The Old Curiosity Shop
knives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got an
unusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a short
howl, but he immediately checked it on his master looking round, and
applied himself with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth.
CHAPTER 19
Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two
more travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been
walking in the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with
water. One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady
without legs or arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a
silent gentleman who earned his living by showing tricks upon the
cards, and who had rather deranged the natural expression of his
countenance by putting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing
them out at his mouth, which was one of his professional
accomplishments. The name of the first of these newcomers was Vuffin;
the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was called
Sweet William. To render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord
bestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both gentlemen were
perfectly at their ease.
‘How’s the Giant?’ said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire.
‘Rather weak upon his legs,’ returned Mr Vuffin. ‘I begin to be afraid
he’s going at the knees.’
‘That’s a bad look-out,’ said Short.
‘Aye! Bad indeed,’ replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a
sigh. ‘Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more
about him than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.’
‘What becomes of old giants?’ said Short, turning to him again after a
little reflection.
‘They’re usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,’ said Mr
Vuffin.
‘The maintaining of ‘em must come expensive, when they can’t be shown,
eh?’ remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
‘It’s better that, than letting ‘em go upon the parish or about the
streets,’ said Mr Vuffin. ‘Once make a giant common and giants will
never draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man with
a wooden leg what a property he’d be!’
‘So he would!’ observed the landlord and Short both together. ‘That’s
very true.’
‘Instead of which,’ pursued Mr Vuffin, ‘if you was to advertise
Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs, it’s my belief you wouldn’t
draw a sixpence.’
‘I don’t suppose you would,’ said Short. And the landlord said so too.
‘This shows, you see,’ said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an
argumentative air, ‘this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants
still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all
their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There
was one giant--a black ‘un--as left his carawan some year ago and took
to carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as
crossing-sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation against anybody in
particular,’ said Mr Vuffin, looking solemnly round, ‘but he was
ruining the trade;--and he died.’
The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs,
who nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.
‘I know you do, Jerry,’ said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning. ‘I know
you remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served
him right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had
three-and-twenty wans--I remember the time when old Maunders had in his
cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time, when the season was over,
eight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was
waited on by eight old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton
stockings, and high-lows: and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly
and wicious who whenever his giant wasn’t quick enough to please him,
used to stick pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any higher.
I know that’s a fact, for Maunders told it me himself.’
‘What about the dwarfs when they get old?’ inquired the landlord.
‘The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,’ returned Mr Vuffin; ‘a
grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant
weak in the legs and not standing upright!--keep him in the carawan,
but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be
offered.’
While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the
time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm
corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence
for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other
feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to
the company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length
the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they
withdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs
fast asleep at a humble distance.
After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret,
but had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She
opened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas
Codlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down stairs.
‘What is the matter?’ said the child.
‘Nothing’s the matter, my dear,’ returned her visitor. ‘I’m your
friend. Perhaps you haven’t thought so, but it’s me that’s your
friend--not him.’
‘Not who?’ the child inquired.
‘Short, my dear. I tell you what,’ said Codlin, ‘for all his having a
kind of way with him that you’d be very apt to like, I’m the real,
open-hearted man. I mayn’t look it, but I am indeed.’
The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken
effect upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the
consequence.
‘Short’s very well, and seems kind,’ resumed the misanthrope, ‘but he
overdoes it. Now I don’t.’
Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin’s usual deportment, it
was that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than
overdid it. But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say.
‘Take my advice,’ said Codlin: ‘don’t ask me why, but take it. As long
as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don’t offer to
leave us--not on any account--but always stick to me and say that I’m
your friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that
it was me that was your friend?’
‘Say so where--and when?’ inquired the child innocently.
‘O, nowhere in particular,’ replied Codlin, a little put out as it
seemed by the question; ‘I’m only anxious that you should think me so,
and do me justice. You can’t think what an interest I have in you.
Why didn’t you tell me your little history--that about you and the poor
old gentleman? I’m the best adviser that ever was, and so interested
in you--so much more interested than Short. I think they’re breaking
up down stairs; you needn’t tell Short, you know, that we’ve had this
little talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. Codlin’s
the friend, not Short. Short’s very well as far as he goes, but the
real friend is Codlin--not Short.’
Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting
looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe,
leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still
ruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy
stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers
who were passing to their beds. When they had all passed, and the
sound of their footsteps had died away, one of them returned, and after
a little hesitation and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful
what door to knock at, knocked at hers.
‘Yes,’ said the child from within.
‘It’s me--Short’--a voice called through the keyhole. ‘I only wanted
to say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear, because
unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages
won’t be worth a penny. You’ll be sure to be stirring early and go
with us? I’ll call you.’
The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his ‘good night’
heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these
men, increased by the recollection of their whispering together down
stairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite
free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she
could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed
against her fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep.
Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking
softly at her door, entreated that she would get up directly, as the
proprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time they
might get a good deal in advance both of him and the conjuror, who was
talking in his sleep, and from what he could be heard to say, appeared
to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She started from her bed
without delay, and roused the old man with so much expedition that they
were both ready as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman’s
unspeakable gratification and relief.
After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the
staple commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of
the landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys. The
morning was fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late
rain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and everything
fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these influences, they walked on
pleasantly enough.
They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the
altered behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on
sulkily by himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her, and
when he had an opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion,
warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any
trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did
he confine himself to looks and gestures, for when she and her
grandfather were walking on beside the aforesaid Short, and that little
man was talking with his accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of
indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and distrust
by following close at her heels, and occasionally admonishing her
ankles with the legs of the theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner.
All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and
suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform
outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went
through his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her
and the old man, or with a show of great friendship and consideration
invited the latter to lean upon his arm, and so held him tight until
the representation was over and they again went forward. Even Short
seemed to change in this respect, and to mingle with his good-nature
something of a desire to keep them in safe custody. This increased the
child’s misgivings, and made her yet more anxious and uneasy.
Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where the races were to
begin next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gipsies and
trampers on the road, wending their way towards it, and straggling out
from every by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a
stream of people, some walking by the side of covered carts, others
with horses, others with donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads
upon their backs, but all tending to the same point. The public-houses
by the wayside, from being empty and noiseless as those in the remoter
parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts and clouds of smoke;
and, from the misty windows, clusters of broad red faces looked down
upon the road. On every piece of waste or common ground, some small