But how to get out of the workhouse was the difficulty, and one that kept me awake hours after all but the nurses were asleep. There was one way—only one—and that not very promising. There was a young woman in the ward, a sort of helper to the nurses—not a regular nurse, but a poor young woman who was a pauper, and who got no more liberty than the other paupers. She was a very pleasant and good-looking young woman, and somebody used to send her letters; sly letters, which the gate-keeper used to take in. Sometimes she used to slip down and take the letters of the gate-keeper herself, but more often she would send one of us boys down, and as she always got us an extra slice of bread and butter for our trouble, we never told of her. The gatekeeper used to get something too, I suppose, for he never told of Jane, but used to keep her letters as artful as could be. I think it was money for tobacco Jane used to give the gate-keeper, for the last time I had gone down to ask him if any letters had come, he gave me one, and said, “Give Jane my respects, and tell her I ain’t had a pipe of ’bacca since yesterday.” My poor chance was to go down without being sent to the gate-keeper, ask him for a letter, and tell him that Jane wanted me to slip out on a little errand for her, and that if he would let me, I was to buy him some tobacco, and bring it in with me. It certainly was a lame sort of plan, and required enough of lying and artfulness to work it out, to make my prospects at Stratford dismal indeed, if it miscarried; but I could think of none better, and resolving to try it in the morning, I went to sleep.
The morning came. Half-past seven was the breakfast-time, and it was the eight o’clock post which generally brought Jane’s letters. I didn’t flinch from my plan; indeed, if my resolution had flagged when I awoke, it would certainly have been spurred to its firmest by the jeers and grins that beset me on every side. How beautifully I should catch it when I got to Stratford! was the only subject of conversation throughout the breakfast-time.
At a quarter-past eight, having managed to stow my cap under the upper part of my trousers, I stole quietly out of the ward, and down the stairs. It was a single flight, and at the bottom was a long passage which led into the yard, at the farther end of which was the gate and the gate-keeper. The window of the sick-ward overlooked the yard; and looking up, there was Jane looking down, and looking, too, as though she couldn’t make out what on earth I did down in the yard at that time in the morning. But I took no notice of her, and marched bravely up to the lobby in which the gate-keeper sat.
“No letter,” said he, as I came up.
“I know, sir,” answered I; “but, please, Jane says would you mind me just runnin’ round the corner for her, to fetch some writing paper, and she says”—
“Cert’n’y not” interrupted the gate-keeper, fiercely; “and you may tell Jane from me that she’s a-comin’ it a great deal too strong in askin’ such a redicklus thing.”
He looked up at the window as he spoke, and there was Jane shaking her head as hard as she could.
“Ah! it’s all very fine, you makin’ signs—Don’t stop him. I’m bound to stop him. I ain’t a-goin’ to risk my place, just because”—
“And, please, sir,” I broke in, hurriedly, seeing how my chance was failing—“please, sir, Jane said that I was to bring you in half an ounce of ’bacca.”
“Ah! that’s all very fine, too!” said the gatekeeper, his tone becoming more civil, while at the same time he gave another glance up at the ward window, where Jane still was with a very red face, and evidently with a strong suspicion that mischief was brewing, shaking her head this way and that, in the most bewildered manner. “I ain’t to be bribed by Jane buyin’ me ’bacca; if I wants ’bacca, I can buy it. Give us hold of the three-ha’pence. Cut away with you, and if you are gone as long as a minute, see what you’ll catch.”
Give him the three-ha’pence and cut away! Leave to go—the road open and free before me, and the whole business to be baulked for the want of three-ha’pence! Such a cruel thing was not to happen. The Father of lies stuck to me in my extremity.
“I haven’t got the coppers, till I get change, sir,” I said; “I was to bring you tobacco out of this sixpence which Jane gave me—and I fumbled at an imaginary sixpence in my trousers pocket.
“Be off, then,” said he; “you’ve been standin’ a-jawin’ long enough already, to have gone there and back again.”
He slipped back the bolt of the little wicket, and I was free! I should have liked to run my hardest from the instant I set my foot outside the workhouse gate, but for fear anybody might be watching, had to content myself with trotting at a moderate pace till I reached the first street comer. Then I set off at top-speed. It was a bleak bracing morning; the frosty road was hard as iron, and I felt as light as a cork. The neighbourhood was not strange to me; I knew all the short cuts, and in about six minutes had reached the alley in the strand that led down to the dark arches.
Chapter XX. In which, driven by stress of weather, I once more make sail for Turnmill Street—breakers ahead.
As I turned into the alley in the strand that led to the arches, St. Martin’s Church chimed half-past eight.
The sound brought me to a standstill. I had never once given it a thought as I came along—Mouldy and Ripston would not be at home; they would have been gone to work an hour and a half since. It could hardly have been a more awkward time for me. They certainly would not return until dusk, and I must pass the interim in the best way I could.
It couldn’t be helped; but it certainly was vexing, and quite damped the triumph of my escape from the workhouse. To see Ripston and Mouldy was, of course, the first and most important business—every other hinged on it, indeed. No doubt they were to be found banging about the market; but, putting the question of prudence quite aside, how could I go and seek them? A pretty figure mine was to be seen hunting through Covent Garden! No; it wasn’t to be thought of. I must stow away under the arches, and amuse myself somehow until they returned.
With this resolve, I made my way down the familiar flight of dark, slippery steps, and presently found myself in that quarter of the “arches” where our van used to stand. But, somehow, the place did not appear half so familiar to me as I expected to find it. It had about it an air of desolation that the absence of our van did not account for, and seemed altogether a hundred times darker and lonelier, and drearier and bleaker, than ever before. My footsteps, light and cautious as they were, echoed from the reeking walls; the cobblestones were slippery as glass; while the faint light showed the icicles webbed about the green bricks in every direction.
I hunted about in search of some vehicle in which I might stow away for a few hours; but the only cart I could find was an old water-cart, and that down towards the river end. The water-cart was one of the common sort—a square box with a hole in the top part of it, into which, when in use, the water is pumped; and very pleased I was at finding a hiding-place so snug and sheltered. But it turned out not so nice as I had hoped; a goodish drop of water had been left in it, but it had frozen—not hard enough, however. It seemed firm to the touch; but as soon as I sat on it, it began to thaw, and to soak through the seat of my smallclothes. So I got out of the box, and lay along the top of the cart in the lee of the driver’s perched-up seat as much as possible, so as to avoid the wind.