“There you are!” he cried, “Wot did I say? Wot is ’appening to the youth of Old England when a slight breakfast daunts them? Where are the ’earts of hoak? Waiter, pray fetch me a few more of these capital prawns and another slice of that delicate Cambridge brawn, for I vows that my muffin-mill is almost stopped — needs hoiling — and I have promised Mrs J. that I shall not eat butter, lest I spoil the trimness of my figure.”
“Do you stay here long, Mr Jorrocks?” I asked, with some trepidation.
“Vy, no; I and Mr York came but to stay a five pound note in Margate this delightful weather (plus eighteenpence vich Mr York furnished) and it is now all but spent. We leaves on the steamer at eleven o’clock sharp.”
I summoned the waiter and asked for my bill. Mr Jorrocks took it from me but not, as I had hoped, to settle it. He took out a silver pencil-case and scrutinised the slip of paper carefully.
“Wot did you use by way of candles?” he asked.
“One,” I said. “For perhaps five minutes.”
“Imperence!” he cried, scratching out the item on the bill. “Now, ‘hearly call in the morning’?”
“Well, I do not think so.” He scratched some more.
“Wails for the vaiter — left blank.”
“Vails?”
“Perquisites, honorariumbs, tips as the bagmen call ’em.”
“Ah, I see. A shilling, do you think?”
“Fourpence is werry ample.” He scratched again. “And the chambermaid?”
“I think,” I said carefully, “that she has already been availed.” He handed me back the bill and I made great show of rummaging in all my pockets to find enough silver to make up the sum.
“My word,” said Mr J. as I rummaged, “I believe I am getting oldish. I fancy a true fork-breakfast would have made a stiff ’un of me. It’s all werry well for you great Dutch cormorants but I has a thriving warehouse and a great red-faced wife to see to.” I did not understand but I made polite noises as I gathered together the amount of the bill.
“See here, young spadger,” he said, presently, “if you should be a little short of tin, by vich I means swag; since I have taken a fancy to the way you can deal with your prog, by vich I means your wittles, pray come and spend a night or two at Great Coram Street. Mrs J. vill be delighted to see you” — his voice lost a little conviction at this point — “and you shall have a h’aired bed, good wear and tear for your teeth and all that sort of thing found you. Pray do me this kindness, do. The steam-packet leaves at eleven prompt and it will be strange if I cannot persuade the Captain to take your chest of tea-cups aboard, although he has no cargo-bottomry.”
I found this puzzling. First, I had been assured that the British were not an hospitable folk. Second, I was well aware that this day was the Sunday.
“But today is Sunday,” I said, diffidently. “Is it thought proper here to make so long a journey on this day?”
He chuckled fatly.
“My dear young sir,” he said, “in England ve sees no more sin in taking a journey on a Sunday than in cheating one another on the Monday!”
“Mr J., I cried, “I feel that I have come home.”
“Werry obliged,” he said, “I’m sure. Now, pack your traps and we’ll retrieve your box of ware from the shipping-shed, for there’s little enough time left before the steamer commences its wulgar ’ooting.”
Indeed, by the time that I had made a small, sentimental farewell to the little chambermaid, packed my traps, met Mr Jorrocks on Margate’s far-famed jetty and struck a bargain with two surly longshoremen over the movement of my chest of Delft into the steamer, the ’ooting was, indeed, becoming urgent. It was a beautiful steamer, named the Royal Adelaide — after the Queen before this one, you understand — painted magnificently in pea-green and white; flags flying, decks swarming with smart bonnets and bodices: I had never seen anything so fine. Well might Britannia rule the waves; I felt my heart swelling with new-found patriotism, for I am easily moved.
Mr Jorrocks and I found a corner of the deck on which to settle; our various possessions firmly ensconced beneath our bottoms. He was nursing on his lap a great wicker hamper, at which I stole a glance once in a while.
“Prowisions,” he said, patting the lid. “Breakfast is all werry well but — ’ow keen the sea air is! I ’ave brought but a knuckle of weal, half a ham, some genuine Dorking sarsingers (made in Drury Lane), a few plovers’ eggs and some sherry white. Yes, and I believe some chickens. Werry acceptable they’ll be before we gets to the Savoy Stairs, you may depend upon it.”
He was right, I have never met a man of so much acumen. The sea air was, indeed, keen, keen. The knuckle of weal and the other little snacks were, indeed, welcome. I gained, I think, his respect, by agreeing that he should have the last chicken if I might have the last few plovers’ eggs.
There was a sort of orchestra on the steamer, comprising one flute, one lute, one long and one short horn, also a harp played by a fat lady in a puce gown. They played quadrilles and other things to which I could not master the steps but it was pleasing to be taught them by young ladies who giggled. One of the young ladies had a gentlemen friend who tried to hit me with his knuckles. I made his nose bleed. When I lifted him up and apologised, he tried again to hit me and I had to make his nose bleed afresh.
“’E wos a beauty before you put the paint on!” cried the young lady, still giggling.
“’E is an uncommon fine young warbler,” said Mr Jorrocks gravely, “now where shall we turn for a song?”
In default of the young gentleman with the bloody nose I sang a song in my own language, then, emboldened, another, with words which I was tolerably sure no one on board would understand. After this, I was besieged with more lessons in dancing by other and more desirable young ladies; at least one of which, I fancy, took place behind a ballast-box, but I forget, for I am old now, old.
PART TWO. The Great and Sinful City
CHAPTER FOUR
As we chugged up London River the wind shifted and I wrinkled my nose in puzzlement for suddenly the air was full of a stifling stench of horses. I remarked on this to Mr J., who sniffed the breeze appreciatively and told me that this was the very scent of London itself. “More ’osses to the square mile than anywhere helse in the civilised world,” he told me. “You’ll soon be relishing it as the homeliest smell in the world.”
I found this hard to credit at the time but there is no doubt that within a very few days the stench became first inoffensive, then unnoticeable. It took me longer, fresh as I was from cleanly Holland, to reconcile myself to the human odours which reeked from every street-kennel.
Too soon the dancing on board stopped and there was a frantic search for children and other parcels as we drew up to London Bridge.
“Ease her! Stop her!” bellowed the Captain. “Now, Sir, yes, you Sir, in the wherry! Are you going to sleep there?”
Within a little while my chest of ware was on a tax-cart — an open, one-horse, farmer-like vehicle without springs — and Mr Jorrocks and I were following in a hansom cab to his warehouse in St Botolph-Lane, where my Delft was to be stored for the time being and where Mr Jorrocks hoped to catch his work-people napping.
“My vord!” he said contentedly as we jolted and trundled through the evil-smelling streets — “Easy over the pimples, barber!” he cried once or twice in his jocose fashion — “My vord, I wows I feels mightily refreshed of my jaunt, quite renowated: as fresh as an old hat after a shower of rain! But I fears there is nothing liquid left in the hamper and my gullet is dry as a bone.”