Stephen Archer and Other Tales, George MacDonald [free ebook reader txt] 📗

a thief-aw wur!

Bill . Never you mind, daddy. It wur guv to me.

James . That's what they allus says, sir.-You come along.-I'd be obliged to you, sir, if you would come too, and say you saw him.

Tho. Nay! aw connot say aw seigh him steyle it.

James . You saw it in his hand.

Tho. Yigh! aw did.

Bill . It wis guv to me, I tell ye.

James . Honest boy, this one! Looks like it, don't he, sir? What do you think of yourself, you young devil, a decoying of a grey-haired old gen'leman like this? Why, sir, him an' his pals 'ud ha' taken every penny you had about you! Murdered you, they might-I've knowed as much. It's a good thing I 'appened on the spot.-Come along, you bad boy!

Bill . I didn't, take it. And I won't go.

James . Come along. They'll change it for you at the lock-up.

Bill . You didn't see me steal it! You ain't never a goin' to gi' me in charge?

James . Wrong again, young un! That's? percisely what I am a goin' to do!

Bill . Oh, sir! please, sir! I'm a honest boy. It's the Bible-truth. I'll kiss twenty books on it.

James . I won't ax you.-Why, sir, he ain't even one o' the shoe-brigade. He 'ain't got a red coat. Bless my soul! he 'ain't even got a box-nothin' but a scrubby pair o' brushes as I'm alive! He ain't no shoeblack. He's a thief as purtends to black shoes, and picks pockets.

Bill . You're a liar! I never picked a pocket, in my life.

James . Bad language, you see! What more would you have?

Tho. Who'd iver lia' thowt o' sich wickedness in a boy like that!

Bill . I ain't a wicked boy, no. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae made gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd been a mak ov a deevil-yo did.

James . He's one of the worst boys I know. This Timothy is one of the very worst boys in all London.

Bill (aside ). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rainbow, by Peter and Paul!-Look y'e here, old gen'leman! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin' adwantage o' your woolliness. I knows him. His master guv me the suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where your Mattie was.

James . Don't you fancy you're g' in' to take in an experienced old gen'leman like that with your cock-and-bull stories! Come along, I say. Hey! Police!

Bill . Here you are! (Takes the coin from his mouth, rubs it dry on his jacket, and offers it. ) I don't want it. Give it to old Hunx there.-He shan't never see his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter all.

James (taking the coin ). Now look here, Timothy. I'm a detective hofficer. But I won't never be hard on no buy as wants to make a honest livin'. So you be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants to go to.

BILL moves two paces, and takes a sight at him .

Tho. The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr Mattie then?

James . It's the dooty of a detective hofficer to know every girl in his beat.

Bill . My eye! there's a oner!

Tho. Tak mo to her, sir, an' aw'll pray for yo.

James . I will.-If I cotch you nearer than Mile End, I'll give you in charge at oncet.

Bill (bolting five yards ). He's a humbug, daddy! but he'll serve you right. He'll melt you down for taller. He ain't no 'tective. I know him.

Tho. Goo away.

Bill . Good-bye, daddy! He don't know your Mattie. Good-bye, skelington! Exit .

Tho. Eh! sech a boy!

James . Let me see. You want a girl of the name of Mattie?

Tho. Aw do, sir.

James . The name is not an oncommon one. There's Mattie Kent?

Tho. Nay; it's noan o' her.

James . Then there's Mattie Winchfield?

Tho. Nay; it's noan o' her.

James . Then there's Mattie Pearson?

Tho. Yigh, that's hoo! That's hoo! Wheer? Wheer?

James . Well, it's too far for a man of your age to walk. But I'll call a cab, and we'll go comfortable.

Tho. But aw connot affoord to peigh for a cab-as yo co it.

James . You don't suppose I'm a goin' to put an honest man like you to expense!

Tho. It's but raysonable I should peigh. But thae knows best.

James . Hey! Cab there! Exeunt .

Re-enter BILL, following them .

Bill . I'll have an eye of him, though. The swell as give me the yellow-boy-he's his master! Poor old codger! He'll believe any cove but the one as tells him the truth!

Exit .

Enter from the house MRS. CLIFFORD. Enter from opposite side
COL. G.

Col. G. I was just coming to see you, Clara.

Mrs. C. And I was going to see you. How's Arthur to-day? I thought you would have come yesterday.

Col. G. My poor boy is as dependent on me as if I were not his father. I am very anxious about him. The fever keeps returning.

Mrs. C. Fortune seems to have favoured your mad scheme, Walter.

Col. G. Or something better than fortune.

Mrs. C. You have had rare and ample opportunity. You may end the farce when you please, and in triumph.

Col. G. On the contrary, Clara, it would be nothing but an anticlimax to end what you are pleased to call the farce now. As if I could make a merit of nursing my own boy! I did more for my black servant. I wish I had him here.

Mrs. C. You would like to double the watch-would you?

Col. G. Something has vexed you, Clara.

Mrs. C. I never liked the scheme, and I like it less every day.

Col. G. I have had no chance yet. He has been ill all the time. I wish you would come and see him a little oftener.

Mrs. C. He doesn't want me. You are everything now. Besides, I can't come alone.

Col G. Why not?

Mrs. C. Constance would fancy I did not want to take her.

Col. G. Then why not take her?

Mrs. C. I have my reasons.

Col. G. What are they?

Mrs. C. Never mind.

Col. G. I insist upon knowing them.

Mrs. C. It would break my heart, Walter, to quarrel with you, but I
will if you use such an expression.

Col. G. But why shouldn't you bring Miss Lacordere with you?

Mrs. C. He's but a boy, and it might put some nonsense in his head.

Col. G. She's a fine girl. You make a friend of her.

Mrs. C. She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl; but I don't want to meddle with the bulwarks of society. I hope to goodness they will last
my time.

Col. G. Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride be a Christian virtue.

Mrs. C. I see! You'll be a radical before long. Every thing is going that way.

Col. G. I don't care what I am, so I do what's right. I'm sick of all that kind of thing. What I want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as yet, but I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice lay on that side.-If a man falls in love with a woman, why shouldn't he marry her?

Mrs. C. She may be unfit for him.

Col. G. How should he fall in love with her, then? Men don't fall in love with birds.

Mrs. C. It's a risk-a great risk.

Col. G. None the greater that he pleases himself, and all the more worth taking. I wish my poor boy-

Mrs. C. Your poor boy might please himself and yet not succeed in pleasing you, brother!

Col. G. (aside ). She knows something.-I must go and see about his dinner. Good-bye, sister.

Mrs. C. Good-bye, then. You will have your own way!

Col. G. This once, Clara. Exeunt severally .

END OF ACT II.


ACT III.

SCENE.- A garret-room . MATTIE. SUSAN.


Mat . At the worst we've got to die some day, Sue, and I don't know but hunger may be as easy a way as another.

Sus . I'd rather have a choice, though. And it's not hunger I would choose.

Mat . There are worse ways.

Sus . Never mind: we don't seem likely to be bothered wi' choosin'.

Mat . There's that button-hole done. ( Lays down her work with a sigh, and leans bade in her chair .)

Sus . I'll take it to old Nathan. It'll be a chop a-piece. It's wonderful what a chop can do to hearten you up.

Mat . I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear. We must be content with bread, I think.

Sus . Bread, indeed!

Mat . Well, it's something to eat.

Sus . Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog polishin' a bone?

Mat . Bread's very good with a cup of tea.

Sus . Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-blue!-If you'd mentioned lobster-salad and sherry, now!

Mat . I never tasted lobster-salad.

Sus . I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad good. You don't care about your wittles: I do. When I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable.

Mat . Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cupboard.

Sus . I can't eat crusts. I want summat nice. I ain't dyin' of 'unger. It's only I'm peckish. Very peckish, though. I could eat-let me see what I could eat:-I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of a chicken-if it was a spring chicken, with watercreases round it-and a Bath-bun, and a sandwich; and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except just that crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I could drink a whole bottle of champagne.