Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways

Scarcely an evening passed that some dainty hitherto unknown did not find its way out of Jenks’s pocket. Such funny things too. Now it was a fresh egg, which they bored a tiny hole in, and sucked by turns; now a few carrots, or some other vegetables, which when eaten raw gave such a relish to the dry, hard bread; now some cherries; and on one occasion a great big cucumber. But this unfortunately Flo did not like, as it made her sick, and she begged of Jenks very earnestly not to waste no more money on cowcumburs.

On the whole she and Dick enjoyed his society very much. Dick indeed looked on him with unfeigned admiration, and waited patiently for the day when he should teach him his trade. Flo too wondered, and hoped it was a girl’s trade, as anythink would be better and less hard than translating, and one day she screwed up all her courage, and asked Jenks if it would be possible for him when he taught Dick to teach her also.

“Wot?” said Jenks eagerly; “you’d like to be bringin’ carrots and heggs out o’ yer pocket fur supper? Eh!”

“Yes, Jenks, I fell clemmed down yere, fur ever ’n ever.”

Then Jenks turned her round to the light, and gazed long into her innocent face, and finally declared that “she’d do; and he’d be blowed ef she wouldn’t do better’n Dick, and make her fortin quite tidy.”

So it was arranged that when Dick learned, Flo should learn also. She had never guessed what it meant, she had never the least clue to what it all was, until to-night.

But now a glimmering of the real state of the case stole over her. That supper was not honestly come by, so far things were plain. Once in his life Dick had broken his word to his dying mother, once at least he had been a thief. This accounted for his forced mirth, for his shamefaced manner. He and Jenks had stolen something, they were thieves.

But perhaps – and here Flo trembled and turned pale – perhaps there were worse things behind, perhaps the mysterious trade that Jenks was to teach them both was the trade of a thief, perhaps those nice eggs and carrots, those red herrings and bits of bacon, were stolen. She shivered again at the thought.

Flo was, as I said, a totally ignorant child; she knew nothing of God, of Christ, of the Gospel. Nevertheless she had a gospel and a law. That law was honesty, that gospel was her mother.

She had seen so much pilfering, and small and great stealing about her, she had witnessed so many apparently pleasant results arising from it, so many little luxuries at other tables, and by other firesides, that the law that debarred her from these things had often seemed a hard law to her. Nevertheless for her mother’s sake she loved that law, and would have died sooner than have broken it.

Dick had loved it also. Dick and she had many a conversation, when they sat over the embers in the grate last winter, on the virtues of honesty.

In the end they felt sure honesty would pay.

And Dick told her lots of stories about the boys who snatched things off the old women’s stalls, or carried bread out of the bakers’ shops; and however juicy those red apples were, and however crisp and brown those nice fresh loaves, the boys who took them had guilty looks, had downcast faces, and had constant fear of the police in their hearts.

And Dick used to delight his sister by informing her how, ragged and hungry as he was, he feared nobody, and how intensely he enjoyed staring a “p’leece-man” out of countenance.

But to-night Dick had been afraid of the “p’leece.” Tears rolled down Flo’s cheeks at the thought. How she wished she had never tasted that ’ot roast goose, but had supped instead off the dry crust in the cupboard!

“I’m feared as mother won’t lay com’fable to-night,” she sobbed, “that is, ef mother knows. Oh! I wish as Dick wasn’t a thief. S’pose as it disturbs mother; and she was so awful tired.” The little girl sobbed bitterly, longing vainly that she had stayed at home in her dark cellar, that she had never gone with Dick to Regent Street, had never seen those fine dresses and feathers, those grand ladies and gentlemen, above all, that in her supposing she had not soared so high, that she had been content to be a humble hearl’s wife, and had not wished to be the queen; for when Flo had seen the great queen of England going by, then must have been the moment when Dick first learned to be a thief.

Chapter Four

A Dog and his Story

If ever a creature possessed the knowledge which is designated “knowing,” the dog Scamp was that creature. It shone out of his eyes, it shaped the expression of his countenance, it lurked in every corner and crevice of his brain. His career previous to this night was influenced by it, his career subsequent to this night was actuated by it.

Only once in all his existence did it desert him, and on that occasion his life was the forfeit. But as then it was a pure and simple case of heart preponderating over head, we can scarcely blame the dog, or deny him his full share of the great intellect which belongs to the knowing ones.

On this evening he was reaping the fruits of his cleverness. He had just partaken of a most refreshing meal, he had wormed himself into what to him were very fair quarters, and warmed, fed, and comforted, was sleeping sweetly. By birth he was a mongrel, if not a pure untainted street cur; he was shabby, vulgar, utterly ugly and common-place looking.

He had however good eyes and teeth, and both these advantages of nature he was not slow in availing himself of.

By the pathos of his eyes, and a certain knack he had of balancing himself on the hinder part of his body, he had won Flo’s pity, and secured a shelter and a home. He guessed very accurately the feelings of his hosts and hostess towards him.

Dick’s hospitality was niggardly and forced, Jenks made him welcome to his supper, for he regarded him with an eye to business, but Flo gave him of her best, from pure kindness of heart. The wise dog therefore resolved to take no notice of Dick, to avoid Jenks, and as much as possible to devote himself to Flo.

He had passed through a terrible day, had Scamp.

In the morning he had been led out to execution. To avoid the dog-tax, his master, who truth to tell had never regarded him with much affection, had decreed that Scamp should be drowned. In vain had the poor faithful creature, who loved his brutal master, notwithstanding the cruel treatment to which he so often subjected him, looked in his face with all the pathetic appeal of his soft brown eyes, in vain he licked his hand as he fastened the rope with a stone attached to it round his neck. Drowned he was to be, and drowned he would have been, but for his own unequalled knowingness. Scamp guessed what was coming, hence that appeal in his eyes; but Scamp was prepared for his fate, rather he was prepared to resist his fate.

As his master was about to raise him in his arms and fling him far into the stream, he anticipated him, and leaped gently in himself, when, the stone being round his neck, he sank at once to the bottom.

His master, well pleased, and thinking how nicely he had “done” Scamp, laughed aloud, and walked away. The dog, not wasting his breath in any useless struggles, heard the laugh as he lay quietly in the bottom of the stream, he heard also the retreating footsteps.

Now was his time.

He had managed to sink so near the edge of the stream as to be barely out of his depth, he dragged himself upright, pulled and lurched the heavy stone until his head was above water, and then biting through the rope with those wonderful teeth, was a free dog once more.

Quite useless for him to go home; he must turn his back on that shelter, and come what may, face the great world of London.

So all day long he had wandered, foot-sore, exhausted, and hungry, over many a mile of street, until at last the smell of hot roast goose had so overcome him, that he had in his desperation fastened his teeth into Dick’s trousers, thereby ultimately securing for himself a supper, and another home.

Now after all his troubles, hardships, and alarms, he was sleeping sweetly, enjoying the repose of the weary. It was unpleasant to be disturbed, it was truly annoying to have to open those heavy brown eyes, but Scamp had a heart, and sobs of distress had roused him from his pleasant dreams. He cocked his ears, stretched himself, rose, and pushing his big awkward head against Flo’s, bent low in her hands, began licking her face with his small, rough tongue.

Finding she took no notice of this, he forced her to look up and attend to him, by jumping wholesale into her lap.

“Oh! Scamp,” said the child, putting her arms round him, “does you know as Dick isn’t an honest boy no more.”

Had Scamp comprehended the words addressed to him, he would not have considered them a subject for sorrow, as any means by which such a supper as they had just eaten was attained would have been thought by him quite justifiable.

It was however his wisest course at present to sympathise with Flo, and this he did by means of his tail, tongue, and eyes.

“Oh! you be a nice dawg,” said the little girl, comforted by his caressing.

She laid her head on his shaggy coat, and in a few moments both were asleep.

Two hours later Jenks and Dick returned. Dick’s cheeks were now flushed, and his eyes bright. Jenks, on the contrary, was as cool as usual.

“Shall we take orf the dawg now, or in the mornin’?” asked the little boy of his companion.

“No, no, in the mornin’, or maybe to-morrow night; old Maxey’s sure ter be shut up afore now.”

“How much ’ull he give us, Jenks?”

“Well, Scamp’s a likely lookin’ tyke, and good size. I ’spect he’ll about suit fur ’is young ’un. Maybe, ef we’re lucky, we may get a matter o’ a bob, or a bob and a tanner, but wot I’ll count on more, and bargain fur, is a sight o’ the fight.”

“Oh, Jenks! is it werry jolly?”

“Awful – real pretty sport,” said Jenks, “partic’lar ef yer cur ’ave a bit of blood in ’im, as I ’spects this ’un ’ave.”

“Will you bring me to see it, Jenks?”

“I can’t rightly say yet, but don’t tell nothink to the little ’un,” jerking his thumb over his shoulders at Flo. “Now come to bed, and don’t let us talk no more.”

They lay down, and soon Jenks was asleep.

Yes, Jenks was asleep – his hardened heart knew no fears, his conscience did not trouble him. Flo, wearied with her sorrow, was also slumbering, and gentle breathings of sweet content and rest came from Scamp, who knew nothing of his impending fate, and felt that he had done his duty.