Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

“You rascal – you scoundrel! I’ll summons you; I’ll put you on the treadmill; I’ll have the distance measured; I’ll – I’ll write to the Times and have your rascality exposed. Drive me to Bow Street – no to Great Marlbro’ Street – or – there – no, take your fare, but mind I’ve taken your number, and I’ll introduce the subject in the House this very night.”

“I’ll – I’ll – I’ll,” I says to myself. “Nice ile yours ’ud be to grease the wheels of Life with.” And that was Mr MP, that was; for it was over a mile as he rode. And only think of wanting to put a Hansom driver off with sixpence. Then, again, I drives a gent to the rail, and his missus with him, and when he gets out he sorter sneaks a shillin’ into my hand, and then’s going to shuffle off, when “Wot’s this here for?” I says.

“Your fare, my man,” he says, werry mildly.

“Hayten-pence more,” I says.

“Sixpence a mile, my good man,” he says, “and Mogg’s guide says that – ”

“Mogg’s guide doesn’t say that kebs is to be made carriers’ waggons on for nothing,” I says; and then the porters laughed, and he gives me the difference of the half-crown; and only nat’ral, for I’ll tell you what there was. First there was three boxes – heavy ones – on the roof; two carpet-bags and a portmanty on the seat aside me; a parrot’s cage, a cap-box, a gun-case, and a whole bundle o’ fishing-rods, and umbrellys, and things on the front seat; and him and his missus on the back. And arter the loading up and loading down, and what not, I don’t think as it was so werry dear. I sarved him out, though, for I took and bit every blessed bit o’ silver, making believe as I didn’t think ’em good, and stood grumbling there till the porters had got all the things in, and Master Generous had put hisself outer sight.

You see, sir, it ain’t us as has all the queer pints; there’s some as I knows on, if they was brought down to kebbing, ’stead of being swells, they’d be a jolly sight worse than we.

Didn’t know Tom Sizer, I s’pose? No, you wouldn’t know him, I dare say. Out an out driver, he was, poor chap. But what was the use on it to him? Just because he was clever with the reins, and could do a’most anything with any old knacker of a ’oss, the guv’nor sets him up the shabbiest of any man as went outer the yard. There he was, poor chap, with the wust ’oss and the wust keb, and then being only a seedy-looking cove hisself, why he turned out werry rough. But that didn’t matter; Tom allus managed to keep upsides with the guv’nor, and was never behind. Being a quiet sorter driver, yer see, he’d got some old ladies as was regular customers, and one way and another he made it up. And it was always the guv’nor’s artfulness, you know: he had old ’osses and a old keb or two, and if he’d sent some men out with ’em they’d ha’ brought back a’most nothing.

A regular sharp, teasing winter came on; rain, and freeze, and blow; and then our pore old Tom he got dreadful shaky at last, and his cough teased him awful, so none of us was surprised when we found one day as he warn’t come to the yard; nor we warn’t surprised next day when he didn’t come; nor yet when a whole week passed away and his keb stood under the shed, and his ’oss kep in the stable, for they was such bad ’uns none of our chaps’d have anything to do with ’em; and more’n once I see the guv’nor stand with his hat half-raised in one hand, and scratting his head with t’other, as he looked at the old worn keb, as much as to say, “I shall never make anything outer that any more.”

Christmas arternoon comes, and I thinks as I’ll go and have a look at Tom. So I tidies up a bit, puts on a white choker, and ties it coachman’s fashion, and fixes it with a horse-shoe pin, as my missus give me when we was courting. Then I brushes my hat up, and was just going off, when the missus says, “Wot d’yer want yer whip for?” she says. “Wot do I want my whip for?” I says, and then I stops short, and goes and stands it up in the corner by the drawers, for it didn’t seem nat’ral to go out without one’s whip, and it ain’t often as we goes out walking, I can tell you.

Well, I toddles along, and gets to the place at last, where Tommy held out: tall house it was, just aside Awery Row, and opposite to a mews; werry pleasant lookout in summer-time, for the coachmen’s wives as lived over the stables was fond of their flowers and birds; but even in winter time there was allus a bit o’ life going on: chaps cleaning first-class ’osses, or washing carriages, or starting off fresh and smart to drive out shopping or in the park. Fine, clean-legged, stepping ’osses, and bright warnished carriages and coachmen in livery; and all right up to the mark, you knew.

So I goes on upstairs, for I knowed the way to his room, along of having had supper with him one night – mussels and a pot of stout we had – so I didn’t ring three times like a stranger, but walks up one pair, two pair, three pair stairs, and then I stops short, for the door was ajar, and I could see a gentleman’s back, and hear talking; so I says to myself, “That’s the doctor,” I says, and I sets down on the top stair to get my wind, and then I turns quite chilly to hear poor old Tom’s voice, so altered and pipy I didn’t know what to make of it, as he says.

“There, sir, don’t stand no more; set down. Not that chair, ’cos the leg’s broke. Try t’other one. Well,” he says, “I takes this as werry kind of you to come and see a poor fellow as is outer sorts and laid up – laid up! Ah! it’s pretty well knacker’s cart and Jack Straw’s castle with me. The missus there’s been cleaning and a-tidying up, and doing the best she could; but, in course, with me in it, the bed can’t be turned up, and so the place can’t look werry decent. I do take it as werry kind of a gent like you climbing up three pairs o’ stairs o’ purpose to come and see me – it quite cheers me up. Not as I wants for visitors, for I has the ’spensary doctor, and there’s four sorter journeymen preachers comes a-wherretin’ me; till, as soon as I sees one on ’em coming in all in black, I thinks it’s the undertaker hisself. The doctor came half an hour ago – two hours, was it? ah, well, I’ve been asleep, I s’pose; and then time goes. He’s left me a lot more physic and stuff, but I ain’t taken it, and I ain’t a-going to; for what’s the use o’ greasing the keb wheels when the tires is off and the spokes is all loose and rattling, and a’most ready to tumble out. ’Tain’t no use whatsomever, whether they’ve been good ones or bad ones. It’s all up; and you may wheel the keb werry gently through the yard under the shed, and leave it there, and wot odds; there’s fresh ’uns a-coming out every day with all the noo improvements, so what’s the use o’ troubling about one as is worn out and out. There ain’t no use in trying to patch when all the woodwork’s worm-eaten, while the lining’s clean gone; what with bad usage and bad weather; and, as to the windys, they ain’t broke, but they’re grown heavy and dull, and I can’t see through ’em; and you’ll soon see the blinds pulled down over ’em, never to come up no more – never no more!”

Then there come a stoppage, for the pore chap’s cough give it him awful, so as it was terrible to listen, and I’d ha’ slipped away, ony I felt as I should like to have just a word with my poor old mate again.

“There,” he says, “I’ve got my wind again; you see it’s up hill, and this cough shakes a fellow awful. Never mind, though; I hope there’s rest up a-top for even a poor fellow like me; and, do you know,” he says, quite softly, “I begins to want to get there, though it does grit me to think as I can’t take Polly on the box with me; but that’s a hard thing to understand – that about life, and death, and ’ternity – for ever, and ever, and ever. That’s what the youngest parson as comes talks to me about. Nice fellow he is; I like him, for he seems to want to light one’s lamps up a bit and clear the road – seems fond of one like, and eager to give one a shove outer the block. But there; I ain’t lived to six-and-sixty year without having my own thoughts about religion and that sort of thing. I know as we’re all bad enough, and I s’pose a-top of the hill there it will all be reckoned against one, and kep’ account on, good and bad. As I sez to Polly, after that chap had been here as is so fond of hearing hisself speak, and allus calls me ‘my friend;’ ‘Polly,’ I sez, ‘it’s no manner of use; I ain’t a-going to turn king’s evidence and try to shirk out of it that way: what I’ve done wrong will go to the bad, and what I’ve done right I hope will go to the good, while I’m sure no poor fellow could be more sorry than me for what’s amiss.’ When we goes afore Him as judges up there, sir, it will all be made light, and there won’t be no feeling as justice ain’t done. There won’t be no big fellows in gowns and wigs a-trying to swear a chap’s soul away – making a whole sarmon out of a word, and finding out things as was never before thought on at all. I’ve been before ’em, and examined and cross-examined, and twisted about till you don’t know what your a-saying of. And so, when I thinks of all this lying still in the night, listening to the rumbling of the kebs – kebs as I shall never drive no more; why, I feels comfortable and better like; don’t seem to see as it’s so werry serious, as my number’s been took, and I’m summoned; ‘Done my dooty,’ I says, ‘and kep’ home together as well as I could; and it would ha’ been all the same if I’d ha’ been born a dook, I must ha’ come to it same as I’m a-coming now.’ Of course I should ha’ had a finer funeral; but there, lots of fellows as I knows on the rank, chaps as is Foresters, they’ll drive behind me with their windy-blines down, and a little bit o’ crape bow on the ends o’ their whips; they’ll smoke it at night in their pipes, and take it werry much to ’art when they thinks on it, and puts their blines right again – but mine won’t open no more now.”

“Nigher I gets to the top of the hill,” he says, “slower I goes; but slow and sure I’m a-making way, and shall be there some time: not to-day, p’raps, nor yet to-morrow, but some time afore long, for I knows well enough how my number’s been took, and my license is about gone. Well, sir, I drove a cab thirty year, and it was never took away afore; and so I ain’t a-going to complain.”

“Going, sir?” he says: “Then I’ll take it as a favour, sir, if you’ll just see that young genelman – the parson as I likes, and ast him to come. He left his card on the chimbley there for me to send for him when I felt to want him, and he seems to be the real doctor for my complaint. I was to send if I wanted him before he came again, and I’d rather not see them others too. That first one helps me on a bit, and somehow, I seem to want to be a-top of the hill now, and he’s first-class company for a pore chap on a dark road. Nothing like a real friend when you’re in trouble, and he seems one as will help.”

“Good bye, sir,” he says, werry softly. “The warnish is all rubbed off, and the paint chipped and showing white and worn; the bottom’s a-falling out, and the head’s going fast; so once more, sir, good bye, for the old keb’ll be broke up afore you comes again. Good bye, sir; you’ll tell him to come here, as told of mercy and hope.”

And then some one stepped softly by me, and went down the creaking stairs, and I got ready to go in; but, not feeling in a bit of a hurry, for there was something seemed to stick in my throat, and I knew I shouldn’t be able to speak like a man when I got into the room, so I stops outside a bit longer; and then, when I made sure as it was all right with me once more, I steps softly in, and then stops short, when I turned worse than ever; for there, kneeling down by his bed, was poor Mrs Sizer sobbing, oh, so bitterly! and then I thought of how he said he’d like to take her on the box with him. And there, you’ll laugh, I know, at calling it a beautiful sight to see them pore, plain, weather-and-time-worn people taking like a last farewell of one another; and it was no good; I daren’t speak, but slowly and softly backed out, thinking about the years them two had been together working up hill, up hill always; and then it didn’t seem so strange that, when one of these old folks dies, the other goes into the long, deep sleep, to be with him. And then a-going down the stairs softly and slowly, I says to myself, “there’s a deal o’ rough crust and hard stuff caked over us, but a pore man’s heart’s made of the real same material as God made those of better folks of;” and Lord bless you, sir! use him well, and you’ll find the way to the heart of a cabby.

Poor Tom! he was a-top of the hill nex’ day, and I never saw him again. But he was a good sort, was Tom. Thanky sir, much obliged; merry Christmas to you!

Chapter Twelve

Drat the Cats

Dumb animals would be all very well, no doubt, and I don’t suppose I should have much objection to keeping one, but then where are you going to get ’em? That’s what I want to know; I never come across anything dumber yet than old Job Cross’s donkey, while that would shout sometimes awful, and rouse up the whole neighbourhood. No; I’ve got no faith in keeping dogs and cats, and birds and things in a house, and sets them all down as nuisances – sets my face against ’em regular, and so would any man who had been bothered as I have with cats.

Pussy – pussy – pussy – pussy; puss – puss – puss. Oh, yes, it’s all very fine. They’re pretty creatures, ain’t they? sleek and smooth, and furry and clean, and they’ll come and rub up against you, and all so affectionate. Bother! why, they never do it unless they want to be fed, or rubbed, or warmed in the nice warm glow of the fire, or in somebody’s lap. Why, see what savage little brutes they are to one another, and how they can spit and claw, and swear and growl, while their fur’s all set up, their tail swelled out like a fox’s, and their eyes round and bright enough to frighten you. No; I know what cats are – pretty dears. Who licks the top of the butter all over, and laps up the milk – eats my bloaters, steals mutton bones off the table, pretending to be asleep till you leave the room for a moment, when she’s up on the table and tearing away like a savage at your dinner or supper?

“Poor thing; it was only because it was hungry,” says my wife. Perhaps it was, but then I didn’t approve of it: so I gave the poor thing away.

Now, I daresay, most men’s wives have got some failings in them. I mean – ain’t quite perfect. You see mine ain’t, and though, I daresay, she’s no worse than other women, yet, she has got one of the most tiresome, aggravating, worrying ways with her that any one could come across. I don’t care whether its spring, summer, autumn, or winter, or whether it’s all on ’em, or none on ’em, it’s allus the same, and she’s no sooner got her head on the pillow, than she’s off like a top – sound as can be. ’Taint no good to speak – not a bit – you may just as well spare your breath, and almost the worst of it is, she mends wrong way, and gets sleepier and sleepier the longer she lives. But that’s only “almost the worst” on it; not the worst of it, for the worst of it is, that she will be so aggravating, and won’t own to it. Say she can’t help it; well, then, why don’t she own it, and tell me so – not go sticking out, as she’d only jest shet her eyes, and was as wide awake as I was.

Now, I’ll jest give you a sample. We live in a part where there’s cats enough to make the fortunes of five hundred millions o’ Dick Whittingtons. The place is alive with ’em; scratching up your bits of gardens; sneaking in at your back doors, and stealing; making Hyde Parks and Kensington Gardens of the tops o’ your wash-houses and tiles of your roof; and howling – howling – why, no mortal pusson would believe how them cats can howl. They seem to give the whole o’ their minds to it, and try it one against another, to see who’s got the loudest voice, and setting up such a concert as makes the old women cry, “Drat the cats.” But that ain’t no good: they don’t mind being dratted, not a bit of it; and if you go out into the back garden, and shy bricks, why, they only swear at you – awful.

Well, you see, we live in a very catty part, and it seems to me as if the beasts warn’t fed enough, and do it out of spite, for no sooner does it get dark, than out they come, tunes their pipes, and then you can hear ’em. No matter where you are, back or front, there they are, a-going it, like hooroar, till I’m blest if it ain’t half enough to drive you mad. Why, there’s one old black Tom, as you can hear a mile off, and I wouldn’t bet as you couldn’t hear him two, for he’s got a werry peculiar voice of his own. I think it’s what musical people calls a tenner, though it might be a hundreder for the noise it makes.

He’s an artful old brute, though, is that Tom; and I’ve tried to come round him scores of times, but it ain’t no use, for he won’t believe in me. I’ve taken out saucers of milk and bits of fish, all got ready on purpose for my gentleman, but do you think he’d come? No, thank you. And as soon as ever he ketches sight of me, he shunts, he does, and goes off like an express train in front of a runaway engine.

But I was going to tell you about my wife. Now, nex’ Monday’s a fortni’t since I come home werry tired and worn out – for porter’s work at a big terminus at Christmas ain’t easy, I can tell you; while, when we are off night dootey, it’s only natural as one should like a quiet night’s rest, which ain’t much to ask for, now is it, even if a man does only get a pound a week, and a sixpence now and then, as swells make a mistake, and give you through not having read the notice up on the walls about instant dismissal, and all that? Well, tired out regularly, and ready to sleep through anything a’most, I goes to bed, and as I lays down I thinks to myself —

You may howl away, my beauties, to-night, for I can sleep through anything.

And really I thought I could, but I suppose it was through having a hyster barrel on my mind, that I couldn’t go off directly – for there was one missing, and a fish hamper, both on ’em. No doubt, having been stolen by some one in the crowd on the platform; while I got the blame; and I put it to you, now, could a railway porter, having a pound a week, and Sunday dooty in his turn, have his eyes every wheres at once?

So I didn’t go to sleep right off, but some one else did, and there, just outside the window, if one o’ them cats didn’t begin.

“Wow-w-w, wow-w-w, wow-w-w, meyow-w-w,” and all such a pretty tune, finished off with a long low swear at the end.

I stood it for ten minutes good, turning first one side, and then another, pulling the clothes over my ear, and at last ramming my head right under, with my fingers stuck in my ears, but there, Lor’ bless you, that was no good, for I’ll warrant the song of one of them pretty, soft, furry nightingales to go through anything, and at last I finds that I was only smothering myself for nowt, and I puts my head out of the clothes again, and give a great sigh.

“Me-ow-ow-ow,” says my friend on the tiles.

“Hear that, Polly?” I says.

No answer.

“Me-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” says my friend outside.

“Hear that, Polly?” I says, for there warn’t no fun in putting up with all the noise yourself, when there was some one else in the room to take half share. “Polly,” I says, giving her a nudge, “hear that?”

“Eh!” she says; “what say?”

“Hear that?” I says.

“Yes,” she says; “what?”

“Why, you were asleep,” I says.

“That I’m sure I warn’t,” she says.

“Well, then, did you hear that?” I says.

“Yes; what was it?” she says.

“What was it?” I says. “There; go to sleep again,” I says; for I felt quite rusty to think anybody else could sleep through such a row, while I couldn’t.

“Meyow – meyow – wow – wow-w-w-w,” goes the music again.

“Two on ’em,” I says, as I lay listening, and there it went on getting louder and louder every moment, both sides and over the way, and up and down the street, till I’m blest if I could stand it any longer.

“Oh, you beauties,” I says; “if I only had a gun.” And then I lay there, listening and wondering whether I mightn’t just as well get up and have a pipe; and at last of all, because I couldn’t stand it any longer, I gets up, goes to the window, opens it softly, and says —

“Ssh!”

Lor’ bless you! you might just as well have said nothing, for there they were a-going it all round to that degree, that it was something awful, and I stood there half dressed, and leaning out of the window, wondering what was best to be done. There was no mistake about it; there they were, cats of all sorts and sizes, and of all kinds of voices – some was very shrill, some very hoarse, and some round and deep-toned, and meller. Now and then some one would open a winder, and cry, “Ssh,” same as I did, but as soon as they smelt what a sharp frost it was, they shut them down again, and at last I did the same, and made up my mind as I crept into bed again, as I’d go where there was no cats.

Yes, that was a capital idea, that was – to move to a place where there was no cats, and on the strength of that determination, I went off fast asleep.

Next morning over my breakfast, I got thinking, and come to the conclusion, that I’d cut myself out a bit of a job. Where was I to get a little house or lodgings where there was no cats, for were not the happy, domestic creatures everywhere? No; that was of no use, but I warn’t going to stand having my rest broken night after night in that way; so I mounted a trap, for I’d made up my mind, that out of revenge, I’d have a full-sized railway rug lined with scarlet cloth, while the rug itself should be of fur.

First night I sets my trap, I baited it with a bit of herring. Goes next morning and found the herring had been dragged out at the side, and the trap warn’t sprung. Sets it next night, baited with two sprats; goes next morning to find ’em gone, but no pussy. And so I went on, week after week, till I got tired out, and tried poison, which hit the wrong game, and killed our neighbour’s tarrier dog. Then I thought I’d try an air-gun, but somehow or another there was a fault in that gun, for it wouldn’t shoot straight, and I never hit one of the nuisances. A regular powder-and-shot gun I couldn’t try, because it would have spoken so loud, that all the neighbours would have heard and known who was killing the cats.

Last of all, one moonlight night I was down at the bottom of our garden, when I happens to look up towards the back door, and see a long-tailed tortoise-shell beauty sneaking into the kitchen.

“All right, my pretty one,” I says, quietly. “You’ll do for the middle of the rug,” and then stealing softly up, I got to the door, slips in, and had it to in a moment, and then getting hold of the copper-stick and lid, just like a sword and shield, I goes forward to the attack.

No mistake, there was Mrs Puss glaring at me like a small tiger, and as I advanced, she made a rush by me, but there was no escape that way, and then I shut the kitchen-door.

Bang – crash went the crockery, for as I made a hit at the brute, she flew on to the dresser, and along one of the shelves, sending jugs and plates down helter-skelter on the floor, where they smashed to bits.

“All down to your credit, my beauty,” I says, and I made another hit at her, when “whoosh,” spitting and swearing, she was up on the chimney-piece in a jiffey, and down came the candlesticks, while Polly puts her head in at the door, and then, seeing what was the matter, slips off again in a moment, bangs the door to, and keeps on shouting to me to drive the thing out. But talking was one thing, and acting another, for you never did see such a beast; she was here, there, and everywhere in the same moment; and though I kept hitting at her with the copper-stick, I could hit anything else but her, as you’d have said, if you’d seen me fetch the vegetable-dish and cover off the dresser with a smash, and then seen the copper lid split in two, when I shied it at her.

Why, she flew about to that degree, that I got frightened of her, for at last she came at me, tore at my legs, and then was over my shoulder in an instant, while feeling quite scared, I just saw her dash up the chimney, and she was gone.

“But you won’t stop there, my lady,” I says, and I was right, for next moment the brute came scrambling down, and we went at it again: she cutting about, and me hitting at her till I got savage, for I never touched her once. Now I hit the table; now it was something off the dresser; now she’d dodge behind the saucepans and kettles, on the black pot-board under the dresser; and now there’d be such a clatter and rattle, that Polly gave quite a scream, for she was wide enough awake then, I can tell you; but the jolly a bit could I touch that precious cat; and at last she stood in one corner of the kitchen, and I stood in the other looking at her, with her tail like a bottle-brush, her fur all up, and her back set up like an arch, and then I thought I’d try coaxing.