The Floating Light of the Goodwin Sands by R. M. Ballantyne (most life changing books .TXT) 📕

Babel ceased; the nine pair of eyes (excepting those of the infant) became fixed, and Nora proceeded—

“I wanted to hear how you got on with Billy. Did they take him in at once? and what sort of place is the Grotto? You see I am naturally anxious to know, because it was a terrible thing to send a poor boy away from his only friend among strangers at such an age, and just after recovering from a bad illness; but you know I could not do otherwise. It would have been his ruin to have—”

She paused.

“To have stopped where he was, I s’pose you would say?” observed Dick. “Well, I ain’t sure o’ that, Nora. It’s quite true that the bad company he’d ’ave seen would ’ave bin against ’im; but to ’ave you for his guardian hangel might ’ave counteracted that. It would ’ave bin like the soda to the hacid, a fizz at first and all square arterwards. Hows’ever, that don’t signify now, cos he’s all right. I tuk him to the Grotto, the werry first thing arter I’d bin to the Trinity ’Ouse, and seed him cast anchor there all right, and—”

Again Babel burst forth, and riot reigned supreme for five minutes more. At the end of that time silence was proclaimed as before.

“Now then,” said Dick, “breakfast bein’ ready, place the chairs.”

The three elder children obeyed this order. Each member of this peculiar household had been “told off,” as Dick expressed it, to a special duty, which was performed with all the precision of discipline characteristic of a man-of-war.

“That’s all right; now go in and win,” said Dick. There was no occasion to appeal to the Yankee clock now. Tongues and throats as well as teeth and jaws were too fully occupied. Babel succumbed for full quarter of an hour, during which period Dick Moy related to Nora the circumstances connected with a recent visit to London, whither he had been summoned as a witness in a criminal trial, and to which, at Nora’s earnest entreaty, and with the boy’s unwilling consent, he had conveyed Billy Towler. We say unwilling, because Billy, during his long period of convalescence, had been so won by the kindness of Nora, that the last thing in the world he would have consented to bear was separation from her; but, on thinking over it, he was met by this insurmountable difficulty—that the last thing in the world he would consent to do was to disobey her! Between these two influences he went unwillingly to London—for the sake of his education, as Nora said to him—for the sake of being freed from the evil influence of her father’s example, as poor Nora was compelled to admit to herself.

“The Grotto,” said Dick, speaking as well as he could through an immense mouthful of bacon and bread, “is an institootion which I ’ave reason for to believe desarves well of its country. It is an institootion sitooate in Paddington Street, Marylebone, where homeless child’n, as would otherwise come to the gallows, is took in an’ saved—saved not only from sin an’ misery themselves, but saved from inflictin’ the same on society. I do assure you,” said Dick, striking the table with his fist in his enthusiasm, so that the crockery jumped, and some of the children almost choked by reason of their food going down what they styled their “wrong throats”—“I do assure you, that it would ’ave done yer ’art good to ’ave seed ’m, as I did the day I went there, so clean and comf’r’able and ’appy—no mistake about that. Their ’appiness was genooine. Wot made it come ’ome to me was, that I seed there a little boy as I ’appened to know was one o’ the dirtiest, wickedest, sharpest little willains in London—a mere spider to look at, but with mischief enough to fill a six-fut man to bu’stin’—an’ there ’ee was, clean an’ jolly, larnin’ his lessons like a good un—an’ no sham neither, cos ’e’d got a good spice o’ the mischief left, as was pretty clear from the way ’ee gave a sly pinch or pull o’ the hair now an’ again to the boys next him, an’ drawed monkey-faces on his slate. But that spider, I wos told, could do figurin’ like one o’clock, an’ could spell like Johnson’s Dictionairy.

“Well,” continued Dick, after a few moments’ devotion to a bowl of coffee, “I ’anded Billy Towler over to the superintendent, tellin’ ’im ’ee wos a ’omeless boy as ’adn’t got no parients nor relations, an wos werry much in need o’ bein’ looked arter. So ’ee took ’im in, an’ I bade him good-bye.”

Dick Moy then went on to tell how that the superintendent of the Grotto showed him all over the place, and told him numerous anecdotes regarding the boys who had been trained there; that one had gone into the army and become a sergeant, and had written many long interesting letters to the institution, which he still loved as being his early and only “home;” that another had become an artilleryman; another a man-of-war’s man; and another a city missionary, who commended the blessed gospel of Jesus Christ to those very outcasts from among whom he had himself been plucked. The superintendent also explained to his rugged but much interested and intelligent visitor that they had a flourishing Ragged School in connection with the institution; also a Sunday-school and a “Band of Hope”—which latter had been thought particularly necessary, because they found that many of the neglected young creatures that came to them had already been tempted and taught by their parents and by publicans to drink, so that the foundation of that dreadful craving disease had been laid, and those desires had begun to grow which, if not checked, would certainly end in swift and awful destruction. One blessed result of this was that the children had not only themselves joined, but had in some instances induced their drunken parents to attend the weekly addresses.

All this, and a great deal more, was related by Dick Moy with the wonted enthusiasm and energy of his big nature, and with much gesticulation of his tremendous fist—to the evident anxiety of Nora, who, like an economical housewife as she was, had a feeling of tenderness for the crockery, even although it was not her own. Dick wound up by saying that if he was a rich man, “’ee’d give some of ’is superfloous cash to that there Grotto, he would.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t,” said Nora. “I’ve heard one rich man say that the applications made to him for money were so numerous that he was quite annoyed, and felt as if he was goin’ to become bankrupt!”

“Nora,” said Dick, smiting the table emphatically, “I’m not a rich man myself, an’ wot’s more, I never ’xpect to be, so I can’t be said to ’ave no personal notions at all, d’ye see, about wot they feels; but I’ve also heerd a rich man give ’is opinion on that pint, and I’ve no manner of doubt that my rich man is as good as your’n—better for the matter of that; anyway he knowed wot was wot. Well, says ’ee to me, w’en I went an’ begged parding for axin’ ’im for a subscription to this ’ere werry Grotto—which, by the way, is supported by woluntary contribootions—’ee says, ‘Dick Moy,’ says ’ee, ‘you’ve no occasion for to ax my parding,’ says ’ee. ‘’Ere’s ’ow it is. I’ve got so much cash to spare out of my hincome. Werry good; I goes an’ writes down a list of all the charities. First of all comes the church—which ain’t a charity, by the way, but a debt owin’ to the Lord—an’ the missionary societies, an the Lifeboat Institootion, an’ the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society, and such like, which are the great National institootions of the country that every Christian ought to give a helpin’ ’and to. Then there’s the poor among one’s own relations and friends; then the hospitals an’ various charities o’ the city or town in which one dwells, and the poor of the same. Well, arter that’s all down,’ says ’ee, ‘I consider w’ich o’ them ere desarves an’ needs most support from me; an’ so I claps down somethin’ to each, an’ adds it all up, an’ wot is left over I holds ready for chance applicants. If their causes are good I give to ’em heartily; if not, I bow ’em politely out o’ the ’ouse. That’s w’ere it is,’ says ’ee. ‘An’ do you know, Dick Moy,’ says ’ee, ‘the first time I tried that plan, and put down wot I thought a fair liberal sum to each, I wos amazed—I wos stunned for to find that the total wos so small and left so werry much of my spare cash yet to be disposed of, so I went over it all again, and had to double and treble the amount to be given to each. Ah, Dick,’ says my rich man, ‘if people who don’t keep cashbooks would only mark down wot they think they can afford to give away in a year, an’ wot they do give away, they would be surprised. It’s not always unwillingness to give that’s the evil. Often it’s ignorance o’ what is actooally given—no account bein’ kep’.’

“‘Wot d’ye think, Dick,’ my rich man goes on to say, ‘there are some churches in this country which are dependent on the people for support, an’ the contents o’ the plates at the doors o’ these churches on Sundays is used partly for cleanin’ and lightin’ of ’em; partly for payin’ their precentors, and partly for repairs to the buildins, and partly for helpin’ out the small incomes of their ministers; an’ wot d’ye think most o’ the people—not many but most of ’em—gives a week, Dick, for such important purposes?’

“‘I don’ know, sir,’ says I.

“‘One penny, Dick,’ says ’ee, ‘which comes exactly to four shillins and fourpence a year,’ says ’ee. ‘An’ they ain’t paupers; Dick! If they wos paupers, it wouldn’t be a big sum for ’em to give out o’ any pocket-money they might chance to git from their pauper friends, but they’re well-dressed people, Dick, and they seems to be well off! Four an’ fourpence a year! think o’ that—not to mention the deduction w’en they goes for a month or two to the country each summer. Four an’ fourpence a year, Dick! Some of ’em even goes so low as a halfpenny, which makes two an’ twopence a year—7 pounds, 11 shillings, 8 pence in a seventy-year lifetime, Dick, supposin’ their liberality began to flow the day they wos born!’

“At this my rich man fell to laughing till I thought ’ee’d a busted hisself; but he pulled up sudden, an’ axed me all about the Grotto, and said it was a first-rate institootion, an’ gave me a ten-pun’ note on the spot. Now, Nora, my rich man is a friend o’ yours—Mr Durant, of Yarmouth, who came to Ramsgate a short time ago for to spend the autumn, an’ I got introdooced to him through knowin’ Jim Welton, who got aboord of one of his ships through knowin’ young Mr Stanley Hall, d’ye see? That’s where it is.”

After this somewhat lengthened speech, Dick Moy swallowed a slop-bowlful of coffee at a draught—he always used a slop-bowl—and applied himself with renewed zest to a Norfolk dumpling, in the making of which delicacy his wife had no equal.

“I believe that Mr Durant is a kind good man,” said Nora, feeding the infant with a crust dipped in milk, “and I am quite sure that he has got the sweetest daughter that ever a man was blessed with—Miss Katie; you know her, I suppose?”

“’Aven’t seed ’er yet,” was Dick’s curt reply.

“She’s a dear creature,” continued Nora—still doing her best to choke the infant—“she found out where I lived while she was in search of