“Please, sir, here’s one as can’t tumble out,” said Mouldy, who, rather than come near me, was peeping in through the rails at the back of the van.
“How d’ ye mean, can’t tumble out?” asked the carman.
“Well, he might tumble out, guvnor, and that’s about all he’s ekal to. I’m jiggered if he can climb out!”
“What the d——l do you mean?” asked the carman, locking the stable door, and coming forward in a mighty hurry with his lantern. “Why can’t he get out? He got in, didn’t he?”
“He complains of his legs bein’ nummy, sir, and he can’t stand,” observed Ripston, pleadingly. “Would you mind givin’ him a lift out, if you please?”
“Yes, I’ll thunderin’ soon give him a lift out—such a one as he won’t forget in a hurry, I promise you.”
And so saying, the gruff carman, with the lantern in his hand, leapt into the van. “Out you come, you lazy young whelp!” said he; but just as the words were out of his mouth he flashed the lantern light on to my face, and he immediately altered his tune.
“Lor’ A’mighty, young ’un!” he exclaimed. “Why, how long has this been?”
“It’s been a-comin’ on since yesterday arternoon,” replied Ripston; “we didn’t know as how it had come on as strong as that, though, mister; ’cos we couldn’t see him.”
“Where does he live? You must get him home somehow,” said the carman.
Where was the use of telling him? “If I could only collar hold on him, he wouldn’t run away agin for one while,” were among the last words I had heard my father say; and was it likely that he would feel more tenderly disposed towards me now? It would have been bad enough to have been collared hold of when I was well, and could get out of the way of the whacks a bit; but, now that I couldn’t even so much as stand, it would be ten times worse.
“D’ ye hear, young ’un?” repeated the carman; “whereabouts do you live when you’re at home?”
But I made no answer, pretending not to hear him.
“Don’t either of you chaps know where he lives?”
There were no secrets between us. Each one knew where the other’s home was, together with the full particulars of his reasons for abandoning the same; but we were bound by the most terrific oaths never to split on each other. A suspicion, however, that mine might possibly be regarded as an exceptional case seemed to occur to Mouldy, and as the carman asked the question, he directed at me an inquiring glance to that effect. But I returned his look with one of a sort that made him comprehend my wishes on the subject instantly.
“He lives here,” Mouldy replied.
“Yes; but where does he come from?”
“He lives here, and he grubs here, and he sleeps here, same as we do—same as all on us,” persisted Mouldy.
“I know all about that; but where’s his home? where does his father and mother live? Come, now.”
“He ain’t got no home of that there kind that ever I heard tell of; did you, Ripston?”
“No, nor yet no father nor mother,” replied his confederate; “he’s a horfen, that’s wot he is.”
“Poor little beggar,” said the carman, looking down on me pityingly; “well, he’ll die if he’s left here, that’s certain; he’s more than half dead now, I believe.”
“Wouldn’t a couple of pills set him right, don’t you think, mister?” inquired Ripston, solicitously; “a couple of good strong openin’ uns? If as you would be so kind as to lend us a penny to buy ’em with, we would give it you back”—
“What stuff! he’s past pills by a very long way,” interrupted the honest carman. “’Tain’t no business of mine, of course, but I haven’t got the heart to leave him here. Shall I take you to the work’us, young ’un?”
I didn’t care where—anywhere but home to Fryingpan Alley. I felt too weak to speak, so I nodded “Yes” to the carman’s question.
“I’m jolly well sure to get a bullying from the work’us for my pains,” continued he; “never mind—they can’t refuse to take you. Here, Toby,” (he always called Mouldy “Toby,” not knowing his other name,) “unbuckle the cloth off the near side mare, and chuck it up here.”
Mouldy did as he was desired; and the good carman, first taking the precaution to light his pipe, and take half-a-dozen good pulls at it, wrapped the great warm horse-cloth tenderly about me. Then going to his horses’ heads, he led them out of the arches, Ripston sitting down beside me as I lay in the van.
As for Mouldy, afraid as he was of the terrible “fever,” he couldn’t leave me without a parting friendly word. I heard him hauling himself up at the tail-board, and looking that way, saw his dirty sympathising face peering sadly between the rails.
“Good-bye, Smiffield,” said he. “Mister,” (this to the carman,) “there’s a jacket wot he’s covered over with; it’s mine; tell the work’us to take care of it for him ’ginst he comes out. Lord bless you, old Smiff! Cheer up, old son!”
And he suddenly vanished.
Ripston remained in the van until we turned out of the arches into Hungerford; then he gave my hot hand a squeeze, and with his lips pressed tightly together, looked at me, and nodded in a very meaning and hearty manner, tucked the horse-cloth about me, and without a word dropped over the tail-board, and was gone.
Chapter XIX. In which, with the assistance of Doctor Flinders, I manage to cheat the worms. I quit the workhouse with much less ceremony than I entered it.
My good friend the carman was not far wrong in his anticipations that his interference in my behalf would not be gratefully regarded by the workhouse authorities.
Objection met him at the gate. He dared not admit me without an order, the porter said, and intimated to the carman that his best plan would be to take me back to where he had found me; at the same time broadly hinting his disbelief in the story from first to last, and his opinion that I was the carman’s own boy, whom he found it convenient to get rid of. Goaded by these insinuations, my friend expressed his determination to leave me on the workhouse steps, and go about his business. But to this course the policeman demurred, and threatened to take the carman to the station-house, and impound his waggon and horses if he attempted so to desert me.
After half-an-hour of this sort of sparring, the master of the workhouse made his appearance, and overwhelmed the unlucky carman with perplexing questions. Did I belong to that parish? Did the carman bring me on his own account, or on account of his master, whose address the van bore? My friend informed the great man that he had brought me on no one’s account, but purely out of humanity, and detailed as much as he knew of me—how that his master’s van was placed at night under the Adelphi dark arches, and how that, to his knowledge, I had slept in the same for several months. But this explanation, so far from simplifying matters, made them worse. It was clear, the master said, that my occupancy and tenancy of the carter’s van or premises gave me a claim on the parish in which the said carter resided and paid poor-rates; that the master was bound by the acts of his servant; and that if I was admitted, it would only be on agreement that the Bedfordbury carter paid for my maintenance.
“Very well, then,” replied the bewildered carman, “I shall take him back to the dark arches, and lay him in a corner.” On which the mob which had collected cried shame on the carman for an inhuman brute, and the policeman began to push him about. By God’s mercy, however, just at this time up came the parish doctor, and my case was advanced a step by his ordering the van to be drawn into the workhouse yard.
Finally, after the carman had been detained—despite his plea of being due at a moving job in the Whitechapel Road at half-past seven, and that the hire of the van was half-a-crown an hour—for fully two hours, and his master and one of the parish guardians had been sent for, I was carried out of the van into the workhouse, and stripped, and washed, and put to bed.