Another Little “Spark.”  
Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costs little and expresses much.
 
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity—having begun no doubt with Adam—or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly by the little birds that “warble in the flowering thorn.”
 
The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to draw the reader’s attention at present, is that which was exemplified one November night (the same November night of which mention has been made in the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress through the streets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow of St. Paul’s by the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cook’s window.
 
Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into his empty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyes full on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishing owl. Being poor—so poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of the realm—he stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout of limb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food with inexpressible energy.
 
The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crow—a sable melody high in public favour at that time—the familiar strains of which he delivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as he continued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and ’busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral, and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from the crevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing upwards on the dome, and played around the golden cross that glimmered like a ghost in the dark wintry sky.
 
The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat that night chanced to be St. Paul’s Churchyard. That sedate guardian of the night, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the thoroughfare, sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in the chorus where Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about, spun him round and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his knuckles, at the same time advising him to move on.
 
“Oh!” exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deep concern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, “I hope I didn’t hurt you, bobby; I really didn’t mean to; but accidents will happen, you know, an’ if you won’t keep your knuckles out of a feller’s way, why—”
 
“Come,” muttered the policeman, “shut up your potato-trap for fear you catch cold. Your mother wants you; she’s got some pap ready for you.”
 
“Ha!” exclaimed the small boy, with his head a little on one side, as though he were critically inspecting the portrait of some curious animal, “a prophet it is—a blue-coated prophet in brass buttons, all but choked with a leather stock—if not conceit. A horacle, six fut two in its stockin’s. I say, bobby, whoever brought you up carried you up much too high, both in body and notions. Wot wouldn’t they give for ’im in the Guards, or the hoss-marines, if he was only eight inches wider across the shoulders!”
 
Seeing that the policeman passed slowly and gravely on without condescending to take further notice of him, the small boy bade him an affectionate farewell; said that he would not forget to mention him favourably at head-quarters, and then continued his progress through the crowded streets at a smart pace, whistling Jim Crow at the top of his shrill pipe.
 
The small boy had a long walk before him; but neither his limbs, spirits, nor lips grew weary by the way. Indeed, his energies seemed to increase with every step, if one might judge from the easy swagger of his gait, and the various little touches of pleasantry in which he indulged from time to time; such as pulling the caps over the eyes of boys smaller than himself, winking at those who were bigger, uttering Indian war-whoops down alleys and lanes that looked as if they could echo, and chaffing all who appeared to be worthy of his attentions. Those eccentricities of humour, however, did not divert his active mind from the frequent and earnest study of the industrial arts, as these were exhibited and exemplified in shop-windows.
 
“Jolly stuff that, ain’t it?” observed another small boy, in a coat much too long for him, as they met and stopped in front of a chocolate-shop at the top of Holborn Hill, where a steam-engine was perpetually grinding up such quantities of rich brown chocolate, that it seemed quite unreasonable, selfish, and dog-in-the-manger-ish of the young man behind the counter to stand there, and neither eat it himself, nor let anyone else touch it.
 
“Yes, it’s very jolly stuff,” replied the first small boy, regarding his questioner sternly. “I know you’d like some, wouldn’t you? Go in now an’ buy two pen’orth, and I’ll buy the half from you w’en you come out.”
 
“Walker!” replied the boy in the long coat.
 
“Just so; and I’d advise you to become a walker too,” retorted the other; “run away now, your master’s bin askin’ after you for half an hour, I know, and more.”
 
Without waiting for a reply, the small boy (our small boy) swaggered away whistling louder than ever.
 
Passing along Holborn, he continued his way into Oxford Street, where the print-shop windows proved irresistibly attractive. They seemed also to have the effect of stimulating his intellectual and conceptive faculties, insomuch that he struck out several new, and, to himself, highly entertaining pieces of pleasantry, one of which consisted of asking a taciturn cabman, in the meekest of voices:
 
“Please, sir, you couldn’t tell me wot’s o’clock, could you?”
 
The cabman observed a twinkle in the boy’s eye; saw through him; in a metaphorical sense, and treated him with silent contempt.
 
“Oh, I beg pardon, sir,” continued the small boy, in the same meek tone, as he turned to move humbly away; “I forgot to remember that cabbies don’t carry no watches, no, nor change neither, they’re much too wide awake for that!”
 
A sudden motion of the taciturn cabman caused the small boy to dart suddenly to the other side of the crowded street, where he resumed his easy independent air, and his interrupted tune.
 
“Can you direct me to Nottin’ Hill Gate, missus?” he inquired of an applewoman, on reaching the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road.
 
“Straight on as you go, boy,” answered the woman, who was busying herself about her stall.
 
“Very good indeed,” said the small boy, with a patronising air; “quite correctly answered. You’ve learnt geography, I see.”
 
“What say?” inquired the woman, who was apparently a little deaf.
 
“I was askin’ the price o’ your oranges, missus.”
 
“One penny apiece,” said the woman, taking up one.
 
“They ain’t biled to make ’em puff out, are they?”
 
To this the woman vouchsafed no reply.
 
“Come, missus, don’t be cross; wot’s the price o’ yer apples now?”
 
“D’you want one?” asked the woman testily.
 
“Of course I does.”
 
“Well, then, they’re two a penny.”
 
“Two a penny!” cried the small boy, with a look of surprise; “why, I’d ’a said they was a penny apiece. Good evenin’, missus; I never buys cheap fruit—cheap and nasty—no, no; good evenin’.”
 
It seemed as if the current of the small boy’s thoughts had been diverted by this conversation, for he walked for some time with his eyes cast on the ground, and without whistling, but whatever the feelings were that might have been working in his mind, they were speedily put to flight by a facetious butcher, who pulled his hat over his eyes as he passed him.
 
“Now then, pig-sticker, what d’ye mean by that?” he shouted, but as the butcher walked on without deigning to reply, he let off his indignation by yelling in at the open door of a tobacco-shop and making off at a brisk run.
 
From this point in his progress, he became still more hilarious and daring in his freaks, and turned aside once or twice into narrow streets, where sounds of shouting or of music promised him fresh excitement.
 
On turning the corner of one of those streets, he passed a wide doorway, by the side of which was a knob with the word FIRE in conspicuous letters above it, and the word BELL below it. The small boy paused, caught his breath as if a sudden thought had struck him, and glanced round. The street was comparatively quiet; his heart beat high; he seized the bell with both hands, pulled it full out, and bolted!
 
Now it chanced that one of the firemen of the station happened to be standing close to the door, inside, at the time. He, guessing the meaning of the ring at once, darted out and gave chase.
 
The small boy fled on the wings of terror, with his blue eyes starting from their sockets. The fireman was tall and heavy, but he was also strong and in his prime, so that a short run brought him up with the fugitive, whom he seized with a grip of iron.
 
“Now, then, young bottle-imp, what did you mean by that?”
 
“Oh! please, sir,” gasped the small boy, with a beseeching look, “I couldn’t help it.”
 
There was such a tone of truthfulness in this “couldn’t” that it tickled the fireman. His mouth relaxed in a quiet smile, and, releasing his intended victim, he returned to the station, while the small boy darted away in the direction of Oxford Street.
 
He had scarcely reached the end of the street, however, when a man turned the corner at full speed and ran him down—ran him down so completely that he sent him head-over-heels into the kennel, and, passing on, darted at the fire-bell of the station, which he began to pull violently.
 
The man was tall and dishevelled, partially clad in blue velvet, with stockings which had once been white, but were now covered from garter to toe with mud. One shoe clung to his left foot, the other was fixed by the heel in a grating over a cellar-window in Tottenham Court Road. Without hat or coat, with his shirt-sleeves torn by those unfortunates into whose arms he had wildly rushed, with his hair streaming backwards, his eyes blood-shot, his face pale as marble, and perspiration running down his cheeks, not even his own most intimate friends would have recognised Hopkins—the staid, softspoken, polite, and gentle Hopkins—had they seen him that night pulling like a maniac at the fire-bell.
 
And, without doubt, Hopkins was a maniac that night—at least he was afflicted with temporary insanity!