Original Penny Readings: A Series of Short Sketches. Fenn George Manville
down to let him in, and opens the door, when he stops with one leg in the keb.
“Yer see, this wasn’t a reg’lar thing, for arter the first time I allus knew what he wanted, and we understood one another, so that it was all done this way: jump in – set down – take up agin – set down agin – pay up – touch yer ’at – jump on the box – and nary word spoken. Sooted him, yer know; and it sooted me; so what more did you want? But now on this day it was diffurnt, for, as I said afore, he stops with one leg in the keb, and begins to speak, quite pleasant, and quiet, and civil, as a gentleman could speak, and he says, ‘Kebman, I thank you for your attention. Here’s a suffrin for you. Drive on.’
“In course, I thanked him; but he didn’t seem to want to be talked to, and I drives on, thinking it was a rum start paying aforehand. Not as I’d got anything to grumble about, for a suffrin warn’t to be sneezed at, as the sayin’ is. So I drives up to the cemetery gates; sets him down; puts the nose-bag on the mare I drove then; an’ lights my pipe.
“One pipe allus used to do for me while he went in and came out; so I used to smoke it, and then put it away. But this time he didn’t come back so soon as usual, or else, being a bit outer sorts in stummick and pocket, I’d smoked faster; so I pulls it out and lights up agen, and a good deal o’ bother I had, I remember, for the matches was damp, and there was I a-rubbin’ one arter the other again the pipe bowl for long enough, inside my hat.
“Well, I finished that pipe, and then another, for it seemed to me as he was having a long stay on the strength of the suffrin. ‘And welcome,’ I says; for, of course, being a good sort, I wasn’t going to grudge him an hour. But it got to be more than an hour, and dusky, and foggy, and damp; and that blessed rheumatic shoulder o’ mine began a-going it orful. It was just for all the world as though some one had made a hole right through the blade-bone, and then, shovin’ a piece of clothes-line through, was a sawin’ of it backards and furards. Then it began to rain a little – mizzly, yer know – and the mare havin’ tossed her old nose-bag about till she couldn’t get not anuther taste o’ chaff, let alone a hoat or a bean, stands hanging all together like, same as those fiery steeds as they used to send up under a balloon, Cremorne way, years ago, and lookin’ for all the world like a hannimal cut out for the knackers.
“Last of all out comes Mr Crusp, all hot tea and buttered toast, shining beautiful, and looking as though he’d been going on to the tune o’ four cups and three rounds. Then he begins to fasten up; and ‘Ulloa!’ says he, ‘what are you a-waitin’ for?’ ‘Colonel,’ says I. ‘Out long ago,’ says he. ‘No,’ says I; ‘he’s been in more’n two hours.’ Well, he looks gallus hard at me, and then he says, ‘He must ha’ gone out without you seein’ of him. He’s give you the slip.’ ‘Then he must ha’ come away inside that there black omblibus with plumes on it, then,’ I says, for I knowed as I must ha’ seen him if he had come out; and then I tells him about the suffrin.
“‘Why didn’t you say that afore,’ says Crusp. ‘You see if he ain’t been and committed hisself, or fell a wictim to his sorrow.’ And then he turns short round, and goes puffin’ along one o’ the side walks; while, knowin’ as my old mare wouldn’t run away to save her life, I follered.
“First we goes down a long gravel path where the ’santhemums was a hanging their heads, and seeming as if they was a crying; but then all the trees I could see in the dim light was covered with tears. Then Crusp leads off across a flower garding like, all covered with graves and stones; and somehow, stumbling along in a big old box coat, I manages to fall right over one of ’em; but when I pulled myself together agen, and gets up to the gatekeeper, I finds him standing aside my reg’lar fare, who was lying down there in the wet grass with his cheek agin a grave, and one arm stretched right over it: while in t’other was a long lock of dark hair. His hat had rolled off, and his own long white hair lay loose among the dead flowers and damp grass; and turning all of a tremble, I stoops down beside him, and Crusp whispers, so quiet and solemn, ‘He’s gone to her!’
“For a moment or two I couldn’t believe it, for there in the dusk it seemed as though he was only crying over the restin’-place of his poor child. I didn’t like to speak, for it all seemed so strange and solemn: there was the ‘drip – drip – drip’ from the trees, and now and then a sad mournful sort of sigh as the wind swept by; and I don’t know how it was, but sad times seemed to come up again and take hold of a fellow’s heart; so that dim as it all was before, it turned worse, till one could hardly see at all, and though the rain came slowly down, it seemed right and nateral to take off one’s hat; and we both did, and then stole away on tiptoe to fetch more help.
“That allus comes back in the autumn time, when the leaves are falling, and the rain drips slowly down; and then, feeling quite melancholy-like, I can see again as plain as can be that fine old man restin’ his head upon the grave, with his silver hair all spread out upon the grass, and him taking his rest from his troubles.
“Here we are, sir, – ’Tannic Gardings; and, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just give that old ’oss a feed and a rub down, while you and the ladies look through the green’ouses. Eases his jints a bit, yer see, and they runs werry stiff sometimes.”
Chapter Seven.
J. Weltus
Reformations, and improvements, and setrer, are all very well; but, mind yer, if your drink’s been four ale all your life you won’t take kindly to porter, “threepence a pot in your own jugs,” if some one tells you all at once as it’s better for you, and your ale’s pison. Rome warn’t built in a day, you know, and arter sitting for five-and-twenty year on my bench and using the lapstone and sterrup-leather, you ain’t a-going to make me take nat’rally to a hupright bench.
Here I am, yer see; allus at home – airy spot; good light, and never no sun; pleasant prospect o’ four foot in front, none to the right, and chock down into Fleet-street on the left. What more would you have? Every convenience for carrying on a large and lucrative trade without moving from yer seat. Here’s one’s stool, and, altogether, close to one’s hand, everything as a artis’ in leather work could want. Now see here: paste? there you are; stuffin’? there you are; tub for soakin’? there you are; and so on with every think – whether it’s lapstone, foot, hemp, ball, wax, bristles, dubbin, grease, or ink. There’s one’s knives and stone all in a row; there’s one’s divisions with all one’s nails and pegs – brass, iron, and wood; there’s one’s hammers; and – there, what more would you have for soleing and heeling a boot or a shoe right off without leaving yer seat? And all done in a regular business way, yer know; none o’ yer new-fangled rivet and clinch and sewing-machine rubbish; but straightforward laid-in stitches, put in with a sharp awl and a fine pair of ends, laid into and drawn tight with plenty of elbow grease, and the sole stoned and hammered as solid as a board, and more too.
Rivets indeed! Why, how can a boot be decent as is nailed together just as a chip would make a box? ’Tain’t natural, no more nor gutta-percha was, nor india-rubber was. Course I had to take to gutta-percha soles, as it was the fashun, else yer lose yer trade; but there you were, sticking the things on with a lot o’ grease tar stuff, and then as soon as they got warm, off they comes again, and serve ’em right too for not being sewed, and then touched round the wearing Darts with a few rows o’ sprigs neatly put in, or a facing o’ sparrables.
And here’s yer everlasting soles and yer machinery and clat! Don’t tell me: why, they can’t answer any more than indy-rubber goloshes can, as raises your corns, an’ draws yer feet, an’ makes a man miserable, as of course every one is as ain’t got a decent shoe to his foot. It’s all very fine having yer new fangles, and one introdoosing cork, and another iron, and another copper and copper toes. You may have yer grand warerusses over Southwark way; but my ’pinion is as it must come down to us at last, as only stands to reason.
Now here you are; you’ve bought yer pair o’ ready-mades and worn ’em a bit, and then where are you? why, a-looking out for “J. Weltus, shoemaker, repairs neatly executed” – as it says on the board over the stall, as cost me a soleing and heeling for a painter chap outer work as did it for me, and put no dryers in his colour, so as the boys give it that pitted-with-the-small-pox