Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two more travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been walking in the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with water. One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady without legs or arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a silent gentleman who earned his living by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had rather deranged the natural expression of his countenance by putting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing them out at his mouth, which was one of his professional accomplishments. The name of the first of these newcomers was Vuffin; the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was called Sweet William. To render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord bestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both gentlemen were perfectly at their ease.
‘How’s the Giant?’ said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire.
‘Rather weak upon his legs,’ returned Mr Vuffin. ‘I begin to be afraid he’s going at the knees.’
‘That’s a bad look-out,’ said Short.
‘Aye! Bad indeed,’ replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a sigh. ‘Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more about him than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.’
‘What becomes of old giants?’ said Short, turning to him again after a little reflection.
‘They’re usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,’ said Mr Vuffin.
‘The maintaining of ’em must come expensive, when they can’t be shown, eh?’ remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
‘It’s better that, than letting ’em go upon the parish or about the streets,” said Mr Vuffin. ‘Once make a giant common and giants will never draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man with a wooden leg what a property he’d be!’
‘So he would!’ observed the landlord and Short both together. ‘That’s very true.’
‘Instead of which,’ pursued Mr Vuffin, ‘if you was to advertise Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs,’ it’s my belief you wouldn’t draw a sixpence.’
‘I don’t suppose you would,’ said Short. And the landlord said so too.
‘This shows, you see,’ said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an argumentative air, ‘this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There was one giant — a black ’un — as left his carawan some year ago and took to carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as crossing-sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation against anybody in particular,’ said Mr Vuffin, looking solemnly round, ‘but he was ruining the trade; — and he died.’
The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs, who nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.
‘I know you do, Jerry,’ said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning. ‘I know you remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served him right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had three-and-twenty wans — I remember the time when old Maunders had in his cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time, when the season was over, eight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-lows: and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant wasn’t quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any higher. I know that’s a fact, for Maunders told it me himself.’
‘What about the dwarfs when they get old?’ inquired the landlord.
‘The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,’ returned Mr Vuffin; ‘a grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant weak in the legs and not standing upright! — keep him in the carawan, but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be offered.’
While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to the company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep at a humble distance.
After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret, but had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She opened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas Codlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down stairs.
‘What is the matter?’ said the child.
‘Nothing’s the matter, my dear,’ returned her visitor. ‘I’m your friend. Perhaps you haven’t thought so, but it’s me that’s your friend — not him.’
‘Not who?’ the child inquired.
‘Short, my dear. I tell you what,’ said Codlin, ‘for all his having a kind of way with him that you’d be very apt to like, I’m the real, open-hearted man. I mayn’t look it, but I am indeed.’
The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken effect upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the consequence.
‘Short’s very well, and seems kind,’ resumed the misanthrope, ‘but he overdoes it. Now I don’t.’
Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin’s usual deportment, it was that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than overdid it. But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say.
‘Take my advice,’ said Codlin: ‘don’t ask me why, but take it. As long as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don’t offer to leave us — not on any account — but always stick to me and say that I’m your friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that it was me that was your friend?’
‘Say so where — and when?’ inquired the child innocently.
‘O, nowhere in particular,’ replied Codlin, a little put out as it seemed by the question; ‘I’m only anxious that you should think me so, and do me justice. You can’t think what an interest I have in you. Why didn’t you tell me your little history — that about you and the poor old gentleman? I’m the best adviser that ever was, and so interested in you — so much more interested than Short. I think they’re breaking up down stairs; you needn’t tell Short, you know, that we’ve had this little talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. Codlin’s the friend, not Short. Short’s very well as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin — not Short.’
Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe, leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still ruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers who were passing to their beds. When they had all passed, and the sound of their footsteps had died away, one of them returned, and after a little hesitation and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful what door to knock at, knocked at hers.
‘Yes,’ said the child from within.
‘It’s me — Short’— a voice called through the keyhole. ‘I only wanted to say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear, because unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages won’t be worth a penny. You’ll be sure to be stirring early and go with us? I’ll call you.’
The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his ‘good night’ heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these men, increased by the recollection of their whispering together down stairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed against her fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep. Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking softly at her door, entreated that she would get up directly, as the proprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time they might get a good deal in advance both of him and the conjuror, who was talking in his sleep, and from what he could be heard to say, appeared to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She started from her bed without delay, and roused the old man with so much expedition that they were both ready as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman’s unspeakable gratification and relief.
After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the staple commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of the landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys. The morning was fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late rain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and everything fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these influences, they walked on pleasantly enough.
They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the altered behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on sulkily by himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her, and when he had an opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion, warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did he confine himself to looks and gestures, for when she and her grandfather were walking on beside the aforesaid Short, and that little man was talking with his accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and distrust by following close at her heels, and occasionally admonishing her ankles with the legs of the theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner.
All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went through his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her and the old man, or with a s............