My Doggie and I by R. M. Ballantyne (series like harry potter TXT) đź“•
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Not a bad notion,” remarked the Slogger; “especially for a pretty little chap like you, Robin.”
“Right you are,” replied the other, “but you needn’t try on the dodge yourself, for it would never pay with a big ugly grampus like you, Villum.”
Having thus run into a pleasant little chat, the two waifs proceeded to compare notes, in the course of which comparison the Slogger gave an outline of his recent history. He had been engaged in several successful burglaries, but had been caught in the act of pocket-picking, for which offence he had spent some weeks in prison. While there a visitor had spoken to him very earnestly, and advised him to try an honest life, as being, to say the least of it, easier work than thieving. He had made the attempt. Through the influence of the same prison-visitor he had obtained a situation, from which he had been advanced to the responsible position which he then held.
“And, d’you know, Robin,” said the Slogger, “I find that honesty pays pretty well, and I means to stick to it.”
“An’ I suppose,” said Robin, “if it didn’t pay pretty well you’d cut it?”
“Of course I would,” returned the Slogger, with a look of surprise; “wot’s the use o’ stickin’ to a thing that don’t pay?”
“Vell, if them’s your principles you ain’t got much to ’old on by, my tulip,” said Robin.
“An’ wot principles may you ’old on by, my turnip?” asked the Slogger.
“It would puzzle me, rather, to tell that,” returned Robin, “’specially talkin’ down to the level of my own toes on the top of a ’bus; but I’ll tell you what, Villum, if you’ll come to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square, just back of Hoboy Crescent, w’ere my master lives, on Sunday next at seven in the evenin’, you’ll hear an’ see somethin’ as’ll open your eyes.”
“Ah! a meetin’-’ouse’?” said the Slogger, with a slight smile of contempt.
“Music-’alls and publics is meetin’-’ouses, ain’t they?”
“Ah, but they ain’t prayer-meetin’ ’ouses,” rejoined the Slogger.
“Not so sure o’ that Villum. There’s a deal o’ prayer in such places sometimes, an’ it’s well for the wisitors that their prayers ain’t always answered. But our meetin’-’ouse is for more than prayer—a deal more; and there’s my young missus—a real angel—comes in, and ’olds forth there every Sunday evening to young fellers like you an’ me. You just come an’ judge for yourself.”
“No thankee,” returned the Slogger.
As he spoke a lady with a lap-dog made powerful demonstrations with her umbrella. The ’bus stopped, and the conductor attended to his duties, while Robin, who really felt a strong desire to bring his old comrade under an influence which he knew was working a wonderful change in himself, sat meditating sadly on the obstinacy of human nature.
“I say, Robin,” said the Slogger, on resuming his perch, “d’you know I’ve found traces o’ that young gal as you took such a interest in, as runned away from the old ’ooman, an’ was robbed by Brassey an’ me?”
“You don’t mean that!” exclaimed Robin eagerly.
“Yes I do. She’s in London, I believe, but I can’t exactly say where. I heard of her through Sal—you know Sal, who ’angs out at the vest end o’ Potter’s Lane. I expect to see Sal in ’alf an hour, so if you’re comin’ back this way, I’ll be at the Black Bull by two o’clock, and tell you all I can pump out of ’er.”
“I’ll be there sharp,” said Robin promptly; “an now pull up, for I must take to my legs here.”
“But I say, Robin, if we do find that gal, you won’t split on me, eh? You won’t tell ’er who I am or where I is? You won’t wictimise your old friend?”
“D’you take me for a informer?” demanded Robin, with an offended look.
“Hall right,” cried the Slogger, giving the signal to drive on.
Robin sped quickly away, executed his mission, and returned to the Black Bull in a state of considerable excitement and strong hope.
Slidder was doomed to disappointment. He reached the Black Bull at two o’clock precisely.
“Vell, my fair one,” he said, addressing a waiting-maid who met him in the passage, “it’s good for sore eyes to see the likes o’ you in cloudy weather. D’you ’appen to know a young man of the name of Sl— I mean Villum Bowls?”
“Yes I do, Mr Imp’rence,” answered the girl.
“You couldn’t introdooce me to him, could you, Miss Sunshine?”
“No, I couldn’t, because he isn’t here, and won’t likely be back for two hours.”
This reply took all the humour out of Robin’s tone and manner. He resolved, however, to wait for half an hour, and went out to saunter in front of the hotel.
Half an hour passed, then another, then another, and the boy was fain to leave the spot in despair.
Poor Slidder’s temperament was sanguine. Slight encouragement raised his hopes very high. Failure depressed him proportionally and woefully low, but, to do him justice, he never sorrowed long. In the present instance, he left the Black Bull grinding his teeth. Then he took to clanking his heels as he walked along in a way that drew forth the comments of several street-boys, to whom, in a spirit of liberality, he returned considerably more than he received. Then he began to mutter between his teeth his private opinion as to faithless persons in general, and faithless Villum, alias the Slogger, in particular, whose character he painted to himself in extremely sombre colours. After that, a heavy thunder-shower having fallen and drenched him, he walked recklessly and violently through every puddle in his path. This seemed to relieve his spirit, for when he reached Hoboy Crescent he had recovered much of his wonted equanimity.
The Slogger was not however, so faithless as his old friend imagined. He had been at the Black Bull before two o’clock, but had been sent off by his employer with a note to a house at a considerable distance in such urgent haste that he had not time even to think of leaving a message for his friend.
In these circumstances, he resolved to clear his character by paying a visit on the following Sunday to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square.
It may not perhaps surprise the reader to learn that after Lilly Blythe’s return to town, I did not prosecute my studies with as much enthusiasm as before. In fact I divided my attentions pretty equally between Lilly and chemistry.
Now, I am not prone to become sentimentally talkative about my own affairs, but as courtship, and love, and that sort of thing are undoubted and important elements in the chemistry of human affairs, and as they influenced me and those around me to some extent, I cannot avoid making reference to them, but I promise the reader to do so only as far as appears necessary for the elucidation of my story.
First, then, although I knew that my prospects of success as a partner of Dr McTougall were most encouraging, I felt that it would be foolish to think of marriage until my position was well established and my income adequate. I therefore strove with all my might to check the flow of my thoughts towards Miss Blythe. As well might I have striven to restrain the flow of Niagara. True love cannot be stemmed! In my case, however, the proverb was utterly falsified, for my true love did “run smooth.” More than that, it ran fast—very fast indeed, so much so that I was carried, as it were, on the summit of a rushing flood-tide into the placid harbour of Engagement. The anchorage in that harbour is with many people uncertain. With Lilly and me it was not so. The ground-tackle was good; it had caught hold of a rock and held on.
It happened thus. After many weeks of struggling on my part to keep out of Miss Blythe’s way, and to prevent the state of my feelings from being observed by her—struggles which I afterwards found to my confusion had been quite obvious to her—I found myself standing alone, one Sunday afternoon, in the doctor’s drawing-room, meditating on the joys of childhood, as exemplified by thunderous blows on the floor above and piercing shouts of laughter. The children had been to church and were working off the steam accumulated there. Suddenly there was a dead silence, which I knew to be the result of a meal. The meal was, I may add, the union of a late dinner with an early tea. It was characteristic of Sundays in the McTougall nursery.
The thought of this union turned my mind into another channel. Just then Miss Blythe entered. She looked so radiant that I forgot myself, forgot my former struggles, my good resolutions—everything except herself—and proposed on the spot!
I was rejected—of course! More than that, I was stunned! Hope had told me many flattering tales. Indeed, I had felt so sure, from many little symptoms, that Lilly had a strong regard for me—to say the least—that I was overwhelmed, not only by my rejection, but by the thought of my foolish self-assurance.
“I don’t wonder that you look upon me as a presumptuous, vain, contemptible fellow,” said I, in the bitterness of my soul.
“But I do not regard you in that light,” said Lilly, with a faint smile, and then, hesitatingly, she looked down at the carpet.
“In what light do you regard me, Miss Blythe?” said I, recovering a little hope, and speaking vehemently.
“Really, Dr Mellon, you take me by surprise; your manner—so abrupt—so—”
“Oh! never mind manner, dear Miss Blythe,” said I, seizing her hand, and forcibly detaining it. “You are the soul of truth; tell me, is there any hope for me?—can you care for me?”
“Dr Mellon,” she said, drawing her hand firmly away, “I cannot, should not reply. You do not know all the—the circumstances of my life—my poverty, my solitary condition in the world—my—my—”
“Miss Blythe,” I exclaimed, in desperation, “if you were as poor as a—a—church rat, as solitary as—as—Adam before the advent of Eve, I would count it my chief joy, and—”
“Hallo! Mellon, hi! I say! where are you?” shouted the voice of the doctor at that moment from below stairs. “Here’s Dumps been in the laboratory, and capsized some of the chemicals!”
“Coming, sir!” I shouted; then tenderly, though hurriedly, to Miss Blythe, “You will let me resume this subject at—”
“Hallo! look sharp!” from below.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be down directly!—Dear Miss Blythe, if you only knew—”
“Why, the dog’s burning all over—help me!” roared the doctor.
Miss Blythe blushed and laughed. How could she help it? I hastily kissed her hand, and fled from the room.
That was the whole affair. There was not enough, strictly speaking, to form a ground of hope; but somehow I knew that it was all right. In the laboratory I found Dumps smoking, and the doctor pouring water from the tap on his dishevelled body. He was not hurt, and little damage was done; but as I sat in my room talking to him that evening, I could not help reproaching him with having been the means of breaking off one of the most important interviews of my life.
“However, Dumps,” I continued, “your good services far outweigh your wicked deeds, and whatever you may do in the future, I will never forget that you were the means of introducing me to that angel, Lilly Blythe.”
The angel in question went that Sunday evening at seven o’clock, as was her wont, to a Bible class which she had started for
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