Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished by Robert Michael Ballantyne (i am reading a book TXT) 📖

to carry them into immediate execution. He went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of Dean and Flower Street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to Ned's new home.

Having paid a week's rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. Then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at Bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. Having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer.

While thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes' conversation with him outside.

"Ned," he said, "I'm glad I fell in with you, for I'm uncommon 'ard up just now."

"I never lends money," said Ned, brusquely turning away.

"'Old on, Ned, I don't want yer money, bless yer. I wants to _give_ you money."

"Oh! that's quite another story; fire away, old man."

"Well, you see, I'm 'ard up, as I said, for a man to keep order in my place. The last man I 'ad was a good 'un, 'e was. Six futt one in 'is socks, an' as strong as a 'orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than 'im come in to the 'all, an' they 'ad a row, an' my man got sitch a lickin' that he 'ad to go to hospital, an' 'e's been there for a week, an' won't be out, they say, for a month or more. Now, Ned, will you take the job? The pay's good an' the fun's considerable. So's the fightin', sometimes, but you'd put a stop to that you know. An', then, you'll 'ave all the day to yourself to do as you like."

"I'm your man," said Ned, promptly.

Thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of London are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them.

One night Ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow--a sort of book-stall on wheels--who was pushing his way through the crowded street. It was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with "bah!" and "pooh!" and had ended by putting on the Blue Ribbon. He had once been a comrade of Ned Frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him.

"Hallo! Reggie North, can that be you?"

North let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, "how are 'ee, old man? W'y you're lookin' well, close cropped an' comfortable, eh! Livin' at Her Majesty's expense lately? Where d'ee live now, Ned? I'd like to come and see you."

Ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode.

"But I say, North, how respectable you are! What's come over you? not become a travellin' bookseller, have you?"

"That's just what I am, Ned."

"Well, there's no accountin' for taste. I hope it pays."

"Ay, pays splendidly--pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better."

"How's that?" asked Ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; "oh! I see, Bibles."

"Yes, Ned, Bibles, the Word of God. Will you buy one?"

"No, thank 'ee," said Ned, drily.

"Here, I'll make you a present o' one, then," returned North, thrusting a Bible into the other's hand; "you can't refuse it of an old comrade. Good-night. I'll look in on you soon."

"You needn't trouble yourself," Ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the Bible after him, but checked himself. It was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way.

The hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests!

We do not mean to describe the proceedings. Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said--

"Signor Twittorini will now sing."

The Signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was all _so natural_, as one half-tipsy woman remarked.

So it was--intensely natural--for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk--as much with misery as with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in low society.

But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage.

This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an _encore_ with tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.

"I see,--you can improvise," said the manager, quite pleased, "and I've no objection when it's well done like that; but you'd better go on now, and stick to the programme."

"I can't sing," said Sammy, in passionate despair.

"Come, come, young feller, I don't like actin' _off_ the stage, an' the audience is gittin' impatient."

"But I tell you I can't sing a note," repeated Sam.

"What! D'ye mean to tell me you're not actin'?"

"I wish I was!" cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands.

"Come now. You've joked enough. Go on and do your part," said the puzzled manager.

"But I tell you I'm _not_ joking. I couldn't sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!"

It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated--we know not--but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam's throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.

The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster--not a very serious one-- which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.

This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly.

Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.

"What's the matter with ye, youngster?" he said, going up to him. "You've made a pretty mess of it to-night."

"I couldn't help it--indeed I couldn't. Perhaps I'll do better next time."

"Better! ha! ha! You couldn't ha' done better--if you'd on'y gone on. But why do ye sit there?"

"Because I've nowhere to go to."

"There's plenty o' common lodgin'-'ouses, ain't there?"

"Yes, but I haven't got a single rap."

"Well, then, ain't there the casual ward? Why don't you go there? You'll git bed and board for nothin' there."

Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away without further remark.

Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy's face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager's voice, and fled.

A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level.

Here he knocked with trembling hand. He was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread--quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses--so dead was the silence--each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. One of the trestles was empty. He was told he might appropriate it.

"Are they dead?" he asked, looking round with a shudder.

"Not quite," replied his jailer, with a short laugh, "but dead-beat most of 'em--tired out, I should say, and disinclined to move."

Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again.