Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

In a few minutes Sir Richard stood outside, taking in deep draughts of the comparatively fresher air of the court.

“The old screw,” growled Bobby, when the door was shut. “’E didn’t leave us so much as a single bob—not even a brown, though ’e pretends that six of ’em ain’t much.”

“Don’t be hard on him, Bobby,” said Hetty, drying her eyes; “he spoke very kind, you know, an’ p’raps he means to help us afterwards.”

“Spoke kind,” retorted the indignant boy; “I tell ’ee wot, Hetty, you’re far too soft an’ forgivin’. I s’pose that’s wot they teaches you in Sunday-school at George Yard—eh? Vill speakin’ kind feed us, vill it clothe us, vill it pay for our lodgin’s!”

The door opened at that moment, and Number 666 re-entered.

“The gentleman sent me back to give you this, Mrs Frog,” laying a sovereign on the rickety table. “He said he didn’t like to offer it to you himself for fear of hurting your feelings, but I told him he needn’t be afraid on that score! Was I right, Missis? Look well after it, now, an’ see that Ned don’t get his fingers on it.”

Giles left the room, and Mrs Frog, taking up the piece of gold, fondled it for some time in her thin fingers, as though she wished to make quite sure of its reality. Then wrapping it carefully in a piece of old newspaper, she thrust it into her bosom.

Bobby gazed at her in silence up to this point, and then turned his face to the wall. He did not speak, but we cannot say that he did not pray, for, mentally he said, “I beg your parding, old gen’l’m’n, an’ I on’y pray that a lot of fellers like you may come ’ere sometimes to ’urt our feelin’s in that vay!”

At that moment Hetty bent over the bed, and, softly kissing her brother’s dirty face, whispered, “Yes, Bobby, that’s what they teach me in Sunday-school at George Yard.”

Thereafter Wealth drove home in a cab, and Poverty went to bed in her rags.

Chapter Seven.

Bicycling and its Occasional Results

It is pleasant to turn from the smoke and turmoil of the city to the fresh air and quiet of the country.

To the man who spends most of his time in the heart of London, going into the country—even for a short distance—is like passing into the fields of Elysium. This was, at all events, the opinion of Stephen Welland; and Stephen must have been a good judge, for he tried the change frequently, being exceedingly fond of bicycling, and occasionally taking what he termed long spins on that remarkable instrument.

One morning, early in the summer-time, young Welland, (he was only eighteen), mounted his iron horse in the neighbourhood of Kensington, and glided away at a leisurely pace through the crowded streets. Arrived in the suburbs of London he got up steam, to use his own phrase, and went at a rapid pace until he met a “chum,” by appointment. This chum was also mounted on a bicycle, and was none other than our friend Samuel Twitter, Junior—known at home as Sammy, and by his companions as Sam.

“Isn’t it a glorious day, Sam?” said Welland as he rode up and sprang off his steed.

“Magnificent!” answered his friend, also dismounting and shaking hands. “Why, Stephen, what an enormous machine you ride!”

“Yes, it’s pretty high—48 inches. My legs are long, you see. Well, where are we to run to-day?”

“Wherever you like,” said Sam, “only let it be a short run, not more than forty miles, for I’ve got an appointment this afternoon with my old dad which I can’t get off.”

“That’ll do very well,” said Welland, “so we can go round by—”

Here he described a route by country road and village, which we pretend not to remember. It is sufficient to know that it represented the required “short” run of forty miles—such is the estimate of distance by the youth of the present day!

“Now then, off we go,” said Welland, giving his wheel—he quite ignored the existence of the little thing at the back—a shove, putting his left foot on the treadle, and flinging his right leg gracefully over.

Young Twitter followed suit, but Sammy was neither expert nor graceful. True, he could ride easily, and travel long distances, but he could only mount by means of the somewhat clumsy process of hopping behind for several yards.

Once up, however, he went swiftly enough alongside his tall companion, and the two friends thereafter kept abreast.

“Oh! isn’t it a charming sensation to have the cool air fanning one’s cheeks, and feel the soft tremor of the wheel, and see the trees and houses flow past at such a pace? It is the likest thing to flying I ever felt,” said Welland, as they descended a slight incline at, probably, fifteen miles an hour.

“It is delightful,” replied Sam, “but, I say, we better put on the brakes here a bit. It gets much steeper further down.”

Instead of applying the brake, however, young Welland, in the exuberance of his joy, threw his long legs over the handles, and went down the slope at railway speed, ready, as he remarked, for a jump if anything should go wrong.

Twitter was by no means as bold as his friend, but, being ashamed to show the white feather, he quietly threw his shorter legs over the handles, and thus the two, perched—from a fore-and-aft point of view—upon nothing, went in triumph to the bottom of the hill.

A long stretch of smooth level road now lay before them. It required the merest touch on the treadles to send them skimming along like skaters on smooth ice, or swallows flying low. Like gentle ghosts they fleeted along with little more than a muffled sound, for their axles turned in ball-sockets and their warning bells were silent save when touched.

Onward they went with untiring energy, mile after mile, passing everything on the way—pedestrians, equestrians, carts and gigs; driving over the level ground with easy force, taking the hills with a rush to keep up the pace, and descending on the other sides at what Welland styled a “lightning run.”

Now they were skimming along a road which skirted the margin of a canal, the one with hands in his coat-pockets, the other with his arms crossed, and both steering with their feet; now passing under a railway-arch, and giving a wild shout, partly to rouse the slumbering echoes that lodged there, and partly to rouse the spirit of a small dog which chanced to be passing under it—in both cases successfully! Anon they were gliding over a piece of exposed ground on which the sun beat with intense light, causing their shadows to race along with them. Again they were down in a hollow, gliding under a row of trees, where they shut off a little of the steam and removed their caps, the better to enjoy the grateful shade. Soon they were out in the sunshine again, the spokes of their wheels invisible as they topped a small eminence from the summit of which they took in one comprehensive view of undulating lands, with villages scattered all round, farm-houses here and there, green fields and flowering meadows, traversed by rivulet or canal, with cattle, sheep, and horses gazing at them in silent or startled wonder, and birds twittering welcome from the trees and hedge-rows everywhere.

Now they were crossing a bridge and nearing a small town where they had to put hands to the handles again and steer with precaution, for little dogs had a tendency to bolt out at them from unexpected corners, and poultry is prone to lose its heads and rush into the very jaws of danger, in a cackling effort to avoid it. Stray kittens and pigs, too, exhibited obstinate tendencies, and only gave in when it was nearly too late for repentance. Little children, also, became sources of danger, standing in the middle of roads until, perceiving a possible catastrophe, they dashed wildly aside—always to the very side on which the riders had resolved to pass,—and escaped by absolute miracle!

Presently they came to a steep hill. It was not steep enough to necessitate dismounting, but it rendered a rush inadvisable. They therefore worked up slowly, and, on gaining the top, got off to breathe and rest a while.

“That was a glorious run, wasn’t it, Sam?” said Welland, flicking the dust from his knees with his handkerchief. “What d’ye say to a glass of beer?”

“Can’t do it, Stephen, I’m Blue Ribbon.”

“Oh! nonsense. Why not do as I do—drink in moderation?”

“Well, I didn’t think much about it when I put it on,” said Sam, who was a very sensitive, and not very strong-minded youth; “the rest of us did it, you know, by father’s advice, and I joined because they did.”

Welland laughed rather sarcastically at this, but made no rejoinder, and Sam, who could not stand being laughed at, said—

“Well, come, I’ll go in for one glass. I’ll be my own doctor, and prescribe it medicinally! Besides, it’s an exceptional occasion this, for it is awfully hot.”

“It’s about the best run I ever had in the same space of time,” said Welland on quitting the beer shop.

“First-rate,” returned Sam, “I wish my old dad could ride with us. He would enjoy it so.”

“Couldn’t we bring him out on a horse? He could ride that, I suppose?”

“Never saw him on a horse but once,” said Sam, “and that time he fell off. But it’s worth suggesting to him.”

“Better if he got a tricycle,” said Welland.

“I don’t think that would do, for he’s too old for long rides, and too short-winded. Now, Stephen, I’m not going to run down this hill. We must take it easy, for it’s far too steep.”

“Nonsense, man, it’s nothing to speak of; see, I’ll go first and show you the way.”

He gave the treadle a thrust that sent him off like an arrow from a bow.

“Stay! there’s a caravan or something at the bottom—wild beasts’ show, I think! Stop! hold on!”

But Sam Twitter shouted in vain. Welland’s was a joyous spirit, apt to run away with him. He placed his legs over the handles for security, and allowed the machine to run. It gathered speed as it went, for the hill became steeper, insomuch that the rider once or twice felt the hind-wheel rise, and had to lean well back to keep it on the ground. The pace began to exceed even Welland’s idea of pleasure, but now it was too late to use the brake, for well did he know that on such a slope and going at such a pace the slightest check on the front wheel would send him over. He did not feel alarmed however, for he was now near the bottom of the hill, and half a minute more would send him in safety on the level road at the foot.

But just at the foot there was a sharpish turn in the road, and Welland looked at it earnestly. At an ordinary pace such a turn could have been easily taken, but at such a rate as he had by that time attained, he felt it would require a tremendous lean over to accomplish it. Still he lost no confidence, for he was an athlete by practice if not by profession, and he gathered up his energies for the moment of action.