Sawn Off: A Tale of a Family Tree

Max Shingle hastily drew a cheque for ten pounds, blotted it, and passed it over; for he knew only too well that his visitor would keep his word, and that he should be obliged to obey.

“That’ll do – for the present,” said Hopper, grinning, as he folded the cheque and placed it in his gouty pocket-book. Then he rose to go.

“Good-bye: God bless you, Max! What a good thing it is for me that I have a wealthy saint who can relieve my necessities! Thank you, my dearest and best friend. I sha’n’t give you any acknowledgment, because I know you mean this for a gift. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Max, who could hardly contain his rage.

“Good-bye. And a word more from your conscience. Good advice, mind. Look after Master Fred. Don’t let him go your way.”

“You’ve got your money. Now be silent!” cried Max, savagely.

“All right,” said the old fellow; and he walked out, making his stick thump the floor, and nodding at Fred as he passed through to the outer office; while Max, as soon as he was alone, ground his teeth with rage, as he heaped a series of very unchristianlike curses upon his visitor’s head.

“Yes,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “he must be a devil, or he couldn’t have known about Uncle Rounce.”

Volume Two – Chapter Six.

The Fly on the Wall

“Well, mother, it might have been worse,” said Richard, sitting down to his humble dinner about a week later. “Here, Jessie, pull my ears.”

Jessie, who looked very pale and red-eyed, as if with weeping, went behind her father’s chair, took hold of his ears playfully, and pulled them, while he drew one hand before his face.

“Will that do, dear?” she said, drawing his head back so that she could kiss his puzzled forehead.

“Beautiful, my darling! Nothing like it. Tightens the skin, and takes out all the wrinkles. Keeps you young-looking, and makes your wife fond of you. Don’t it, mother?”

Mrs Shingle sighed, but looked at him affectionately, as she placed a spoon in the potatoes.

“That’s right,” said Dick. “Smiles is human sunshine, and don’t cost anything. You both look as bright again to-day. Hallo! old fellow,” he continued, thrusting a spoon into some hash. “Now, it won’t do, you know. You can’t deceive me, in spite of your brown gravy. You’re that half-shoulder of mutton we had on Sunday.”

“Yes, it is, Dick,” said Mrs Shingle.

“I knew it. Didn’t he gape wide open as soon as I cut into him, and pretend that three people had been helped? Oh, I knew him again! Come, look bright, both of you: things might be worse. See how I’m trying to shine! Come on: the best side of the looking-glass, both of you. The glue and wood will do for old Max.”

In spite of his endeavours, the dinner was a sorry repast, the only one who enjoyed it being the boy; and as soon as it was cleared away, Dick and the others resumed their work.

“Do you really mean to go, Dick?” said his wife at last, after making three or four efforts to speak.

“Yes, certain!” he said; and he glanced at Jessie, who was just then looking at him, when both lowered their eyes directly.

“But how can we leave without paying?” Mrs Shingle ventured to say at last.

“Sell the furniture,” said Dick bitterly. “There – it’s no use, mother, I won’t humble myself to him no more. I’ve as good as took a couple of rooms off St. John Street, and go we will – for many reasons,” he added.

“But, Dick dear – ”

“Hold your tongue, mother!” he cried sternly. “I’m going to turn over a new leaf. Other folks make money; I’m going to make some now – somehow. But I don’t know how,” he added to himself. “Now, you sir, get on – we’ve got to make a fortune yet,” he continued, hammering away; while Jessie’s sewing machine clicked musically, and her little white-stockinged feet seemed to twinkle as they played up and down.

Mrs Shingle looked very much in trouble, for every now and then she wiped a furtive tear from her eye.

“How much money did you bring from the warehouse this morning, my gal?” said Dick suddenly, as he looked up from playing cat’s-cradle over a boot.

Jessie gazed at him in a frightened manner, and then dropped her head lower over her machine, while her hands trembled so that she could hardly direct her work.

“I say, Jessie, my gal, how much did you draw this morning?”

“None, father,” said Jessie, with a sob. And then, covering her face with her hands, she burst into a passion of weeping.

“Why, Jess, my gal – Jess!” cried Dick, dropping stirrup-leather and boot. “Here, you sir: here’s a penny. Go down to Wilson’s and get a pen’orth o’ wax.”

“But here is plenty, master,” said the boy.

“Go down to Wilson’s and get a pen’orth o’ wax,” said Dick sternly.

“Hadn’t I better go to Singley’s, sir? it ain’t half so far.”

“Go and get a pen’orth o’ wax at Wilson’s,” said Dick angrily. And he saw the boy off the premises before he crossed to Jessie.

“Why, what’s the matter, my pretty one?” he said tenderly.

“Oh, father dear, don’t be cross with me,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t tell you before.”

“Just as if your poor stoopid old goose of a father could be cross with you!” he said, fondling her and drawing her close to his heart. “At least,” he added, “I could be cross, but not with anything you’d go and do. Now, then, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, father, I can never go to the warehouse again.”

“What?” said Dick; “not go – ”

“No, father,” she sobbed: “that man – ”

She stopped short, and Dick, with his face working, patted her tenderly on the shoulder, and then rolled up his sleeves.

“It’s only father, my precious: tell him all about it,” he whispered.

As he spoke he made a sign to Mrs Shingle to be silent. “That man, father,” she sobbed hysterically – “several times lately – insulted me – dare not say anything – the money – you so poor, dear!”

“Jessie,” cried Dick, in a choking voice, “my poor darling, – if I’d known!”

“Yes, father dear, I know,” she cried, placing her arm round his neck and kissing him tenderly; “but you wanted the money so badly, I would not speak.”

“But it was wrong, my darling,” he said angrily. “But tell me – all.”

“This morning – I went,” she faltered, “and there was no one in the room, and he caught me in his arms – and kissed me,” she sobbed, with her face like crimson. Then, indignantly, “I screamed out, and Tom – ”

“Was Tom there?” cried Dick reproachfully.

“Yes, father; I could not help his being there. We had never spoken since that dreadful day, when Uncle Max – ”

“Yes,” said Dick hastily: “go on.”

“But he has come and watched me every day, father, at a distance, and seen me go to and from the warehouse.”

“Bless him!” muttered Dick.

“And when I shrieked out,” continued Jessie, with a look of pride lighting up her face, “Tom rushed in; and, oh, father, it was very dreadful!”

“What was?” said Dick hoarsely, for he was evidently suffering from suppressed passion.

“Tom!”

“Mr Thomas Fraser, my gal?”

“Mr Thomas beat him dreadfully,” continued Jessie, “till he cried for mercy; and dear Tom – ”

“Mr Thomas, my gal,” said Dick, correcting.

“Made him go down upon his knees and beg my pardon, and then he brought me away.”

“God bless him!” said Dick fervently, “But it’s Mr Thomas Fraser, my dear; and he’s nothing to you but a brave, true young fellow, who acted like a man. But, that it should come to this!” he groaned, striding up and down the room. “This is being a poor man, and having to eat other people’s bread. Oh, it’s dreadful, dreadful! If she’d been rich Max’s daughter, mother, no one would have dared to insult her; and as for this blackguard, I’ll – ”

He caught up the hammer, and had reached the door, when Jessie and her mother ran and clung to him, Mrs Shingle locking the door till he promised to be content with the castigation the fellow had received.

“Mr Tom would be sure to beat him well, father,” said Mrs Shingle.

“Well, that is one comfort,” said Dick, cooling a little. “I should have nearly killed any blackguard who had touched you. Well, mother,” he continued, “when things comes to the worst they mends; but it don’t seem to be so with us any more than with shoes, unless some one mends ’em, I mean to mend ours somehow. ‘Why don’t you try?’ every one says. Well, I do try.”

Just then the boy came back, and making a sign to Jessie and his wife not to let him see their trouble, all tried to resume their work, but in a despairing, half-hearted manner, in the midst of which, in a doleful, choking voice, Dick began to sing over his sewing, while the boy seemed to keep time with the hammer with which he was driving in nails.

“For we always are so jolly, oh —So jolly, oh – so jolly, oh – so jolly – ”

sang Dick; but he had soon done, and his voice trailed off into a dismal wail, as, unable to contain themselves, Jessie’s face went down over her sewing machine and Mrs Shingle hid hers in her apron.

“My God! what can I do?” the poor fellow moaned, as, with a catching in his breath, he glanced at those most dear to him. “I hav’n’t a shilling in the world, and the more I try – the more I try – ”

He caught up a hammer savagely, and began to beat vigorously at the leather, forcing himself to sing again, as if he had not seen the trouble of his wife and child —

“To get his fill, the poor boy did stoop,And, awful to state, he was biled in the soup.”

“Oh, master, please, master, don’t sing that dreadful song,” cried Union Jack, with a dismal howl. “I can’t bear it: please, master, I can’t bear it, indeed.”

“Hold your tongue, you young ruffian,” cried Dick, with a pitiful attempt at being comic. “It’s a good job we’ve got you in stock; for if things do come to the worst, you’ll make a meal for many a day to come.”

“Oh, please, don’t talk like that, master,” cried the boy.

“Dick, dear,” whispered his wife, “don’t tease the poor lad: he half believes you.”

“I’m not teasing of him, mother,” said Dick aloud; “only it’s a pity to have to boil him all at once, instead of by degrees. Here, get out the cold tea, mother, and let’s take to drinking – have a miserable day, and enjoy ourselves. Jessie, my gal, you’ll rust that machine raining on it like that. Come, mother, rouse up; it’ll all come right in the end.”

“I was not crying, Dick,” said Mrs Shingle, – “not much.”

“Yes, you were,” he cried, with a rollicking air of gaiety. “I saw two drips go on your apron and one in that child’s shoe. Come, cheer up.”

There was a pause then, during which all again tried hard to work; but the knowledge that they were about to turn out of the little home, and that their prospects were so bitter, combined with sorrow for their child, made a sob or two burst from Mrs Shingle’s breast, while even the boy kept on sniffing.

“Here, I can’t stand this,” groaned Dick at last, getting up and walking about the room. “I don’t spend no money, mother – only a half-ounce or two of tobacco for myself, and one now and then for poor old Hopper, who seems to be cutting us now we are so down. You don’t spend much, mother: and it’s as true as gorspel about shoemakers’ wives being the worst shod; while as for me, I haven’t had a real new pair this ten years.”

“Don’t take on about it, Dick,” said Mrs Shingle, making a brave effort to smile. And she took and patted her husband’s hand affectionately.

“I wouldn’t care, mother, if things were better for you two; and I can’t see as it’s my extravagance as does it.”

“Oh, no, no, Dick dear.”

“One half-pint of beer this month, and it’s the beer as is the ruin of such as me,” he said, with a comical look – “and one screw of tobacco this week, and the paper as was round it, for thickness, why, it was like leather.”

“Don’t, don’t mind, Dick,” whispered Mrs Shingle. “We’ll sell the things, and clear ourselves, and start free again.”

“It’s all right, mother,” he cried, with a kind of gulp. “It’s got to the worst pitch now – see if it ain’t. Don’t make it rain indoors,” he added, in a remonstrating tone; “’specially when we’ve only one umbrella in the house, and it’s broke. Here, Jessie, my gal, what’s that song you sing about the rain?”

”‘There’s sunshine after rain,’ father,” said Jessie, looking up in so piteous a way that Dick had hard work to keep back a sob; but with another struggle to drive off his cares, he cried —

“To be sure. ‘There’s sunshine after rain, my boys; there’s sunshine after rain,’” he sang, making up words, and a peculiar doleful tune of his own, as he set-to again and hammered vigorously at a piece of leather. “Work away, Union Jack, and sing, you dog – ‘There’s sunshine af – aft – after – ’”

The hammer fell at his feet, and he rose once more.

“Go away, Jack, my boy,” he said, in a different tone of voice.

“No, no, master: don’t send me back,” cried the boy passionately. “I’m very sorry; and I’ll try so – so very hard not to be hungry.”

“Hush, my boy, hush!” said Dick softly.

“And when I am, master, I’ll never – never say I am. Don’t send me away.”

“Tell him – tell him, mother,” whispered Dick, who had been so near breaking down before that the boy’s passionate appeal completely unmanned him.

“There’s nobody to care for there, master, and it’s all whitewash. Miss Jessie, please ask him not to send me away.”

“Come here, Jack,” said Mrs Shingle.

“No, no, missus; I’ll stop here on bread and water – I will, missus. Please let me stay!”

“I – I only want you to go outside for a bit, Jack,” said Dick, with his lips quivering. “Go out and play, my boy.”

“But,” said the boy suspiciously, “you won’t cut off, master, and leave me. Fain larks, you know.”

“No, no, no, my lad. Go and stop out in the court.” The boy gazed keenly in his face, and then, with a suspicious look in his eyes, went outside.

“It seems to me as the poorer people is the fonder they get of you, mother,” said Dick pitifully. “Oh, my gal, what have we done, that we should be so poor? Here have I worked early and late for the few pence we drag together, and can’t get on. It’s because I’m a wretched bungler, and it would have been better if I’d never been born.”

“Dick, dear Dick,” whispered his wife, as he sat down despairingly, and leaned his head upon his hand, while she bent over him. “Don’t give way. I can bear anything but that.”

“I do try, my gal, harder than you think,” he groaned; “and when I’m making most of a fool of myself, and laughing and singing, it’s because I’ve got such a gnawing here.”

He raised his hand to strike his chest, but it was caught by Jessie, who drew it round her neck as she knelt at his feet.

“And I’ve been so much trouble instead of a comfort, father; and it’s all my fault,” she sobbed.

“Your fault, my precious!” he cried, as he took her piteous face in his hands and kissed it a dozen times over – “your fault! Why, you’ve been like sunshine in the place ever since you used to sit on your little stool there, and play with the bits of leather, and build houses with mother’s cotton-reels. Your fault, my darling! There – there – there! It’s all over, mother, and the sun’s coming out again. It won’t rain any more to-day.”

There was a pause here, and the little place was very silent as the cries of the children at play floated in.

“There, we’ll have Jack in again. And, look here: it’s cowardly and mean of me to give up like that; but it’s the last time. So there, mother,” he said, smiling, as he rose and stood between them, “as a respectable tradesman I object to swearing, as is only allowable when you want to take an oath. I’m going to take an oath now, when I says I’ll be cussed if I give way again, and – ”

“Here’s a letter, master!” cried the boy, rushing in.

“A letter?” said Dick, taking it with his apron. “Who’s been a-writing to me? Perhaps it’s about that money, mother, and we shall – Here, my eyes are all of a swim. Did the postman give it to you, Jack?”

“Yes, master, at the door,” said the boy eagerly.

Mrs Shingle took the letter, and opened it, to find a clean, new ten-pound note inside, which she spread out and held to her husband.

Dick took it, turned it upside down, over, round and round, and held it up to the light.

“It’s – it’s a duffer, mother,” he said at last, with his voice trembling; “it’s a flash note, like – like they are at the races. Bank of Elegance.”

”‘For the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,’” read Jessie slowly.

“No! Does it say so?” cried Dick excitedly. “Then it’s a good one, and it’s a mistake. It isn’t for me. Give me the envelope.”

He took it hastily, and read aloud, “Mr Richard Shingle, Shoemaker, Crowder’s Buildings, Lower Street, Islington.”

“That’s me, mother,” he said, looking from wife to daughter, “ain’t it?”

“Yes, Dick, it is for you.”

“Let’s look inside. What does it say in the letter?”

“Nothing! There, we’ve only the blank sheet of paper in which the note was wrapped. Yes, on one corner, the words – ‘For you, Richard Shingle.’”

“Then, it’s from that Tom Fraser,” cried Dick, plucking up; “and I won’t take it.”

“No, father,” cried Jessie eagerly; and she trembled, too, as she took the paper. “It is not his writing; and he would have said ‘Mr. Richard Shingle.’”

“So he would, my gal,” said Dick, nodding. “Then it’s from Max; and he’s sorry he’s been so hard on me – dear old Max! And he wants to be friends again. Blood is thicker than water, after all, mother; and I always said it was. There, I’m as pleased as if it was a hundred from any other man.”

The tears stood in his eyes, as he looked from one to the other; but to read no sympathy in the countenance of wife and child.

“That’s five times, you know, the money’s come like that,” said Dick, “and always when we’ve been in great trouble. It is from Max, mother; and his roughness is only the way he’s got.”

A faint flush of hope illumined Jessie’s face as she tried to believe her father’s words; but it died out directly.

“Why, mother,” cried Dick joyously, “we can clear all off, and have some money to go on with; and- But, I say, if Max sent this, he wouldn’t like us to go.”

“Max did not send it,” said Mrs Shingle decidedly. “Eh?”

“I am sure of it,” she said.

“Then you know who did?”

“If I knew who sent it, Dick,” said the poor woman, laying her hand upon his arm, “you’d have known too.”

“So I should, mother – so I should,” he said quietly, as he nodded his head. “Who could it be, then?”

“Some good, true friend, who don’t want to be known,” said Mrs Shingle.

“It would be a bitter pill to swallow,” said Dick thoughtfully, “if it was done in charity – a gilded pill, mother, wrapped up in that bit of paper. Oh, mother, mother!” he cried, stamping up and down the room, “I’m only a poor, miserable fellow, but I’ve got my pride, like better men. I don’t like this beggarly dependence on other people – this taking money in charity. If I could only hit a bright – invent some new thing that all the world would buy!”

“Watts was an inventor, and made the steam engine,” said the boy softly.

“Hang Watts!” cried Dick impatiently. “Here, you be quiet. I don’t want your union-school copy-books here.”

“All right, master,” said the boy, with a sniff.

Dick walked up and down the room in an excited way, with the bank-note in his left hand, while a bluebottle fly came in at the window and buzzed round the room, now up, now down, its loud hum rising and falling, as, apparently taken off from his previous thoughts, the man followed it, and as it settled he twice made ineffectual efforts to catch it.

“Buzz—uzz—buzz! Um—um—um!” went the fly; while Jack stood with open mouth and an old slipper, ready to hit at the insect if it came his way; Mrs Shingle and Jessie glancing at one another, and then following Dick in a troubled fashion with their eyes, as he still pursued the great bluebottle.

“You’ve a fine time of it, you have,” he said, “you great, lazy wind-flitter!”

“Buzz—buzz! —um—um—um!” went the fly, round and round.

“Ah,” said Dick, “some men hit bright ideas, and make fortunes, but I don’t; and it seems (ah! I nearly had you that time) – seems, mother, as if we go on as we are that we may toil on (well, he is a sharp one, but I’ll have him yet) – toil on till we get to the workhouse!”

“Oh, don’t, please, master – don’t go there,” cried the boy. “Now, master – quick, quick. He’s settled on the edge of the last shelf.”

“I see him,” said Dick, going cautiously up, with hand ready to catch the fly.

But, before he reached it, away it went round and round the room again.

“Buzz—uzz! —um—um—um!”

“There’s nothing done without trying, mother,” continued Dick, who was excited now over his chase. “Try again, try again till you succeed’s the way. Now, you know, if I was to – was to – (Ah, gone again; but I’ll have you yet) – you see, I might – ”

“Now, master, there he is,” whispered Jack; “you’ll have it now.”

“Yes,” said Dick, “I shall get it now. You see, mother, shoemaking and cobbling’s all very well, but it means starvation to us, though it’s a thing in common demand. If I could invent – (Ah! I shall have you directly).”

He went cautiously across the room.

“Invent a pair o’ boots as won’t never wear out, master,” whispered the boy. “Now look, master – there, on the wall!”

The buzzing had ceased, and all was very still in the low, shabby room, as the bluebottle settled on the centre of a figure in the common wall-paper; and Dick went forward, on tiptoe, while, somehow drawn into a keen interest in the pursuit, they knew not why, Mrs Shingle and Jessie still looked on.

Slowly and cautiously, as if determined to make up this time for his many failures, Richard Shingle advanced closer and closer, just as a ray of sunshine fell on the wall, making the fly, which was cleaning and brushing itself, stand out plainly before them all.

It was as if the capture of that fly had something to do with their future in life, and the activity that Dick threw into the pursuit was shared by all present.

Would he catch it? Would he fail?

That was the mental question asked, as he made a scoop of his hand, drew just within the required distance, paused for a moment, and then —

There was a rapid dash of a hand across the sunlit patch, and Dick stood up, with outstretched arm and closed fist.

“Bizz—izz—izz” went the captured fly, within the tightened hand, as Jack gave his knee a delighted slap.

“At last – at last!” shouted Dick. “I’ve got it, mother, now. Do you hear, Jessie? I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” they cried.

He paused for a moment or two, turned to them with a curious look upon his face, and then said quietly —

“The fly on the wall.”

“Jessie, my darling – he’s mad,” whispered Mrs Shingle, running to him. “Oh, Dick, Dick!”

“No, mother,” he cried, “I’m not mad; and I’ve made my fortune.”

As he spoke he held his hand to the window, unclosed it, and the fly darted into the sunshine – free.

“At last!” said Dick softly. ”‘Hit a bright,’” Max said, “and – I’ve let it go.”

Volume Two – Chapter Seven.

Who was that?

“Got your Australian money yet, Dick?” said Hopper the next day, when he dropped in as usual.

“No,” said Dick; “but I’ve got this,” and he flourished the ten-pound note before his old friend.

“Hey? Got that,” said Hopper, putting on a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, and taking the note in his fingers. “Why, it’s – it’s a ten-pound note. It’s a bad one.”

“No,” said Dick triumphantly; “it’s a good one. I asked our grocer.”

“Hey? A good one! Come by it honestly, Dick?”

“Of course he did,” cried Mrs Shingle indignantly.

“Ah! I don’t know – I don’t know,” said the old fellow. “There’s a deal of trickery in the world. If it’s a good one, then, Dick, and you did come by it honestly, you’ll lend me a few shillings, Dick, eh? Say ten.”

“Hopper, old man,” said Dick, “you shall have a pound if you like. And, look here, I’ve hit a bright idea at last.”

“No – have you?” said Hopper, whose hearing seemed wonderfully good.

“Yes, old chap; and a fortune will come of it. And, look here: we’ve been best friends when it was hard times, – there’s an easy chair in the corner for you when it’s soft times. None of your turning proud, you know.”