I had permission to go to the play, if I chose. By the “play” no doubt Mr. Hopkins meant a regular theatre, but I had never been to a regular theatre. There was a “gaff” near Whitechapel turnpike, and since I had been “on my own hands” I had been there several times; and though the acting there certainly did not come up to the acting at the Shoreditch gaff, it was very good, and I stood still for a moment pondering whether I would go there to-night. It was a long way, however, and I mightn’t get home in time. “I’ll have a turn at the old crib,” I suddenly resolved; “the second performance begins at half-past eight, and it wants full a quarter to that now. I’ll go there, and I’ll go in the boxes. I’ll take some sausage rolls and some oranges in with me, and I’ll enjoy myself reg’ler. What odds if it does cost me a couple of shillings? I can afford it; I can have five shillings whenever I like to ask for it.”
It was a very short distance from Shoreditch Church to the gaff, and within five minutes from when I made up my mind to go there I had bought the sausage rolls and the oranges, and treated myself to half-a-pint of sixpenny ale, and was in the thick of the throng pressing about the gaff waiting for the doors to be opened for the second performance.
The mob was an uncommonly large one, by reason, as I presently discovered, of its being a benefit-night in behalf of Mr. Roshus Fitzherbert, the principal tragedian. Besides singing and dancing, there was a new piece out—“The Seven Steps to Tyburn”—and Mr. R. Fitzherbert was announced to play the part of the leading character. Boys, big and little, were crowding on all sides of me, and just before me was a boy in a corduroy jacket, who stuck his elbows out in such a way that I could feel the pocket in which my sausage rolls were squeezed flat to my breast. I took the liberty of giving him a gentle kick, at the same time informing him of the amount of damage he was the cause of.
“Jigger yer sossidge rolls!” replied he. “Why didn’t yer eat ’em comin’ along, then they couldn’t ha’ got squeezed?”
He spoke without turning his head, but I knew his voice immediately; and, with a joyful exclamation, I laid my hand upon his shoulder.
“Why, you don’t mean to say as how it’s you, Ripston?”
“What, Smiffield! Lord’s truth! this is comin’ to the gaff for summit!” exclaimed my old friend; and, in utter disregard of the personal discomfort of his neighbours, he wriggled round to shake hands with me. The movement, however, cost him his forward place towards the gaff-door, and we were hustled and elbowed until we found ourselves out of the crowd, and, by the light of the great lamp attached to the gaff, we had an opportunity of viewing each other.
“Well, this is a stunnin’ meetin’!” exclaimed Ripston, absolutely collaring me in his excess of gratification. “Why, I’ve been a-thinkin’ on yer as bein’ dead lots and lots of times, old Smiff, since the last time we seed you, and here you are dressed rippin’ and all half a head bigger, if you’re an inch! What a jolly swell you are, too, Smiff. You’ve bin a-crackin a tidy crust since them ’Delphi times I should think, good luck to yer!”
I wasn’t much of a “swell” I had a sound suit of clothes to my back, and sound boots to my feet, and a decent cap on my head, and that was all; nevertheless, my appearance, compared with what it was just at the time when I fell into that fever, had doubtless changed to a degree to justify Ripston in his eulogium.
Ripston was not a swell. His trousers were of the same material as his jacket, and both were grimed with dirt. His face, too, was smutty enough to show distinctly the tracks of perspiration, brought on by his eager struggles in the mob to secure the chance of a front seat. But what struck me most was his hands. They were as dirty as they ever were, but they were corned as they never were in my recollection; and as I regarded them so heartily laid on the collar of my dandy black jacket, I felt a thrill such as is seldom felt in the course of a long life.
“Why, what’s the matter, Smiff? Ain’t yer glad to see me?” asked Ripston, suddenly dropping his hands from me. And then, after regard-me for a few moments, he suddenly broke into loud laughter. “I knows what it is now; I didn’t think of it afore,” he exclaimed; “you’ve got ’spectable, Smiff, and you don’t like mixin’ with me. ’Course you didn’t know I was changed; how should yer?”
This explanation did not comfort me, however; on the contrary, it made me wish that Ripston was a hundred miles away. I knew well enough what he meant; nevertheless, I asked him.
“Changed from what? What do yer mean to say that you’re changed from, Ripston?”
“Why, same as you’re changed—changed from them old ways of pickin’ up a livin’,” whispered Ripston. “I’m a greengrocer’s cove now—carries out coals, and taters, and all that, don’t yer know? Comfor’ble crib it is; eighteen-pence a week and all my wittles and lodgins. I’ve been at it this seven months.”
“How’s Mouldy?” I inquired, not without the wicked hope that my guilty conscience would receive comfort in the intelligence that Mouldy had turned out a consummate ruffian—a burglar, or highwayman, perhaps.
“Mouldy’s dead,” replied Ripston, shortly.
“Dead?”
“Dead since last boxin’-day. Come on, the doors is open; we shan’t get a seat in the gallery if we don’t shove in.”
“I ain’t goin’ to the gallery, I’m a-goin’ to the boxes, Rip. You come to the boxes too, Rip; then we can sit together and have a jaw between the pieces.”
“Boxes is fourpence; a penny is every mag I’ve got”
“Never mind, I’ll stand a box for you; I’ve got some money; I’ve got more’n a shillin’.”
I was ashamed to say that I had nearly three.
“More’n a shillin’! my eyes! you have been a-gettin’ on. You ain’t got a crib at a coal-shop. If I was to guess, I should say that you was a linen-draper’s cove. Are yer?”
“You’ve just guessed it,” I replied, much relieved that Ripston had found an occupation.
“And you’ve bin a savin’ up, and you’re come out for your holiday. Ain’t I right?”
“You alwis was a stunner at guessin’,” I answered, vaguely; “but come on, Rip, or we shan’t get a seat in the boxes neither.”
We did, however, get a tolerably good seat, and, being in a select and expensive part of the house, besides two young girls and an old lady, we had the box all to ourselves. The performance had not yet begun, so I produced my mash of sausage rolls and invited Rip to partake of it; I further showed him the oranges I had bought, which quite confirmed his opinion—if confirmation was necessary after my tacit acknowledgment—that I was out for a holiday.
“Mouldy dead, eh?” I remarked, as Rip was knuckle-deep in flakey crust and sausage meat.
“Had a haccident, and killed hisself the day arter Christmas-day,” answered Ripston, taking a fresh mouthful of the pasty, and shaking his head in a melancholy manner.
“What sort of haccident, Rip?”