Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

“Did they put you to bed and give you hot gruel?” she asked, with touching pathos.

“No, miss, they didn’t think I was hurt quite enough to require it,” answered Giles, his drooping moustache curling slightly as he spoke.

“I had hoped to see you at my house,” said Sir Richard, “you did not call.”

“Thank you, sir, I did not think the little service I rendered your daughter worth making so much of. I called, however, the same evening, to inquire for her, but did not wish to intrude on you.”

“It would have been no intrusion, friend,” returned Sir Richard, with grand condescension. “One who has saved my child’s life has a claim upon my consideration.”

“A dook ’e must be,” said a small street boy in a loud stage whisper to a dray-man—for small street-boys are sown broadcast in London, and turn up at all places on every occasion, “or p’raps,” he added on reflection, “’e’s on’y a markiss.”

“Now then,” said Giles to the dray-man with a motion of the hand that caused him to move on, while he cast a look on the boy which induced him to move off.

“By the way, constable,” said Sir Richard, “I am on my way to visit a poor boy whose leg was broken on the day my pony ran away. He was holding the pony at the time. He lives in Whitechapel somewhere. I have the address here in my note-book.”

“Excuse me, sir, one moment,” said Number 666, going towards a crowd which had gathered round a fallen horse. “I happen to be going to that district myself,” he continued on returning, “what is the boy’s name?”

“Robert—perhaps I should rather say Bobby Frog,” answered Sir Richard.

“The name is familiar,” returned the policeman, “but in London there are so many—what’s his address, sir,—Roy’s Court, near Commercial Street? Oh! I know it well—one of the worst parts of London. I know the boy too. He is somewhat noted in that neighbourhood for giving the police trouble. Not a bad-hearted fellow, I believe, but full of mischief, and has been brought up among thieves from his birth. His father is, or was, a bird-fancier and seller of penny articles on the streets, besides being a professional pugilist. You will be the better for protection there, sir. I would advise you not to go alone. If you can wait for five or ten minutes,” added Giles, “I shall be off duty and will be happy to accompany you.”

Sir Richard agreed to wait. Within the time mentioned Giles was relieved, and, entering a cab with his friends, drove towards Whitechapel. They had to pass near our policeman’s lodgings on the way.

“Would you object, sir, stopping at my house for five minutes?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” returned the knight, “I am in no hurry.”

Number 666 stopped the cab, leaped out and disappeared through a narrow passage. In less than five minutes a very tall gentlemanly man issued from the same passage and approached them. Little Di opened her blue eyes to their very uttermost. It was her policeman in plain clothes!

She did not like the change at all at first, but before the end of the drive got used to him in his new aspect—all the more readily that he seemed to have cast off much of his stiffness and reserve with his blue skin.

Near the metropolitan railway station in Whitechapel the cab was dismissed, and Giles led the father and child along the crowded thoroughfare until they reached Commercial Street, along which they proceeded a short distance.

“We are now near some of the worst parts of London, sir,” said Giles, “where great numbers of the criminal and most abandoned characters dwell.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Richard, who did not seem to be much gratified by the information.

As for Di, she was nearly crying. The news that her boy was a thief and was born in the midst of such naughty people had fallen with chilling influence on her heart, for she had never thought of anything but the story-book “poor but honest parents!”

“What large building is that?” inquired the knight, who began to wish that he had not given way to his daughter’s importunities, “the one opposite, I mean, with placards under the windows.”

“That is the well-known Home of Industry, instituted and managed by Miss Macpherson and a staff of volunteer workers. They do a deal of good, sir, in this neighbourhood.”

“Ah! indeed,” said Sir Richard, who had never before heard of the Home of Industry. “And, pray, what particular industry does this Miss Mac— what did you call her?”

“Macpherson. The lady, you know, who sends out so many rescued waifs and strays to Canada, and spends all her time in caring for the poorest of the poor in the East-End and in preaching the gospel to them. You’ve often seen accounts of her work, no doubt, in the Christian?”

“Well—n–no. I read the Times, but, now you mention it, I have some faint remembrance of seeing reference to such matters. Very self-denying, no doubt, and praiseworthy, though I must say that I doubt the use of preaching the gospel to such persons. From what I have seen of these lowest people I should think they were too deeply sunk in depravity to be capable of appreciating the lofty and sublime sentiments of Christianity.”

Number 666 felt a touch of surprise at these words, though he was too well-bred a policeman to express his feelings by word or look. In fact, although not pre-eminently noted for piety, he had been led by training, and afterwards by personal experience, to view this matter from a very different standpoint from that of Sir Richard. He made no reply, however, but, turning round the corner of the Home of Industry, entered a narrow street which bore palpable evidence of being the abode of deepest poverty. From the faces and garments of the inhabitants it was also evidently associated with the deepest depravity.

As little Di saw some of the residents sitting on their doorsteps with scratched faces, swelled lips and cheeks, and dishevelled hair, and beheld the children in half-naked condition rolling in the kennel and extremely filthy, she clung closer to her father’s side and began to suspect there were some phases of life she had never seen—had not even dreamt of!

What the knight’s thoughts were we cannot tell, for he said nothing, but disgust was more prominent than pity on his fine countenance. Those who sat on the doorsteps, or lolled with a dissipated air against the door-posts, seemed to appreciate him at his proper value, for they scowled at him as he passed. They recognised Number 666, however, (perhaps by his bearing), and gave him only a passing glance of indifference.

“You said it would be dangerous for me to come here by myself,” said Sir Richard, turning to Giles, as he entered another and even worse street. “Are they then so violent?”

“Many of them are among the worst criminals in London, sir. Here is the court of which you are in search: Roy’s Court.”

As he spoke, Ned Frog staggered out of his own doorway, clenched his fists, and looked with a vindictive scowl at the strangers. A second glance induced him to unclench his fists and reel round the corner on his way to a neighbouring grog-shop. Whatever other shops may decay in that region, the grog-shops, like noxious weeds, always flourish.

The court was apparently much deserted at that hour, for the men had not yet returned from their work—whatever that might be—and most of the women were within doors.

“This is the house,” continued Giles, descending the few steps, and tapping at the door; “I have been here before. They know me.”

The door was opened by Hetty, and for the first time since entering those regions of poverty and crime, little Di felt a slight rise in her spirits, for through Hetty’s face shone the bright spirit within; albeit the shining was through some dirt and dishevelment, good principle not being able altogether to overcome the depressing influences of extreme poverty and suffering.

“Is your mother at home, Hetty!”

“Oh! yes, sir. Mother, here’s Mr Scott. Come in, sir. We are so glad to see you, and—”

She stopped, and gazed inquiringly at the visitors who followed.

“I’ve brought some friends of Bobby to inquire for him. Sir Richard Brandon—Mrs Frog.”

Number 666 stood aside, and, with something like a smile on his face, ceremoniously presented Wealth to Poverty.

Wealth made a slightly confused bow to Poverty, and Poverty, looking askance at Wealth, dropt a mild courtesy.

“Vell now, I’m a Dutchman if it ain’t the hangel!” exclaimed a voice in the corner of the small room, before either Wealth or Poverty could utter a word.

“Oh! it’s my boy,” exclaimed Di with delight, forgetting or ignoring the poverty, dirt, and extremely bad air, as she ran forward and took hold of Bobby’s hand.

It was a pre-eminently dirty hand, and formed a remarkable contrast to the little hands that grasped it!

The small street boy was, for the first time in his life, bereft of speech! When that faculty returned, he remarked in language which was obscure to Di:—

“Vell, if this ain’t a go!”

“What is a go?” asked Di with innocent surprise. Instead of answering, Bobby Frog burst into a fit of laughter, but stopped rather suddenly with an expression of pain.

“Oh! ’old on! I say. This won’t do. Doctor ’e said I musn’t larf, ’cause it shakes the leg too much. But, you know, wot’s a cove to do ven a hangel comes to him and axes sitch rum questions?”

Again he laughed, and again stopped short in pain.

“I’m so sorry! Does it feel very painful? You can’t think how constantly I’ve been thinking of you since the accident; for it was all my fault. If I hadn’t jumped up in such a passion, the pony wouldn’t have run away, and you wouldn’t have been hurt. I’m so very, very sorry, and I got dear papa to bring me here to tell you so, and to see if we could do anything to make you well.”

Again Bobby was rendered speechless, but his mind was active.

“Wot! I ain’t dreamin’, am I? ’As a hangel really come to my bedside all the vay from the Vest-end, an’ brought ’er dear pa’—vich means the guv’nor, I fancy—all for to tell me—a kid whose life is spent in ‘movin’ on’—that she’s wery, wery, sorry I’ve got my leg broke, an’ that she’s bin an’ done it, an’ she would like to know if she can do hanythink as’ll make me vell! But it ain’t true. It’s a big lie! I’m dreamin’, that’s all. I’ve been took to hospital, an’ got d’lirious—that’s wot it is. I’ll try to sleep!”

With this end in view he shut his eyes, and remained quite still for a few seconds, and when Di looked at his pinched and pale face in this placid condition, the tears would overflow their natural boundary, and sobs would rise up in her pretty throat, but she choked them back for fear of disturbing her boy.

Presently the boy opened his eyes.

“Wot, are you there yet?” he asked.

“Oh yes. Did you think I was going away?” she replied, with a look of innocent surprise. “I won’t leave you now. I’ll stay here and nurse you, if papa will let me. I have slept once on a shake-down, when I was forced by a storm to stay all night at a juv’nile party. So if you’ve a corner here, it will do nicely—”

“My dear child,” interrupted her amazed father, “you are talking nonsense. And—do keep a little further from the bed. There may be—you know—infection—”

“Oh! you needn’t fear infection here, sir,” said Mrs Frog, somewhat sharply. “We are poor enough, God knows, though I have seen better times, but we keep ourselves pretty clean, though we can’t afford to spend much on soap when food is so dear, and money so scarce—so very scarce!”

“Forgive me, my good woman,” said Sir Richard, hastily, “I did not mean to offend, but circumstances would seem to favour the idea—of—of—”

And here Wealth—although a bank director and chairman of several boards, and capable of making a neat, if weakly, speech on economic laws and the currency when occasion required—was dumb before Poverty. Indeed, though he had often theorised about that stricken creature, he had never before fairly hunted her down, run her into her den, and fairly looked her in the face.

“The fact is, Mrs Frog,” said Giles Scott, coming to the rescue, “Sir Richard is anxious to know something about your affairs—your family, you know, and your means of—by the way, where is baby?” he said looking round the room.

“She’s gone lost,” said Mrs Frog.

“Lost?” repeated Giles, with a significant look.

“Ay, lost,” repeated Mrs Frog, with a look of equal significance.

“Bless me, how did you lose your child?” asked Sir Richard, in some surprise.

“Oh! sir, that often happens to us poor folk. We’re used to it,” said Mrs Frog, in a half bantering half bitter tone.

Sir Richard suddenly called to mind the fact—which had not before impressed him, though he had read and commented on it—that 11,835 children under ten years of age had been lost that year, (and it was no exceptional year, as police reports will show), in the streets of London, and that 23 of these children were never found.

He now beheld, as he imagined, one of the losers of the lost ones, and felt stricken.

“Well now,” said Giles to Mrs Frog, “let’s hear how you get along. What does your husband do?”

“He mostly does nothin’ but drink. Sometimes he sells little birds; sometimes he sells penny watches or boot-laces in Cheapside, an’ turns in a little that way, but it all goes to the grog-shop; none of it comes here. Then he has a mill now an’ again—”

“A mill?” said Sir Richard,—“is it a snuff or flour—”

“He’s a professional pugilist,” explained Giles.

“An’ he’s employed at a music-hall,” continued Mrs Frog, “to call out the songs an’ keep order. An’ Bobby always used to pick a few coppers by runnin’ messages, sellin’ matches, and odd jobs. But he’s knocked over now.”

“And yourself. How do you add to the general fund?” asked Sir Richard, becoming interested in the household management of Poverty.

“Well, I char a bit an’ wash a bit, sir, when I’m well enough—which ain’t often. An’ sometimes I lights the Jews’ fires for ’em, an’ clean up their ’earths on Saturdays—w’ich is their Sundays, sir. But Hetty works like a horse. It’s she as keeps us from the work’us, sir. She’s got employment at a slop shop, and by workin’ ’ard all day manages to make about one shillin’ a week.”

“I beg your pardon—how much?”

“One shillin’, sir.”

“Ah, you mean one shilling a day, I suppose.”

“No, sir, I mean one shillin’ a week. Mr Scott there knows that I’m tellin’ what’s true.”

Giles nodded, and Sir Richard said, “ha–a–hem,” having nothing more lucid to remark on such an amazing financial problem as was here set before him.

“But,” continued Mrs Frog, “poor Hetty has had a sad disappointment this week—”

“Oh! mother,” interrupted Hetty, “don’t trouble the gentleman with that. Perhaps he wouldn’t understand it, for of course he hasn’t heard about all the outs and ins of slop-work.”

“Pardon me, my good girl,” said Sir Richard, “I have not, as you truly remark, studied the details of slop-work minutely, but my mind is not unaccustomed to financial matters. Pray let me hear about this—”

A savage growling, something between a mastiff and a man, outside the door, here interrupted the visitor, and a hand was heard fumbling about the latch. As the hand seemed to lack skill to open the door the foot considerately took the duty in hand and burst it open, whereupon the huge frame of Ned Frog stumbled into the room and fell prostrate at the feet of Sir Richard, who rose hastily and stepped back.

The pugilist sprang up, doubled his ever ready fists, and, glaring at the knight, asked savagely:

“Who the—”

He was checked in the utterance of a ferocious oath, for at that moment he encountered the grave eye of Number 666.

Relaxing his fists he thrust them into his coat-pockets, and, with a subdued air, staggered out of the house.

“My ’usband, sir,” said Mrs Frog, in answer to her visitor’s inquiring glance.

“Oh! is that his usual mode of returning home?”

“No, sir,” answered Bobby from his corner, for he was beginning to be amused by the succession of surprises which Wealth was receiving, “’e don’t always come in so. Sometimes ’e sends ’is ’ead first an’ the feet come afterwards. In any case the furniture’s apt to suffer, not to mention the in’abitants, but you’ve saved us to-night, sir, or, raither, Mr Scott ’as saved both us an’ you.”

Poor little Di, who had been terribly frightened, clung closer to her father’s arm on hearing this.

“Perhaps,” said Sir Richard, “it would be as well that we should go, in case Mr Frog should return.”

He was about to say good-bye when Di checked him, and, despite her fears, urged a short delay.

“We haven’t heard, you know, about the slops yet. Do stop just one minute, dear papa. I wonder if it’s like the beef-tea nurse makes for me when I’m ill.”

“It’s not that kind of slops, darling, but ready-made clothing to which reference is made. But you are right. Let us hear about it, Miss Hetty.”

The idea of “Miss” being applied to Hetty, and slops compared to beef-tea proved almost too much for the broken-legged boy in the corner, but he put strong constraint on himself and listened.

“Indeed, sir, I do not complain,” said Hetty, quite distressed at being thus forcibly dragged into notice. “I am thankful for what has been sent—indeed I am—only it was a great disappointment, particularly at this time, when we so much needed all we could make amongst us.”

She stopped and had difficulty in restraining tears. “Go on, Hetty,” said her mother, “and don’t be afraid. Bless you, he’s not goin’ to report what you say.”

“I know that, mother. Well, sir, this was the way on it. They sometimes—”

“Excuse me—who are ‘they’?”

“I beg pardon, sir, I—I’d rather not tell.”

“Very well. I respect your feelings, my girl. Some slop-making firm, I suppose. Go on.”

“Yes, sir. Well—they sometimes gives me extra work to do at home. It do come pretty hard on me after goin’ through the regular day’s work, from early mornin’ till night, but then, you see, it brings in a little more money—and, I’m strong, thank God.”

Sir Richard looked at Hetty’s thin and colourless though pretty face, and thought it possible that she might be stronger with advantage.

“Of late,” continued the girl, “I’ve bin havin’ extra work in this way, and last week I got twelve children’s ulsters to make up. This job when finished would bring me six and sixpence.”

“How much?”

“Six and sixpence, sir.”

“For the whole twelve?” asked Sir Richard.

“Yes, sir—that was sixpence halfpenny for makin’ up each ulster. It’s not much, sir.”

“No,” murmured Wealth in an absent manner; “sixpence halfpenny is not much.”

“But when I took them back,” continued Hetty—and here the tears became again obstreperous and difficult to restrain—“the master said he’d forgot to tell me that this order was for the colonies, that he had taken it at a very low price, and that he could only give me three shillin’s for the job. Of—of course three shillin’s is better the nothin’, but after workin’ hard for such a long long time an’ expectin’ six, it was—”

Here the tears refused to be pent up any longer, and the poor girl quietly bending forward hid her face in her hand.

“Come, I think we will go now,” said Sir Richard, rising hastily. “Good-night, Mrs Frog, I shall probably see you again—at least—you shall hear from me. Now, Di—say good-night to your boy.”

In a few minutes Sir Richard stood outside, taking in deep draughts of the comparatively fresher air of the court.

“The old screw,” growled Bobby, when the door was shut. “’E didn’t leave us so much as a single bob—not even a brown, though ’e pretends that six of ’em ain’t much.”

“Don’t be hard on him, Bobby,” said Hetty, drying her eyes; “he spoke very kind, you know, an’ p’raps he means to help us afterwards.”

“Spoke kind,” retorted the indignant boy; “I tell ’ee wot, Hetty, you’re far too soft an’ forgivin’. I s’pose that’s wot they teaches you in Sunday-school at George Yard—eh? Vill speakin’ kind feed us, vill it clothe us, vill it pay for our lodgin’s!”

The door opened at that moment, and Number 666 re-entered.

“The gentleman sent me back to give you this, Mrs Frog,” laying a sovereign on the rickety table. “He said he didn’t like to offer it to you himself for fear of hurting your feelings, but I told him he needn’t be afraid on that score! Was I right, Missis? Look well after it, now, an’ see that Ned don’t get his fingers on it.”

Giles left the room, and Mrs Frog, taking up the piece of gold, fondled it for some time in her thin fingers, as though she wished to make quite sure of its reality. Then wrapping it carefully in a piece of old newspaper, she thrust it into her bosom.

Bobby gazed at her in silence up to this point, and then turned his face to the wall. He did not speak, but we cannot say that he did not pray, for, mentally he said, “I beg your parding, old gen’l’m’n, an’ I on’y pray that a lot of fellers like you may come ’ere sometimes to ’urt our feelin’s in that vay!”

At that moment Hetty bent over the bed, and, softly kissing her brother’s dirty face, whispered, “Yes, Bobby, that’s what they teach me in Sunday-school at George Yard.”

Thereafter Wealth drove home in a cab, and Poverty went to bed in her rags.