The Story of Antony Grace. Fenn George Manville
curl of smoke from the iron chimney in front of the rudder.
“That means brakfass,” said Jack, grinning; “don’t you want yourn?”
I said I did, and asked how soon we should get to a lock where I could buy some bread and milk.
“Don’t you waste your money on bread and milk,” said my companion, “there’ll be lots o’ brakfass for both on us. You wait till we get farther on and we can get some apples and a bottle of ginger-beer.”
It seemed so fair an arrangement that when the shrill voice summoned Jack to fetch his breakfast I shared it with him, and so I did his dinner and tea, while we afterwards regaled ourselves with fruit, and sweets, and cider, or ginger-beer.
This went on day after day, for though the pace was slow I found that I could not have got on faster. Besides which, I had endless rides, Jack’s proceedings with me never once seeming to awaken either interest or excitement on the part of his parents. In fact, Jack’s father seemed to occupy the whole of his time in leaning upon the tiller and smoking, with the very rare exceptions that he might occasionally make use of the hitcher in rounding some corner. As for the passing of other barges, the men upon them seemed to do the greater part of the necessary work in lifting tow-ropes. At the locks, too, he would stolidly stare at Jack and me as we turned the handles with the lock-keeper, and then perhaps grunt approval.
Jack’s mother appeared to spend all her time in cooking and other domestic arrangements, for she never showed herself on deck except to announce the readiness of a meal by a shrill shout for her boy, rarely speaking a word to him at such times as he took his food from her hands.
Life on the river seemed to breed taciturnity, and though we boys generally had something to say, for the most part we jogged on silently with the horses, who hung their heads and kept on their course as if half asleep.
To me it was a dreamy time of constant journeying by the shining river; for at last we passed through a lock into the Isis, and then continued our way on and on through locks innumerable till we passed out again into what I suppose must have been the Grand Junction or Regent’s Canal – to this day I am not sure which. The hundred miles or so I was to have walked to London must have been more than doubled by the turnings and doublings of the river; but I was never tired, and Jack never wearied of my society. There was always something to see in the ever-changing scenery, and sometimes, if we came to a stoppage early in the evening, Jack brought out a rough line and a willow wand, and we fished for perch by some rushing weir.
I could have been content to go on for ever leading such a free, enjoyable life, like some young gipsy, so peaceable and happy seemed my existence as compared to that with Mr Blakeford; but at last, after a very long, slow journey, we began to near the metropolis, the goal of my wanderings, and one evening the pleasant communings of Jack and myself were suddenly brought to an end.
We had been making slow progress along the canal as it wound now amongst houses and large buildings. The pleasant fields were far behind, and the water was no longer bright. It seemed, too, as if we had left the sun behind, while the tow-path had long grown so hard and rough that I was glad to get my boots out of the bundle in which they were tied up and wear them once again.
“Here, you sir,” Jack’s father shouted to me from the barge, “you must sheer off now.”
It was said in a rough, peremptory fashion that was startling: but he took no further notice of me, only went on smoking, and I went back to Jack, who was now seated on the horse just as at our first meeting.
“Feyther say you must go now?”
“Yes,” I said dolefully.
“Then you’d better cut off. I say, feyther!”
“Hullo!”
“Lash the tiller, and go and get his bundle and chuck it ashore.”
The great rough fellow methodically did as he was told – fastening the rudder, going slowly forward, and fishing out my bundle from under the tarpaulin, and turning to me:
“Ketch!” he shouted, and he threw the bundle from the barge to the shore, where I caught it, and he slowly plodded back, after giving me a friendly nod.
I took my bundle under my arm and rejoined Jack, who was whistling his minor air, and then we boys looked at each other dolefully.
“Aintcher going?” said Jack at last.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going directly.” Then, quickly pulling out a little penknife I had in my pocket, I held it to Jack. “Will you have that, Jack?” I said.
His eyes sparkled as he took it, but he did not speak.
“Do you think I might give your father something for letting me come up along with you?” I said.
Jack stared in a dull, stolid way for a moment, the idea being so novel to him. Then his face lit up and he checked the horses.
“Hold on, fey-ther,” he shouted; and as if it was quite right to obey his son’s words, the great fellow steered the long barge so that it came close in.
“There’s a beer-shop,” said Jack, pointing to a place close by the towing-path, all glorious with blue and gold announcements of Barclay, Perkins and Co.’s Entire. “You go and get a pot o’ porter – it’s threepence ha’penny, mind – and give it the old man; we’ll wait.”
I ran up to the door of the public-house and asked the man in shirt-sleeves and white apron for a pot of porter, which he drew in the bright pewter vessel, and I paid for it with one of my sixpences, received my change, and then had to make solemn assurance that I would bring back the pot before I was allowed to take it down to the canal-side, where Jack and his father were waiting.
The latter’s face was as stolid as ever as I went up to him; but there was a little extra opening of his eyes as he saw the foaming liquid in the bright pewter and stretched out his hand.
“Beer ain’t good for boys,” he said gruffly; and then, blowing off the froth, he put the vessel to his lips, and slowly poured it all down, without stopping, to the very last drop; after which he uttered a heavy sigh of either pleasure or regret, and brought his eyes to bear on me.
“Feyther likes a drop o’ beer,” said Jack.
“Ketch!” said “father,” and he threw the empty pot to me, which luckily I caught, and stood watching him as he went to the tiller. “Go on!”
Jack gave me a nod, cracked his whip, and the horses drew the slack rope along the cindery tow-path till it was tight. Jack’s father paused in the act of refilling his pipe and gave me another nod, and Jack’s mother’s head came above the hatchway to stare at me as the barge moved, and I stood watching it with my bundle under my arm and the bright pewter vessel in my hand.
My reverie was interrupted by a shout from the public-house door, and I took the pot back, to return once more to the towing-path, sick at heart and despondent, as I thought of the pleasant days of my short vagabond career.
It was like parting with very good friends, and I sat down at last upon a log, one of a pile of timber, full of regrets; for these rough people had in their way been very kind to me, and I thought that perhaps I should never see them any more.
Chapter Twelve.
My First Night in Town
I did not sit thinking long, for I felt that I must be up and doing. The long barge had crept silently away and was out of sight, but I felt that after my dismissal I ought not to follow it; so I crossed a bridge over the canal and went on and on between rows of houses and along streets busy with vehicles coming and going, and plenty of people.
For the first half-hour I felt that everybody knew me and was staring at the boy who had run away from Mr Blakeford’s office; but by degrees that idea passed off and gave place to another, namely, that I was all alone in this great city, and that it seemed very solitary and strange.
For above an hour I walked on, with the streets growing thicker and the noise and bustle more confusing. I had at last reached a busy thoroughfare; gas was burning, and