Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure by - (best self help books to read txt) đ
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âI quite agree with you,â he said, helping himself to a crumpet, âthere are some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, just as there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up. The former are really rich, the latter really poor.â
Having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, Mr Crackaby,âthat was his name,âproceeded to consume the crumpet.
There was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agree with their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. He quite agreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with small means was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possessâthe liberality, not the small meansâand that, on the other hand, riches with a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but thenâand the black sheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said âbut thenââit was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was up to famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to the gold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed into bronze,âexceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the same time to make the two ends meet.
As no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheepâs argument, they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which Ignorance seeks to conceal herself, and which Politeness substitutes for the more emphatic âpooh,â or the inelegant âbosh.â Then, applying themselves with renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nautically speaking, and went off on a new tack.
âMr Twitter is rather late to-night, I think?â said Mr Crackaby, consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character.
âHe is, indeed,â replied the hostess, âbusiness must have detained him, for he is the very soul of punctuality. That is one of his many good qualities, and it is such a comfort, for I can always depend on him to the minute,âbreakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as too many men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained by business.â
âAh, yes, business has much to answer for,â remarked Mrs Loper, in a tone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly bad fellow; âwhatever mischief happens with oneâs husband itâs sure to be business that did it.â
âPardon me, madam,â objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way, was Stickler, âbusiness does bring about much of the disaster that often appertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by other means, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murdersââ
âOh! Mr Stickler,â suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named Larrabel, who usually did the audience part of Mrs Twitterâs little tea parties, âhow can you suggest such ideas, especially when Mr Twitter is unusually late?â
Mr Stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the company by disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery, and murder in the abstract.
âThere, youâve said it all over again,â interrupted Mrs Larrabel, with an unwonted frown.
âBut then,â continued Stickler, regardless of the interruption, âa broken leg, or a rifled pocket and stunned person, or a cut windpipe, may be applicable to the argument in hand without being applied to Mr Twitter.â
âSurely,â said Mrs Loper, who deemed the reply unanswerable.
In this edifying strain the conversation flowed on until the evening grew late and the party began to grow alarmed.
âI do hope nothing has happened to him,â said Mrs Loper, with a solemnised face.
âI think not. I have seen him come home much later than thisâthough not often,â said the hostess, the only one of the party who seemed quite at ease, and who led the conversation back again into shallower channels.
As the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was even suggested by Mrs Loper that Crackaby should proceed to Twitterâs officeâa distance of three milesâto inquire whether and when he had left; while the smiling Mrs Larrabel proposed to send information to the headquarters of the police in Scotland Yard, because the police knew everything, and could find out anything.
âYou have no idea, my dear,â she said, âhow clever they are at Scotland Yard. Would you believe it, I left my umbrellar the other day in a cab, and I didnât know the number of the cab, for numbers wonât remain in my head, nor the look of the cabman, for I never look at cabmen, they are so rude sometimes. I didnât even remember the place where I got into the cab, for I canât remember places when Iâve to go to so many, so I gave up my umbrellar for lost and was going away, when a policeman stepped up to me and asked in a very civil tone if I had lost anything. He was so polite and pleasant that I told him of my loss, though I knew it would do me no good, as he had not seen the cab or the cabman.
ââI think, madam,â he said, âthat if you go down to Scotland Yard to-morrow morning, you may probably find it there.â
ââYoung man,â said I, âdo you take me for a fool!â
ââNo, madam, I donât,â he replied.
ââOr do you take my umbrellar for a fool,â said I, âthat it should walk down to Scotland Yard of its own accord and wait there till I called for it?â
ââCertainly not, madam,â he answered with such a pleasant smile that I half forgave him.
ââNevertheless if you happen to be in the neighbourhood of Scotland Yard to-morrow,â he added, âit might be as well to call in and inquire.â
ââThank you,â said I, with a stiff bow as I left him. On the way home, however, I thought there might be something in it, so I did go down to Scotland Yard next day, where I was received with as much civility as if I had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full of umbrellas as an eggâs full of meatâalmost.
ââYouâd know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,â said the polite constable who escorted me.
ââKnow it, sir!â said I, âyes, I should think I would. Seven and sixpence it cost meânew, and Iâve only had it a weekâbrown silk with a plain handleâwhy, there it is!â And there it was sure enough, and he gave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book, which I did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being so nervous. Now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the day before know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there? They say the days of miracles are over, but I donât think so, for that was a miracle if ever there was one.â
âThe days of miracles are indeed over, maâam,â said the black sheep, âbut then that is no reason why things which are in themselves commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. When I inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not seem quite so surprising.â
Most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. Mrs Larrabel turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at Scotland Yardâthus delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no means converted.
They were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street door.
âThere he is at last,â exclaimed every one.
âIt is his knock, certainly,â said Mrs Twitter, with a perplexed look, âbut rather peculiarânot so firm as usualâthere it is again! Impatient! I never knew my Sam impatient before in all our wedded life. Youâd better open the door, dear,â she said, turning to the eldest Twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up late, âMary seems to have fallen asleep.â
Before the eldest Twitter could obey, the maligned Mary was heard to open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her masterâs step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily.
The guests looked at each other anxiously. It might be that to some mindsâcertainly to that of the black sheepâvisions of violated blue-ribbonism occurred. As certainly these visions did not occur to Mrs Twitter. She would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her husband. Trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her confidence in her Sam was unbounded.
Even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkward bangâthe passage being darkâopened it with a fling, and stood before the guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiar deprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did not doubt him.
âForgive me, my dear,â he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that might well have justified the black sheepâs thought, âscrewed,â âIâIâbusiness kept me in the office very late, and thenââ He cast an imbecile glance at the bundle.
âWhat ever have you got there, Sam?â asked his wondering wife.
âGoodness me! it moves!â exclaimed Mrs Loper.
âLive poultry!â thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision.
âYes, Mrs Loper, it moves. It is aliveâthough not very much alive, I fear. My dear, Iâve foundâfound a babyâpicked it up in the street. Not a soul there but me. Would have perished or been trodden on if I had not taken it up. See here!â
He untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly, at the assembled company.
It is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with compound interest.
When Mr and Mrs Twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, they sat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the little foundling, which lay in the youngest Twitterâs disused cradle, gazing at them with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep. They opened up their minds to each other thus:â
âNow, Samuel,â said Mrs Twitter, âthe question is, what are you going to do with it?â
âWell, Mariar,â returned her spouse, with an assumption of profound gravity, âI suppose we must send it to the workhouse.â
âYou know quite well, Sam, that you donât mean that,â said Mrs Twitter, âthe dear little forsaken mite! Just look at its solemn eyes. It has been clearly cast upon us, Sam, and it seems to me that we are bound to look after it.â
âWhat! with six of our own, Mariar?â
âYes, Sam. Isnât there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?â
âAnd with only 500 pounds a year?â objected Mr Twitter.
âOnly five hundred. How can you speak so? We are rich with five hundred. Can we not educate our little ones?â
âYes, my dear.â
âAnd entertain our friends?â
âYes, my love,âwith crumpets and tea.â
âDonât forget muffins and bloater paste, and German sausage and occasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!â
âI donât forget âem, Mariar. My recollection of âem is powerful; I may even say vivid.â
âWell,â continued the lady, âhavenât you been able to lend small sums on several occasions to friendsââ
âYes, my dear,âand they are still loans,â murmured the husband.
âAnd donât we give a littleâI sometimes think too littleâregularly to the poor, and to the church, and havenât we got a nest-egg laid by in the Post-office savings-bank?â
âAll true, Mariar, and all your doing. But for your thrifty ways, and economical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, I should have been bankrupt long ere now.â
Mr Twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wifeâs character. She was one of those happily constituted women who make the best and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning her eyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people the impression that she saw only their
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