The Mill on the Floss
“Heigh! heigh! keep that dog back, will you?” he shouted, snatching up
a stake and holding it before him as a shield when the visitors were
within three yards of him.
“Get out wi’ you, Mumps,” said Bob, with a kick. “He’s as quiet as a
lamb, sir,”—an observation which Mumps corroborated by a low growl as
he retreated behind his master’s legs.
“Why, what ever does this mean, Tom?” said Mr Glegg. “Have you brought
information about the scoundrels as cut my trees?” If Bob came in the
character of “information,” Mr Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some
irregularity.
“No, sir,” said Tom; “I came to speak to you about a little matter of
business of my own.”
“Ay—well; but what has this dog got to do with it?” said the old
gentleman, getting mild again.
“It’s my dog, sir,” said the ready Bob. “An’ it’s me as put Mr Tom up
to the bit o’ business; for Mr Tom’s been a friend o’ mine iver since I
was a little chap; fust thing iver I did was frightenin’ the birds for
th’ old master. An’ if a bit o’ luck turns up, I’m allays thinkin’ if I
can let Mr Tom have a pull at it. An’ it’s a downright roarin’ shame,
as when he’s got the chance o’ making a bit o’ money wi’ sending goods
out,—ten or twelve per zent clear, when freight an’ commission’s
paid,—as he shouldn’t lay hold o’ the chance for want o’ money. An’
when there’s the Laceham goods,—lors! they’re made o’ purpose for folks
as want to send out a little carguy; light, an’ take up no room,—you
may pack twenty pound so as you can’t see the passill; an’ they’re
manifacturs as please fools, so I reckon they aren’t like to want a
market. An’ I’d go to Laceham an’ buy in the goods for Mr Tom along wi’
my own. An’ there’s the shupercargo o’ the bit of a vessel as is goin’
to take ’em out. I know him partic’lar; he’s a solid man, an’ got a
family i’ the town here. Salt, his name is,—an’ a briny chap he is
too,—an’ if you don’t believe me, I can take you to him.”
Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassed
loquacity, with which his understanding could hardly keep pace. He
looked at Bob, first over his spectacles, then through them, then over
them again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncle’s impression, began to
wish he had not brought this singular Aaron, or mouthpiece. Bob’s talk
appeared less seemly, now some one besides himself was listening to it.
“You seem to be a knowing fellow,” said Mr Glegg, at last.
“Ay, sir, you say true,” returned Bob, nodding his head aside; “I think
my head’s all alive inside like an old cheese, for I’m so full o’
plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn’t Mumps to talk to, I should
get top-heavy an’ tumble in a fit. I suppose it’s because I niver went
to school much. That’s what I jaw my old mother for. I says, ‘You
should ha’ sent me to school a bit more,’ I says, ‘an’ then I could ha’
read i’ the books like fun, an’ kep’ my head cool an’ empty.’ Lors,
she’s fine an’ comfor’ble now, my old mother is; she ates her baked
meat an’ taters as often as she likes. For I’m gettin’ so full o’
money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But it’s botherin,’ a wife
is,—and Mumps mightn’t like her.”
Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retired
from business, was beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still a
disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.
“Ah,” he said, “I should think you’re at a loss for ways o’ spending
your money, else you wouldn’t keep that big dog, to eat as much as two
Christians. It’s shameful—shameful!” But he spoke more in sorrow than
in anger, and quickly added:
“But, come now, let’s hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you
want a little sum to make a venture with. But where’s all your own
money? You don’t spend it all—eh?”
“No, sir,” said Tom, colouring; “but my father is unwilling to risk it,
and I don’t like to press him. If I could get twenty or thirty pounds
to begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, and then I could
gradually make a little capital of my own, and do without a loan.”
“Ay—ay,” said Mr Glegg, in an approving tone; “that’s not a bad notion,
and I won’t say as I wouldn’t be your man. But it ’ull be as well for
me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then—here’s this friend o’
yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you’ve got somebody to
stand surety for you if the money’s put into your hands?” added the
cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, uncle,” said Tom. “At least, I mean it
would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhaps it
would be right for you to have some security.”
“You get your percentage out o’ the purchase, I suppose?” said Mr
Glegg, looking at Bob.
“No, sir,” said Bob, rather indignantly; “I didn’t offer to get a apple
for Mr Tom, o’ purpose to hev a bite out of it myself. When I play
folks tricks, there’ll be more fun in ’em nor that.”
“Well, but it’s nothing but right you should have a small percentage,”
said Mr Glegg. “I’ve no opinion o’ transactions where folks do things
for nothing. It allays looks bad.”
“Well, then,” said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what was implied,
“I’ll tell you what I get by’t, an’ it’s money in my pocket in the
end,—I make myself look big, wi’ makin’ a bigger purchase. That’s what
I’m thinking on. Lors! I’m a ’cute chap,—I am.”
“Mr Glegg, Mr Glegg!” said a severe voice from the open parlour window,
“pray are you coming in to tea, or are you going to stand talking with
packmen till you get murdered in the open daylight?”
“Murdered?” said Mr Glegg; “what’s the woman talking of? Here’s your
nephey Tom come about a bit o’ business.”
“Murdered,—yes,—it isn’t many ’sizes ago since a packman murdered a
young woman in a lone place, and stole her thimble, and threw her body
into a ditch.”
“Nay, nay,” said Mr Glegg, soothingly, “you’re thinking o’ the man wi’
no legs, as drove a dog-cart.”
“Well, it’s the same thing, Mr Glegg, only you’re fond o’ contradicting
what I say; and if my nephey’s come about business, it ’ud be more
fitting if you’d bring him into the house, and let his aunt know about
it, instead o’ whispering in corners, in that plotting, underminding
way.”
“Well, well,” said Mr Glegg, “we’ll come in now.”
“You needn’t stay here,” said the lady to Bob, in a loud voice, adapted
to the moral, not the physical, distance between them. “We don’t want
anything. I don’t deal wi’ packmen. Mind you shut the gate after you.”
“Stop a bit; not so fast,” said Mr Glegg; “I haven’t done with this
young man yet. Come in, Tom; come in,” he added, stepping in at the
French window.
“Mr Glegg,” said Mrs G., in a fatal tone, “if you’re going to let that
man and his dog in on my carpet, before my very face, be so good as to
let me know. A wife’s got a right to ask that, I hope.”
“Don’t you be uneasy, mum,” said Bob, touching his cap. He saw at once
that Mrs Glegg was a bit of game worth running down, and longed to be
at the sport; “we’ll stay out upo’ the gravel here,—Mumps and me will.
Mumps knows his company,—he does. I might hish at him by th’ hour
together, before he’d fly at a real gentlewoman like you. It’s
wonderful how he knows which is the good-looking ladies; and’s
partic’lar fond of ’em when they’ve good shapes. Lors!” added Bob,
laying down his pack on the gravel, “it’s a thousand pities such a lady
as you shouldn’t deal with a packman, i’ stead o’ goin’ into these
newfangled shops, where there’s half-a-dozen fine gents wi’ their chins
propped up wi’ a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi’ ornamental
stoppers, an’ all got to get their dinner out of a bit o’ calico; it
stan’s to reason you must pay three times the price you pay a packman,
as is the nat’ral way o’ gettin’ goods,—an’ pays no rent, an’ isn’t
forced to throttle himself till the lies are squeezed out on him,
whether he will or no. But lors! mum, you know what it is better nor I
do,—_you_ can see through them shopmen, I’ll be bound.”
“Yes, I reckon I can, and through the packmen too,” observed Mrs Glegg,
intending to imply that Bob’s flattery had produced no effect on _her;_
while her husband, standing behind her with his hands in his pockets
and legs apart, winked and smiled with conjugal delight at the
probability of his wife’s being circumvented.
“Ay, to be sure, mum,” said Bob. “Why, you must ha’ dealt wi’ no end o’
packmen when you war a young lass—before the master here had the luck
to set eyes on you. I know where you lived, I do,—seen th’ house many a
time,—close upon Squire Darleigh’s,—a stone house wi’ steps——”
“Ah, that it had,” said Mrs Glegg, pouring out the tea. “You know
something o’ my family, then? Are you akin to that packman with a
squint in his eye, as used to bring th’ Irish linen?”
“Look you there now!” said Bob, evasively. “Didn’t I know as you’d
remember the best bargains you’ve made in your life was made wi’
packmen? Why, you see even a squintin’ packman’s better nor a shopman
as can see straight. Lors! if I’d had the luck to call at the stone
house wi’ my pack, as lies here,”—stooping and thumping the bundle
emphatically with his fist,—“an’ th’ handsome young lasses all stannin’
out on the stone steps, it ud’ ha’ been summat like openin’ a pack,
that would. It’s on’y the poor houses now as a packman calls on, if it
isn’t for the sake o’ the sarvant-maids. They’re paltry times, these
are. Why, mum, look at the printed cottons now, an’ what they was when
you wore ’em,—why, you wouldn’t put such a thing on now, I can see. It
must be first-rate quality, the manifactur as you’d buy,—summat as ’ud
wear as well as your own faitures.”
“Yes, better quality nor any you’re like to carry; you’ve got nothing
first-rate but brazenness, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs Glegg, with a
triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. “Mr Glegg, are you
going ever to sit down to your tea? Tom, there’s a cup for you.”
“You speak true there, mum,” said Bob. “My pack isn’t for ladies like
you. The time’s gone by for that. Bargains picked up dirt cheap! A bit
o’ damage here an’ there, as can be cut out, or else niver seen i’ the
wearin’, but not fit to offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o’
things as nobody sees. I’m not the man as ’ud offer t’ open my pack to
_you_, mum; no, no; I’m a imperent chap, as you say,—these times makes
folks imperent,—but I’m not up to the mark o’ that.”
“Why, what goods do you carry in your pack?” said Mrs Glegg.
“Fine-coloured things, I suppose,—shawls an’ that?”
“All sorts, mum, all sorts,” said Bob,—thumping his bundle; “but let us
say no more about that, if _you_ please. I’m here upo’ Mr Tom’s
business, an’ I’m not the man to take up the time wi’ my own.”
“And pray, what _is_ this business as is to be kept from me?” said Mrs
Glegg, who, solicited by a double curiosity, was obliged to let the
one-half wait.
“A little plan o’ nephey Tom’s here,” said good-natured Mr Glegg; “and
not altogether a bad ’un, I think. A little plan for making money;
that’s the right sort o’ plan for young folks as have got their fortin
to make, eh, Jane?”
“But I hope it isn’t a plan where he expects iverything to be done for
him by his friends; that’s what the young folks think of mostly
nowadays. And pray, what has this packman got to do wi’ what goes on in
our family? Can’t you speak for yourself, Tom, and let your aunt know
things, as a nephey should?”
“This is Bob Jakin, aunt,” said Tom, bridling the irritation that aunt
Glegg’s voice always produced. “I’ve known him ever since we were
little boys. He’s a very good fellow, and always ready to do me a
kindness. And he has had some experience in sending goods out,—a small
part of a cargo as a private speculation; and he thinks if I could