Wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon theneighbourhood of Leicester Square, finds its inhabitants unwillingto get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at thebrightest of times, being birds of night who roost when the sun ishigh and are wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out.
Behind dingy blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, skulkingmore or less under false names, false hair, false titles, falsejewellery, and false histories, a colony of brigands lie in theirfirst sleep. Gentlemen of the green-baize road who could discoursefrom personal experience of foreign galleys and home treadmills;spies of strong governments that eternally quake with weakness andmiserable fear, broken traitors, cowards, bullies, gamesters,shufflers, swindlers, and false witnesses; some not unmarked by thebranding-iron beneath their dirty braid; all with more cruelty inthem than was in Nero, and more crime than is in Newgate. Forhowsoever bad the devil can be in fustian or smock-frock (and hecan be very bad in both), he is a more designing, callous, andintolerable devil when he sticks a pin in his shirt-front, callshimself a gentleman, backs a card or colour, plays a game or so ofbilliards, and knows a little about bills and promissory notes thanin any other form he wears. And in such form Mr. Bucket shall findhim, when he will, still pervading the tributary channels ofLeicester Square.
But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It wakesMr. George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise,roll up and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, having shavedhimself before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marchesout, bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yardand anon comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, driftingrain, and exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a largejack-towel, blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, hishair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the morehe rubs it so that it looks as if it never could be loosened by anyless coercive instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb--as herubs, and puffs, and polishes, and blows, turning his head fromside to side the more conveniently to excoriate his throat, andstanding with his body well bent forward to keep the wet from hismartial legs, Phil, on his knees lighting a fire, looks round as ifit were enough washing for him to see all that done, and sufficientrenovation for one day to take in the superfluous health his masterthrows off.
When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with twohard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that Phil,shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it,winks with sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part of Mr.
George's toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights it,and marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while Phil,raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, preparesbreakfast. He smokes gravely and marches in slow time. Perhapsthis morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in hisgrave.
"And so, Phil," says George of the shooting gallery after severalturns in silence, "you were dreaming of the country last night?"Phil, by the by, said as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambledout of bed.
"Yes, guv'ner.""What was it like?""I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner," said Phil, considering.
"How did you know it was the country?""On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it," saysPhil after further consideration.
"What were the swans doing on the grass?""They was a-eating of it, I expect," says Phil.
The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his preparationof breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation,being limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfastrequisites for two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at thefire in the rusty grate; but as Phil has to sidle round aconsiderable part of the gallery for every object he wants, andnever brings two objects at once, it takes time under thecircumstances. At length the breakfast is ready. Phil announcingit, Mr. George knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the hob, standshis pipe itself in the chimney corner, and sits down to the meal.
When he has helped himself, Phil follows suit, sitting at theextreme end of the little oblong table and taking his plate on hisknees. Either in humility, or to hide his blackened hands, orbecause it is his natural manner of eating.
"The country," says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork; "why, Isuppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Phil?""I see the marshes once," says Phil, contentedly eating hisbreakfast.
"What marshes?""THE marshes, commander," returns Phil.
"Where are they?""I don't know where they are," says Phil; "but I see 'em, guv'ner.
They was flat. And miste."Governor and commander are interchangeable terms with Phil,expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable tonobody but Mr. George.
"I was born in the country, Phil.""Was you indeed, commander?""Yes. And bred there."Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring athis master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee,still staring at him.
"There's not a bird's note that I don't know," says Mr. George.
"Not many an English leaf or berry that I couldn't name. Not manya tree that I couldn't climb yet if I was put to it. I was a realcountry boy, once. My good mother lived in the country.""She must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner," Phil observes.
"Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago," says Mr.
George. "But I'll wager that at ninety she would be near asupright as me, and near as broad across the shoulders.""Did she die at ninety, guv'ner?" inquires Phil.
"No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!" says thetrooper. "What set me on about country boys, and runaways, andgood-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped youreyes upon the country--marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?"Phil shakes his head.
"Do you want to see it?""N-no, I don't know as I do, particular," says Phil.
"The town's enough for you, eh?""Why, you see, commander," says Phil, "I ain't acquainted withanythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a-getting too old to take tonovelties.""How old ARE you, Phil?" asks the trooper, pausing as he conveyshis smoking saucer to his lips.
"I'm something with a eight in it," says Phil. "It can't beeighty. Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt 'em, somewheres."Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting itscontents, is laughingly beginning, "Why, what the deuce, Phil--"when he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his dirty fingers.
"I was just eight," says Phil, "agreeable to the parishcalculation, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand,and I see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all tohimself wery comfortable, and he says, 'Would you like to comealong a me, my man?' I says 'Yes,' and him and me and the firegoes home to Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I wasable to count up to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again,I says to myself, 'Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.'
April Fool Day after that, I says, 'Now, old chap, you're two and aeight in it.' In course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it;two tens and a eight in it. When it got so high, it got the upperhand of me, but this is how I always know there's a eight in it.""Ah!" says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. "And where's thetinker?""Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital put him--in a glass-case, I HAVE heerd," Phil replies mysteriously.
"By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Phil?""Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn'tmuch of a beat--round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell,Smiffeld, and there--poor neighbourhood, where they uses up thekettles till they're past mending. Most of the tramping tinkersused to come and lodge at our place; that was the best part of mymaster's earnings. But they didn't come to me. I warn't like him.
He could sing 'em a good song. I couldn't! He could play 'em atune on any sort of pot you please, so as it was iron or block tin.
I never could do nothing with a pot but mend it or bile it--neverhad a note of music in me. Besides, I was too ill-looking, andtheir wives complained of me.""They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd,Phil!" says the trooper with a pleasant smile.
"No, guv'ner," returns Phil, shaking his head. "No, I shouldn't.
I was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothingto boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth whenI was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off,and swallering the smoke, and what with being nat'rally unfort'natein the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sichmeans, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I gotolder, almost whenever he was too far gone in drink--which wasalmost always--my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time.
As to since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the menwas given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident ata gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-fillingat the firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on!"Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfiedmanner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. Whiledrinking it, he says, "It was after the case-filling blow-up when Ifirst see you, commander. You remember?""I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.""Crawling, guv'ner, again a wall--""True, Phil--shouldering your way on--""In a night-cap!" exclaims Phil, excited.
"In a night-cap--""And hobbling with a couple of sticks!" cries Phil, still moreexcited.
"With a couple of sticks. When--""When you stops, you know," cries Phil, putting down his cup andsaucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, "and says tome, 'What, comrade! You have been in the wars!' I didn't say muchto you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a personso strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak tosuch a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, saysyou, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so thatit was like a glass of something hot, 'What accident have you metwith? You have been badly hurt. What's amiss, old boy? Cheer up,and tell us about it!' Cheer up! I was cheered already! I saysas much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you saysmore to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!" criesPhil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun tosidle away. "If a mark's wanted, or if it will improve thebusiness, let the customers take aim at me. They can't spoil MYbeauty. I'M all right. Come on! If they want a man to box at,let 'em box at me. Let 'em knock me well about the head. I don'tmind. If they want a light-weight to be throwed for practice,Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let 'em throw me. They won'thurt ME. I have been throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life!"With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered andaccompanied by action illustrative of the various exercisesreferred to, Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of thegallery, and abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt athim with his head, intended to express devotion to his service. Hethen begins to clear away the breakfast.
Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on theshoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get thegallery into business order. That done, he takes a turn at thedumb-bells, and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he isgetting "too fleshy," engages with great gravity in solitarybroadsword practice. Meanwhile Phil has fallen to work at hisusual table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files,and whistles into small apertures, and blackens himself more andmore, and seems to do and undo everything that can be done andundone about a gun.
Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the passage,where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of unusualcompany. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery,bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with anyday in the year but the fifth of November.
It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by twobearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinchedmask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popularverses commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow OldEngland up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantlyclosed as the chair is put down. At which point the figure in itgasping, "O Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!" adds, "How de do, mydear friend, how de do?" Mr. George then descries, in theprocession, the venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, attendedby his granddaughter Judy as body-guard.
"Mr. George, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, removinghis right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he hasnearly throttled coming along, "how de do? You're surprised to seeme, my dear friend.""I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friendin the city," returns Mr. George.
"I am very seldom out," pants Mr. Smallweed. "I haven't been outfor many months. It's inconvenient--and it comes expensive. But Ilonged so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?""I am well enough," says Mr. George. "I hope you are the same.""You can't be too well, my dear friend." Mr. Smallweed takes himby both hands. "I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn'tkeep her away. She longed so much to see you.""Hum! She hears it calmly!" mutters Mr. George.
"So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round thecorner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, andcarried me here that I might see my dear friend in his ownestablishment! This," says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to thebearer, who has been in danger of strangulation and who withdrawsadjusting his windpipe, &............