Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches

“Only my measuring,” I says, with the pen in my mouth.

“Oh!” he says, “jusso.” And then he goes on – “’Bliged to get a couple of tradesmen – ’spectable tradesmen – to sign their names to the papers – just to show, you know, as I’m some one decent. You’ll be one, won’t yer?”

“One what?” I says – “bondsman?”

“Oh, no,” he says, “nothing o’ the kind; only just sign yer name. It’s me as is bound; and if anything went wrong, why, they’d come upon me, and so on, yer know. Don’t yer see?”

“No!” I says, taking off my glasses, and rubbin’ ’em on my leather apron – “No,” I says, “I can’t quite.”

“Why,” he says, “it’s five pound as I’m going to borrow; and they lends it me on my own pussonal security; but just to show as I’m the right sort, I get two ’spectable tradesmen to put down their names. Don’t yer see? I could get plenty to do it, only I don’t want every one to know. You see now, don’t you?”

“No,” I says, “I can’t somehow.”

“Why,” he says, “it’s all right, man,” and he gives me a slap on the shoulder. “I’m going to pay it back by ’stalments, and I shall pay yer cash for them boots when I gets the money, and it’ll be doing us both a good turn. There’s the line – just along there – ‘J. Weltus, Pull-Down Court.’ Don’t you be in a stew; there’s nothing to be ’feard on. It’s me as they’d come on, I tell you. Your signing yer name along that line is only a form, and it’s me they’d sell up. Now don’t you see? I shall give you the order for them boots o’ Monday.”

But, do you know, I’m blest if I could see it then; and though he tried a bit more, he couldn’t make me see it. Long course o’ roughing it in the world’s made my eyes dull, yer know; and, last of all, Jinks doubles up his papers, and goes out quite huffy; while I gets ready a fresh pair of ends and goes on with a job I had in hand, when every time I pulls the threads home I gives a good hard grunt, and goes on analysing Bob Jinks, and wondering what it would all come to. “Holiday now and then’s all werry well,” I says, “but Rye House, ’Ampton Court, and Gravesend on Mondays won’t do even if a man does make six-and-thirty bob a week. Masters don’t like their hands to be allus going out, and besides, it don’t look well to take a soot o’ clothes out on Saturday night, and stuff ’em up the spout again on Toosdays or Wensdays;” and arter analysing a good deal, I couldn’t help finding as Bob Jinks was one of them chaps as helped pay for Mrs Shortnip’s satin dress at the Rising Sun. “Hal, a pint o’ beer’s good,” I says to myself, “and I don’t object to a pipe with it; but have the work done first. That’s my motter.”

“Don’t begin them boots till I gives yer the order,” says Jinks, as he goes out.

“No,” I says, “I shan’t;” nor I didn’t neither, for I couldn’t see the Jos Miller of it, and somehow or another Jinks never come inside my place again.

I was on the look-out, though, and I suppose he did make some one see all about it, and got him to sign; for two months arter there was a snuffy-looking old foggy-eyed chap a-stopping in his lodgings, and a little while arter two o’ Levy Haman’s men was fetching the furnitur down, and I saw sev’ral things as must ha’ been his at the broker’s shop at the corner; for they do say as these loan ’cieties are precious hard on any one as gets behind with the payments, and ’ll eat you outer house and home. But, bless yer, it’s no ’ciety in most cases, but some precious hook-beaked knowing one as is company, directors, and sekketary all in himself and lives on the interest and sellings up of them as gets into his claws. ’Taint often as they do lend anything, but when they do they makes theirselves safe enough by getting about three names and a plugging rate of interest; and then, good luck to yer if yer don’t pay up. Gettin’ things on tick’s all werry well, but though they call it so, ’taint no credit to nobody; and that’s what I say; and if I ain’t right, my name ain’t J. Weltus.

Chapter Eight.

My Fare

Don’t you make a mistake, now, and think I’m not a working man, because I am. Don’t you run away with the idea that because I go of a morning and find my horse and cab waiting ready cleaned for me, and I jumps up and drives off, as I don’t work as hard as any mechanic, because I do; and I used to work harder, for it used to be Sunday and week days, till the missus and me laid our heads together, and said, if we couldn’t live on six days’ work a week at cabbing we’d try something else; so now I am only a six days’ man – Hansom cab, VR, licensed to carry two persons.

None o’ your poor, broken-kneed knackers for me. I takes my money in to the governor regular, and told him flat that if I couldn’t have a decent horse, I wouldn’t drive; and I spoke a bit sharp, having worked for him ten years.

“Take your chice, Steve Wilkins,” he says; and I took it, and drove Kangaroo, the wall-eyed horse with a rat tail.

I had a call one day off the stand by the Foundling, and has to go into New Ormond Street, close by; and I takes up an old widow lady and her daughter – as beautiful a girl of seventeen or eighteen as ever I set eyes on, but so weak that I had to go and help her down to the cab, when she thanked me so sweetly that I couldn’t help looking again and again, for it was a thing I wasn’t used to.

“Drive out towards the country, cabman, the nearest way,” says the old lady; “and when we want to turn back, I’ll speak.”

“Poor gal!” I says, “she’s an invalid. She’s just such a one as my Fan would have been if she’d lived;” and I says this to myself as I gets on to my box, feeling quite soft; for though I knew my gal wouldn’t have been handsome, what did that matter? I didn’t like to lose her.

“Let’s see,” I says again, “she wants fresh air. We’ll go up the hill, and through Hampstead;” and I touches Kangaroo on the flank, and away we goes, and I picks out all the nicest bits I could, and when I comes across a pretty bit of view I pulls up, and pretends as there’s a strap wanted tightening, or a hoof picking, or a fresh knot at the end of the whip, and so on. Then I goes pretty quickly along the streety bits, and walks very slowly along the green lanes; and so we goes on for a good hour, when the old lady pushes the lid open with her parasol, and tells me to turn back.