Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways

But Dick could not sleep; he lay in the dark tired enough, but wide awake and trembling.

On that very bed in this cellar had lain not quite a year ago the still, stiff, and cold form of his mother; of the mother who, with her thin arms round his neck, and her beseeching eyes looking into his, had begged of him to keep from bad ways, and to be honest.

He had promised that never, happen what might, would he touch what was not his own, he had promised her solemnly, as even such ignorant little children will promise their dying mothers, that he would ever and always be an honest boy; and until to-day he had kept his word bravely, kept it too in the midst of very great temptations, for he was only a Street Arab, a gutter child, living on his wits, and for such children to live on their wits without prigging off stalls and snatching off counters, is very hard work indeed. He was such a clever little fellow too, and had such a taking innocent face, that he could have made quite a nice living, and have had, as he expressed it, quite a jolly time, if only he had consented to yield to his many temptations, and do as his companions did. But he never had yielded. One by one, as the temptations arose, as the opportunities for thieving came, he had turned from them and overcome them. Not that he thought thieving wrong – by no means. Whatever he might say to Flo, he had in his heart of hearts a strong admiration for those plucky young thieves, his companions, and though they were afraid of the “p’leece,” and often did disappear for longer or shorter periods altogether from their gay life, yet still they had a jolly time of it on the whole. Then, how splendidly the robbers acted at those delightful ’penny gaffs! – oh, yes! it was nonsense to starve rather than take from those who had more than they could use themselves. Nevertheless Dick had often passed a day from morning to night without food rather than steal – why was that?

Ah! how strongly we cling to our first and tenderest memories! Dick could never forget the time when poor as they were, when, struggling as they were, he and Flo were rich, as the richest of all children, in love.

He could never forget the pressure of his mother’s arms, he could never forget the sweetness of the dry crust eaten on his mother’s knee. Had he an ache or a trouble, his mother was sorry for him. Even when he was bad and vexed her, his mother forgave him. She was always working for her children; never resting on account of her children. She stood between them and the cold world, a great shelter, a sure refuge.

They thought it mighty and everlasting, they did not know that it was mortal, and passing away.

She grew tired – awful tired, as she herself expressed it, so weary that not even her love for Dick and Flo could keep her with them, so exhausted that no rest but the rest of the grave could do her any good. So she went to her grave, but before she went her children had promised her to keep honest boy and girl, to grow up honest man and woman, and this promise was to them both more precious than their lives.

They kept it faithfully, – it was a great principle for light in the minds of these little children.

Yes, they had both kept their promise carefully and faithfully until to-day; but to-day, in a moment of great and sudden temptation, goaded and led on by Jenks, Dick had slipped his clever little hand into a lady’s pocket, and drawn out a purse with six bright new shillings in it.

The theft had been most cleverly done, and triumphant with his success, and elated by the praise Jenks had lavished on him, he had felt little compunction until now.

But remorse was visiting him sternly now. He was frightened, he was miserable; he had let go the rudder that kept him fast to anything good, – he was drifting away. But the act of thieving gave him no pain, he was not at all sorry for that smiling, good-natured looking woman whose purse he had taken; he was quite sure she never knew what hunger was; he quite agreed with Jenks in his remark, that “’Ee and Dick and Flo wanted ’ot roast goose more’n ’er.”

No; the agony was the memory of his mother’s face.

He was afraid even to open his eyes, afraid, sore afraid, that if he did he should see her standing before him, asking him to answer to her for this day’s deed.

He was afraid that tired, awful tired as she was, she would get up out of her grave to reproach him with his broken promise, to tell him that on account of him there now could be no more rest for her. And he loved his mother, – oh, how he loved his mother!

A second time that night was Scamp disturbed by sobs, but the sobs did not proceed from Flo this time. The tired little girl was sleeping heavily, her head on the dog’s neck. Scamp could only open his eyes, which he did very wide; if he moved the least bit in the world he would wake Flo. The sounds of distress grew louder, he gave a low growl, then a bark, then with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, he was off Flo’s lap and on the bed with Dick, – he was cuddling down by Dick, fawning on him, and licking the tears off his face.

The boy repulsed him rudely. It was quite beyond the capacity of Scamp, great as his powers were, to comfort him. Nevertheless, Scamp had again done his duty. In his rude exit from Flo’s lap he had effectually awakened her. She, too, heard the low smothered sobs of distress, and rising from her cobbler’s stool, she lay down on the straw beside her little brother.

“I’m real glad as you is cryin’, Dick,” said Flo.

This speech of Flo’s was an immense relief to Dick. Of all things he had dreaded telling his sister of his theft.

He dreaded telling her, and yet he longed for her to know. Now by her words he felt sure that in some way she did know. He nestled close to her, and put his arms round her neck.

“Is mother in the room, Flo?”

“No, no, Dick; wot makes you say that? Mother’s in her grave, ’avin’ a good tidy bit o’ a sleep.”

“You ain’t sure,” said Dick, half-defiantly, “you ain’t sure but ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you mightn’t see mother – just there, acrost our bed and Jenks’ – standin’ and a shakin’ her ’ead.”

“Why, ef she were I couldn’t see,” said Flo. “It be as dark as dark, – I couldn’t see nothink ef I was to look ever so.”

“Oh yes, you could,” said Dick, “you could see ghosts, and mother’s a ghost. I seed ghosts at the gaff, and them is hall in wite, with blue lights about ’em. Ef you opened yer heyes werry wide you could see, Flo.”

“Well, I ’as ’em open,” said Flo, “and I tell you there ain’t no ghosts, nor nothink.”

“Are you sure?” asked Dick.

“No doubt on it,” responded Flo encouragingly. “Mother ain’t yere, mother’s in ’er grave, ’avin’ a good time, and restin’ fine.”

“Are you quite sure?” persisted Dick. “Are you quite sartin as she ain’t turnin’ round in ’er corfin, and cryin’?”

“Oh no; she’s restin’ straight and easy,” said Flo in an encouraging tone, though, truth to tell, she had very grave misgivings in her own mind as to whether this was the case.

“Then she don’t know, Flo?”

“It ain’t reached ’er yet, I ’spect,” said Flo. Then hastening to turn the conversation —

“Wot was it as you took, Dick?”

“A purse,” said Dick.

“A purse full o’ money?” questioned Flo.

“There was six bobs and a tanner,” said Dick, “and Jenks said as I did it real clever.”

“That was wot bought us the ’ot roasted goose,” continued Flo.

“Yes. Jenks said, as it wor the first time, we should ’ave a rare treat. They cost three bobs, that ’ere goose and taters. I say, worn’t they jist prime?”

“’Ave you any more o’ that money?” asked Flo, taking no notice of this last query.

“Yes, I ’ave a bob and I ’ave the purse. Jenks said as I was to have the purse, and I means the purse for you, Flo.”

“You needn’t mean it for me, then,” said Flo, raising her gentle little voice, “fur I’d rayther be cut up in bits than touch it, or look at it, and you ’as got to give back that ’ere bob to Jenks, Dick, fur ef we was to starve hout and hout we won’t neither of us touch bite nor sup as it buys. I thought as you was sorry, Dick, when I heard you cryin’, but no, you ain’t, and you ’ave furgot mother, that you ’ave.”

At these words Dick burst out crying afresh. Flo had reserved her indignation for so long, that when it came it took him utterly by surprise.

“No, I ’aven’t forgot, Flo – I be real orfle sorry.”

“You won’t never do it again?”

“No.”

“And you’ll give back the purse and bob to Jenks, and tell ’im yer’ll ’ave no more to do wid ’is way?”

“Oh! I doesn’t know,” said Dick, “’ee would be real hangry.”

“Very well,” replied Flo; “good-night to you, Dick. I ain’t goin’ to sleep ’long of a thief,” and she prepared to retire with dignity to her cobbler’s stool.

But this proposal filled Dick with fresh alarm, he began to sob louder than ever, and promised vigorously that if she stayed with him he would do whatever she told him.

“’Zactly wot I ses?” asked Flo.

“Yes, Flo, I’ll stick fast to you and never funk.”