Personal Reminiscences In Book Making, And Some Short Stories Part 18

"In course we does, mother, else we wouldn't ax for 'em. W'ereabouts is the cellar?"

"Foot o' this stair."

Descending to the regions below, the two boys groped their way along an underground pa.s.sage till they came to a door. It was opened by a woman, who timidly demanded what they wanted.

"It's me, Missis Wilkin. 'Ave you forgotten Howlet?"

With an exclamation of surprise and joy the woman flung the door wide, seized Owlet, dragged him into the room, and embraced him with as much affection as if he had been her own child. Instantly there arose a shout of juvenile joy, and Stumpy could see, in the semi-darkness, that four little creatures were helping their mother to overwhelm his friend, while a fifth--a biggish girl--was prevented from joining them by the necessity that lay on her to take care of the baby.

When the greetings were over, the sad condition of the family was soon explained, and a single glance round sufficed to show that they had reached the lowest state of dest.i.tution. It was a back room rather than a cellar, but the dirty pane of thick gla.s.s near the roof admitted only enough of light to make its wretchedness visible. A rickety table, two broken chairs, and a bedstead without a bottom was all the furniture left, and the grate was empty.

"We've been obleeged to p.a.w.n everything," said Mrs Wilkin, with difficulty suppressing a sob, "and I need hardly tell you why," she added, with a glance at the children, who were living skeletons.

The baby was perhaps the saddest object there, for it was so thin and weak that it had not strength to cry--though the faces which it frequently made were obviously the result of an effort to do so.

Much interested in the scene, young Stumpy stood admiring it patronisingly for a little, but when he heard the poor woman tell of their desperate struggle to merely keep themselves alive, his feelings were touched, and when he learned that not a bite of food had pa.s.sed their lips since the previous morning, a sudden impulse swelled his little breast. He clutched his four pennies tightly; glanced quickly round; observed an empty basket in a corner; caught it up, and left the place hurriedly.

He had scarcely gone when the father of the family entered. The expression of his face and his whole bearing and aspect told eloquently of disappointment as he sat down with a heavy sigh.

"Stumped again," he said; "only a few hands took on."

The words sounded as a death-knell to the famis.h.i.+ng family, and the man himself was too much cut up to take notice of the return of his friend Owlet, except by a slight nod of recognition.

Meanwhile Stumpy ran along several streets in quest of food. He had not far to run in such a locality. At a very small grocer's shop he purchased one halfpenny worth of tea and put it in his basket. To this he added one farthing's worth of milk, which the amiable milkman let him have in a small phial, on promise of its being returned. Two farthings more procured a small supply of coal, which he wrapped in two cabbage leaves. Then he looked about for a baker. One penny farthing of his fund having been spent, it behoved him to consider that the staff of life must be secured in preference to luxuries.

At this point the boy's nose told him of a most delicious smell which pervaded the air. He stood still for a moment and sniffed eagerly.

"Ah, ain't it prime? I've jist 'ad some," said another much smaller and very ragged street-boy who had noticed the sniff.

"What ever is it?" demanded Stumpy.

"Pea-soup," answered the other.

"Where?"

"Right round the corner. Look alive, they're shovellin' it out like one o'clock for _fard'ns_!"

Our hero waited for no more. He dashed round the corner, and found a place where the Salvation Army was dispensing farthing and halfpenny breakfasts to a crowd of the hungriest and raggedest creatures he had ever seen, though his personal experience of London dest.i.tution was extensive.

"Here you are," said a smiling damsel in a poke bonnet. "I see you're in a hurry; how much do you want?"

"'Ow much for a fard'n?" asked Stumpy, with the caution natural to a man of limited means.

A small bowl full of steaming soup was placed before him and a hunk of bread.

"For _one_ fard'n?" inquired the boy in surprise.

"For one farthing," replied the presiding angel in the poke bonnet.

"Here, young 'ooman," said Stumpy, setting down his basket, "let me 'ave eleven fard'n's worth right away. There's a big family awaitin' for it an' they're all starvin', so do make haste."

"But, dear boy, you've brought nothing to carry the soup in."

Stumpy's visage fell. The basket could not serve him here, and the rate at which the soup was being ladled out convinced him that if he were to return for a jug there would not be much left for him.

Observing his difficulty, the attendant said that she would lend him a jug if he would promise to bring it back. "Are you an honest boy?" she asked, with an amused look.

"About as honest as most kids o' the same sort."

"Well, I'll trust you--and, mind, G.o.d sees you. There, now, don't you fall and break it."

Our hero was not long in returning to the dreary cellar, with the eleven basins of soup and eleven hunks of bread--all of which, with the previously purchased luxuries, he spread out on the rickety table, to the unutterable amazement and joy of the Wilkin family.

Need we say that it was a glorious feast? As there were only two chairs, the table was lifted inside of the bottomless bed, and some of the young people sat down on the frame thereof on one side, and some on the other side, while Mrs Wilkin and her husband occupied the places of honour at the head and foot. There was not much conversation at first.

Hunger was too exacting, but in a short time tongues began to wag. Then the fire was lighted, and the kettle boiled, and the half-pennyworth of tea infused, and thus the sumptuous meal was agreeably washed down.

Even the baby began--to recover under the genial influence of warm food, and made faces indicative of a wish to crow--but it failed, and went to sleep on sister's shoulder instead. When it was all over poor Mrs Wilkin made an attempt to "return thanks" for the meal, but broke down and sobbed her grat.i.tude.

Reader, this is no fancy sketch. It is founded on terrible fact, and gives but a faint idea of the wretchedness and poverty that prevail in London--even the London of _to-day_!

THE END.