’un,” said he, in almost a kind voice. “If we make haste we shall find a wan or a cart, with a good bit of dry straw to lay on. That hain’t to be sneezed at, don’t you know, on a cold night.”
Thus encouraged, I allowed myself to be led farther into the dark, damp passage, which was so very steep and slippery with wet, that if I had had shoes on, I should have slipped forward a dozen times. What Mouldy meant by his allusion to carts and vans, and dry straw, I could not at all understand. If such things were to be found at the bottom of the. dismal alley we were descending, they were not to be despised by a poor boy in want of a lodging; and, without doubt, I did want a lodging. Besides, it was very good on Mouldy’s part to offer me, quite unsolicited, a share of his bed, humble though it was, and it would seem very unkind to refuse him. So screwing up my courage as I went, I kept up with Mouldy. Down and down, each moment the wind blowing in our faces colder and fouler. Presently we overtook Ripston, who began to growl at a fine rate at the long time we were in coming, and to prognosticate that every cart and van would be full.
The pavement under our feet grew colder and muddier, and the wind more and more foul.
“Well, I d’n know,” spoke Ripston, in the dark, “but it smells to me werry much like spring tides.”
“Get out, you fool l” replied Mouldy; “spring tides is all over for this year. Don’t you know the smell of a low tide from a high ’un? You oughter by this time.”
“Ah! well, I s’pose it’s the mud I smells,” said Ripston.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “Where does this lead to?”
“Into the river, if we keep straight on,” replied Ripston laughing.
“Into the river!”
“What do you want to funk him for?” interposed Mouldy, kindly. “Yes, Smiffield, it do lead into the river if we keep straight on; but we hain’t a-goin’ to keep straight on; we ’re goin’ to turn off presently.”
I was full of fright, and now only allowed myself to be led on, because had I turned to go back I would never have found my way. Besides, it was so dreadfully dark, and if I went back it would be alone. Mouldy still held my hand, and Ripston came on behind, singing a bit of a comic song he had heard that night in Shoreditch probably, and as unconcerned as though he was treading the most clean and cheerful of paths. By and by we turned out of the passage, and down a flight of steps; and when we had reached the bottom, Mouldy said—
“Here we are. Now, you take his t’other hand, Rip, or else he’ll be runnin’ agin something, and breakin’ his legs.”
“Lift your feet up, Smiffield,” said Ripston; “if you kicks agin anything werry soft and warm, don’t you stoop to pick it up, thinkin’ it’s a lady’s muff or somethink; ’cos if you do, it’ll bite yer.”
“What will bite me?” I asked, most earnestly, wishing in my heart that I had remained all night in the pig market.
“Why, a rat,” replied Ripston, maliciously enjoying my terror. “Bless you, they runs about here big as good-sized cats—don’t they, Mouldy?”
“Don’t you b’lieve him, Smiffield,” said his friend; “’course there is rats, but they ’re jolly glad to get out of the way if they’ve got the chance, when they see you comin’.”
“Oh, yes! they ’re good at gettin’ out of the way, ain’t they? Quite perlite; and stands up and makes bows and curtseys to you when you come their road, I shouldn’t wonder!” sneered Ripston. “How about the old woman as they part eat the other night; eh, Mouldy? They wasn’t werry perlite to her.”
“You hold your jaw and come on, that’s quite enough for you to do; or p’r’aps you might be made,” replied Mouldy, threateningly; and Master Ripston, taking the hint, said no more.
It was a horrible place. How large, it was impossible to guess; but that it had reeking brick walls could be plainly made out by the light of the few glimmering tallow candles stuck here and there. These scarce scraps of candle were the only means of light, and each of them evidently was private property, and set up for the convenience of the individuals to whom it belonged, and who were lazily grouped about it.
About twenty yards from the spot at which we entered, there was one of these bits of candle stuck against the wall, supported by an old “corkscrew” knife, the screw being wedged in between the green wet bricks, and the broken blade serving as a candle-holder. The light was about three feet from the ground, and squatted in the reflection of it was a ragged and dirty old man, mending a boot. He had the lid of a fish-basket for a seat, and his tools were an old dinner fork and a bit of twine. The fork was for boring holes in the leather; and when he had made a hole, the old man would straighten the end of the twine between his lips, and hold up the dilapidated boot to the candlelight, the better to see where to make the hitch. He had spectacles on—at least a pair of rims, with one glass in—and certainly it did make a queer picture to see the old fellow puckering up his mouth, and with his head on one side, making the most of the solitary glass; his hand shaking so all the while, that even when he had spied the hole in which the twine was to go, he was quite half a minute before he could make good the stitch. Besides revealing him, the old man’s candle shone on the wheel and side of a cart a few yards distant. The body of the cart was hidden in the darkness, but, as might be known by their laughing and scrambling, there were several boys in it, and they were amusing themselves by pelting the old man’s candle with mud.
“It’s old Daddy Riddle, isn’t it?” observed Ripston, as the boys stopped for a moment to see the fun.
“Yes, the old beggar,” replied Mouldy. “Serve him right. Ha! ha! See that, Smiffield?” (it was because a dab of mud struck the old man on the forehead that Mouldy laughed.) “Hain’t it a lark?”
“Why does it serve him right? What has he done to them?” I asked.
“What’s he done? Why, he’s a miser,” replied Mouldy, with much disgust. “They do say that all his money—hundreds and thousands, and all in gold—is hid under a stone somewheres under these arches. Lor’ send we might fall acrost that stone—eh, Rip?”
But Ripston was otherwise engaged, and couldn’t answer. A well-aimed lump of mud had knocked the boot out of the miser’s hand just as he was succeeding in pushing his twine through a hole he had bored, and now he was on his hands and knees groping in the dark to find his old boot again. Such a roar of laughter arose from the cart where the boys were, as made the vaulted roof ring again, and Ripston laughed as loud as anybody.
“Do let me finish the job, there’s good lads,” exclaimed the old man, when he had found his property. “If you’ll only leave off pelting just as long as I can put half-a-dozen more stitches, you shall have the candle to toss or play cards by, just as you like.”