Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways. Meade L. T.
Jenks, “that’s an honour. Oh! my stars! can I abear so big an honour? ’Old me, Flo, I feels kind of top ’eavy. Now then, break it heasy, Flo.”
“I never know’d as yer trade was that of a thief, Jenks,” quietly continued the little girl. “I thought as it wor a real nice trade as me and Dick might larn, and we mustn’t larn that, not ef we was to starve. Dick and me must never be thiefs. But, Jenks, I’m not a blamin’ you – it ain’t wrong fur you, Jenks – you ’adn’t never a mother, as telled you to keep an honest boy.”
At these words Jenks started violently, the fun died out of his face, and he looked quite white and shaky.
“Why does you say that?” he asked rather savagely. “How does yer dare say as I ’av’n’t a mother? as honest a woman as hever walked.”
“I doesn’t say it, Jenks. I on’y ses that if you ’ad a mother as was alwis honest, and, no, not ef we was starvin’ would prig anythink, and that mother lay a dyin’, and she axed yer werry soft and lovin’ to keep honest, and never, no never to steal nothink, and you promised yer mother ’cause you loved ’er; would you be a thief then, Jenks?”
“Moonshine!” growled Jenks.
“No, but would you, Jenks?”
“How can I tell?” replied Jenks. “Look yere, Flo, leave off about mothers, do. Wot does I know of such? Say wot yer ’as to say, as I must be gone.”
“I wants you not to come back no more, dear Jenks, and never, never to speak to Dick no more.”
“Dear Jenks, come back no more,” mimicked the boy. “And why not, little sweetheart?”
“’Cause you is a thief, and you is larnin’ thiefin’ to Dick.”
“Oh my! the precious young cove, I didn’t know as ’ee was to be reared hup so tender. But why does you say as I am a thief, Flo – it wor Dick tuk the purse yesterday.”
“But you larned ’im ’ow to take it, Jenks.”
“No, I didn’t, ’ee larned ’imself, ’ee wanted none of my coddlin’ and dressin’. Tell yer ’ee’d make a real stunnin’ thief arter a bit. But I’ll not teach ’im nothink, not I. No, Flo,” (this gravely), “I’ll promise yer this, and yere’s my ’and on it, ef I sees ’im touch so much as a brass farthing, I’ll give ’im a whackin’ as ’ull soon teach ’im to be an honest boy.”
“And you won’t come back no more?”
“I won’t say that – the cellar’s conwenient, and I pays fur ’arf. Yes, I’ll turn in to-night, and as long as I ’ave a mind to. Now I’m orf to my work – wot ain’t that of a thief,” and snapping his fingers disdainfully, Jenks disappeared.
Flo stood for a moment, her hand over her eyes, looking up the hot street. Her mission she felt was only half accomplished, but it was some consolation to know, that the next time Dick acted the part of a thief, his companion, instead of loading him with praise, would bestow on him instead a far-sounding whacking.
Flo did not mind how hard it was, if only it saved her brother from following in the steps of those boys of whom her mother had so often told her.
Chapter Six
Give the Poor Dog a Bone
That knowing dog Scamp was rather puzzled on the evening after his arrival, at the marked change in the manners of Dick and Jenks towards him. Clever as he was, their total change of manner threw him off his guard, and he began to accuse himself of ingratitude in supposing that at any time they had not wished for his company, that at any time they had treated him as an intruder. Not a bit of it. Here were they patting and making much of him; here was that good-natured fellow Jenks allowing him to repose his big, awkward body across his knees, while Flo and Dick, who had been indoors all day very grave and silent, were now in fits of laughter over his rough attempts at play.
“Flo,” said Jenks, pulling some loose coppers out of his ragged vest pocket, “ef you’ll buy wittles fur the dawg fur a week, I’ll pay ’em.”
And then he further produced from some mysterious store a good-sized, juicy bone, cut from a shank of mutton, which bone he rubbed gently against the dog’s nose, finally allowing him to place it between his teeth and take possession of it. As Scamp on the floor munched, and worried, and gnawed that bone, so strong were his feelings of gratitude to Jenks, that he would have found it easy, quite easy, to follow him to the world’s end.
And so Jenks seemed to think, for when supper was over he arose, and giving Dick an almost imperceptible nod, he called Scamp, and the boys and the dog went out.
They walked nearly to the end of the street, and then Jenks caught up Scamp, and endeavoured to hide him with his ragged jacket. This was no easy matter, for in every particular the dog was ungainly – too large in one part, too small in another. Impossible for a tattered coat-sleeve to hide that great rough head, which in sheer affection, caused by the memory of that bone, would push itself up and lick his face. Jenks bestowed upon him in return for this regard several severe cuffs, and was altogether rough and unpleasant in his treatment; and had Scamp not been accustomed to, and, so to speak, hardened to such things, his feelings might and probably would have been considerably hurt. As it was, he took it philosophically, and perceiving that he was not at present to show affection, ceased to do so.
The boys walked down several by-streets, and took some villainous-looking short cuts in absolute silence. Dick went a little in advance of his companion, and kept his eyes well open, and at sight of any policeman exchanged, though without looking round, some signal with Jenks; on which Jenks and Scamp would immediately, in some mysterious way, disappear from view, and Dick would toss a marble or two out of his pocket and pretend to be aiming them one at the other, until, the danger gone by, Jenks and Scamp would once more make their appearance. At last they came to streets of so low a character, where the “nippers,” as they called them, so seldom walked, that they could keep together, and even venture on a little conversation.
Dick, who had been sadly depressed all day, began to feel his spirits rising again. He had quite resolved never, never to be a thief no more, but this expedition would bring them in money in a way that even Flo could hardly disapprove of; at least, even if Flo did disapprove, she could hardly call it dishonest. The dog was theirs, had come to them. If they could get money for the dog would they not be right to take it? They were too poor to keep Scamp.
Just then Dick turned round and encountered a loving, trusting glance from the dumb creature’s affectionate eyes, a sudden fit of compunction came over him, for he knew to what they were selling Scamp.
“S’pose as Scamp beats Maxey’s young ’un?” he questioned to his companion.
“Not ’ee,” said Jenks contemptuously, “’ee’s nothink but a street cur, and that young ’un is a reg’lar tip-topper, I can tell yer.”
“Well, Scamp ’ave sperrit too,” said Dick.
“And ef ’ee ’adn’t, would I bring ’im to Maxey? Would I insult Maxey’s young dawg wid an hout and hout street cur wid no good points? Why, Maxey wouldn’t give a tanner fur a cur widout sperrit, you little greenhorn.”
Here they stopped at the door of a low ale-house, where the company were undoubtedly “doggy.”
Jenks transferred Scamp to Dick’s care, and disappeared into the public, from whence in a few moments he issued with a small stoutly-built man, of ill-looking and most repulsive aspect.
“I ’ave named my price,” said Jenks, putting Scamp down on the ground and beginning to exhibit his different points. “Two bobs and a tanner, and a sight o’ the fight fur me and this ’ere chap.”
“Come, that’s werry fine,” said the man addressed as Maxey; “but ’ow is it, you young willan, you dares to insinniwate as I ’ave dog-fights? Doesn’t you know as dog-fight’s ’gainst the law of the land? You wouldn’t like to see the hinside of Newgate