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

“The same, young feller. That’s me, an’ Reggie North is my name. He’d ’ave ’ad some trouble to turn me out once, though, but I’ve given up quarrellin’ and fightin’ now, havin’ enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace,” replied the man, who was none other than our Bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech—“Bah!” and “Pooh!” at the Gospel-temperance meeting. “Where are you going?”

Sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound.

“Well, I’m going there too, so come along.”

Sam could not choose but go with the man. He would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off.

Entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and North, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered Sam half.

Several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, North and his friend Sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal.

“What made you leave Ned?” asked North.

“How did you know I’d left him?”

“Why, because if you was still with him you wouldn’t be here!”

This was so obvious that Sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile.

“I left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and I’ve got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that I can’t resist it, so I came away. And there’s no chance of any one offering me beer in this place.”

“Not much,” said North, with a grin. “But, young feller,” (and there was something earnestly kind in the man’s manner here), “if you feel an awful desire for drink, you’d better put on this.”

He touched his bit of blue ribbon.

“No use,” returned Sam, sorrowfully, “I once put it on, and—and—I’ve broke the pledge.”

“That’s bad, no doubt; but what then?” returned North; “are we never to tell the truth any more ’cause once we told a lie? Are we never to give up swearin’ ’cause once we uttered a curse? The Lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. Why, sin is the very thing He saves us from—if we’ll only come to Him.”

Sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. Reggie North listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. The words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. The speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. He was discoursing on poverty and its causes.

“It is nothing more nor less,” he said, with emphasis, “than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty.”

“Hear! hear!” cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence.

“What right,” asked the man, somewhat indignantly, “what right has Sir Crossly Cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that ’e don’t know what to do with, when we’re starvin’?” (Hear!) “He didn’t earn these millions; they was left to ’im by his father, an’ he didn’t earn ’em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an’ back to the time of the robber who came over with William—the greatest robber of all—an’ stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers.” (Hear! hear!) “An’ what right has Lord Lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he’s got?” (‘Ha! you may say that!’ from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) “What right has he, I say, to his lands? The ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. My friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. What right have they, I ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? If I had my way,” (Hear! hear! and a laugh), “I would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as I see before me—such as this poor fellow,” (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said ‘Just so’ feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). “Do I not speak the truth?” he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him.

“Well, mister, I ain’t just quite clear about that,” said Reggie North, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. There was an immediate and complete silence, for North had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. “I’m not a learned man, you see, an’ hain’t studied the subjec’, but isn’t there a line in the Bible which says, ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor?’ Now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an’ no rich to consider ’em!”

There was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but North checked him with—

“’Old on, sir, I ain’t done yet. You said that Sir Cowley Cross—”

“Crossly Cowel,” cried his opponent, correcting.

“I ax your pardon; Sir Crossly Cowel—that ’e ’ad no right to ’is millions, ’cause ’e didn’t earn ’em, and because ’is father left ’em to ’im. Now, I ’ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing—but of coorse that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment—an’ she was left a fi’ pun note by ’er father as ’ad a game leg—though that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment neither. Now, what puzzles me is, that if Sir Cow—Cross—”

A great shout of laughter interrupted North here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer.

“What puzzles me is,” continued North, “that if Sir Crossly Cowel ’as no right to ’is millions, my old grandmother ’ad no right to ’er fi’ pun note!” (“Hear, hear,” and applause.) “I don’t know nothin’ about that there big thief Willum you mentioned, nor yet Lord Lorrumdoddy, not bein’ ’ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in ’is principles—”

“Of course I does,” said the social reformer indignantly.

“Well, then,” resumed North, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, “do you see that man? If you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. What right have you to two coats when he has none?”

The reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity.

To give his argument more force, Reggie North took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up.

“See here, mates, when I came to this house I said to myself, ‘The Lord ’as given me success to-day in sellin’ His word,’—you know, some of you, that I’m a seller of Bibles and Testaments?”

“Ay, ay, old boy. We know you,” said several voices.

“And I wasn’t always that,” added North.

“That’s true, anyhow,” said a voice with a laugh.

“Well. For what I was, I might thank drink and a sinful heart. For what I am I thank the Lord. But, as I was goin’ to say, I came here intendin’ to give this sixpence—it ain’t much, but it’s all I can spare—to some poor feller in distress, for I practise what I preach, and I meant to do it in a quiet way. But it seems to me that, seein’ what’s turned up, I’ll do more good by givin’ it in a public way—so, there it is, old man,” and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes.

The change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to Sir Crossly Cowel, or Lord Lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity.

The poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a “thank ’ee,” to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by North.

“Stop, stop, my fine fellow! Not quite so fast. If you’ll wait till I’ve finished my little business here, I’ll take you to where you’ll get some warm grub for nothin’, and maybe an old coat too.” Encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while North and Sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted.

“The first thing you must do, my boy,” said North, kindly, “is to return to your father’s ’ouse; an’ that advice cuts two ways—’eaven-ward an’ earth-ward.”

“Oh! no, no, no, I can never return home,” replied Sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father.

It was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of Number 666, who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the Twitter family.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Returning Prodigal

For a considerable time the Bible-seller plied Sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them.

They were followed by one of the ladies of the Beehive, who devote all their time—and, may we not add, all their hearts—to the rescue of the perishing. Along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. She was our friend Hetty Frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. Hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns.

After her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. They greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of Sir Richard Brandon followed Seaward.

“A bloated haristocrat!” growled one of the men.

“Got a smart little darter, anyhow,” remarked another, as Di, holding tight to her father’s hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm.

For poor little Di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything in couleur de rose, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. Di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. The reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. She had imagined sorrowful faces. Had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. Di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! Neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. Altogether poor little Di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. In after years she reached one of the true heights—which was out of sight higher than the false one!

There was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work—like the visit of Di and her father. They were familiar with the East-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast.