They killed nothing but time, yet they were exceedingly merry, especially during the discussion of the provisions. Their laughter, indeed, was enough to scare all the birds in the neighbourhood.

"Jim, if you wanted to correct those sheep yonder," said Tom, "what sort of tool would you use?"

"An ewe-twig, of course," replied my master.

"No; that's devilish good," said Wallis; "but you ain't hit it yet."

"For a crown you don't do a better?"

"Done!"

"Well, what is it?"

"Why, a Ram-rod to be sure--as we're sportsmen."

My master agreed that it was more appropriate, and the good-natured Tom Wallis flung the crown he had won to me.

"Here's another," continued he, as Mr. Timmis was just raising a bottle of pale sherry to his lips--"I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?"

"Why swallows, to be sure," quickly replied my patron; who was really, on most occasions, a match for his croney in the sublime art of punning, and making conundrums, a favourite pastime with the wits of the Stock Exchange.

CHAPTER V.--The Stalking Horse.

"Retributive Justice"

On the same landing where Timmis (as he termed it) 'held out,' were five or six closets nick-named offices, and three other boys. One was the nephew of the before-mentioned Wallis, and a very imp of mischief; another, only a boy, with nothing remarkable but his stupidity; while the fourth was a scrubby, stunted, fellow, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, with a long pale face, deeply pitted with the small-pox, and an irregular crop of light hair, most unscientifically cut into tufts.

He, by reason of his seniority and his gravity, soon became the oracle of the party. We usually found him seated on the stairs of the first floor, lost in the perusal of some ragged book of the marvellous school--sc.r.a.ps of which he used to read aloud to us, with more unction than propriety, indulging rather too much in the note of admiration style; for which he soon obtained the name of Old Emphatic!--But I must confess we did obtain a great deal of information from his select reading, and were tolerably good listeners too, notwithstanding his peculiar delivery, for somehow he appeared to have a permanent cold in his head, which sometimes threw a tone of irresistible ridicule into his most pathetic bits.

He bore the scriptural name of Matthew and was, as he informed us, a 'horphan'--adding, with a particular pathos, 'without father or mother!'

His melancholy was, I think, rather attributable to bile than dest.i.tution, which he superinduced by feeding almost entirely on 'second-hand pastry,' purchased from the little Jew-boys, who hawk about their 'tempting' trash in the vicinity of the Bank.

Matthew, like other youths of a poetical temperament, from Petrarch down to Lord Byron, had a 'pa.s.sion.'

I accidentally discovered the object of his platonic flame in the person of the little grubby-girl--the servant of the house-keeper--for, as the proverb truly says,

"Love and a cough cannot be hid."

The tender pa.s.sion first evinced itself in his delicate attentions;--nor was the quick-eyed maid slow to discover her conquest. Her penetration, however, was greater than her sympathy. With a tact that would not have disgraced a politician--in a better cause, she adroitly turned the swelling current of his love to her own purposes.

As the onward flowing stream is made to turn the wheel, while the miller sings at the window, so did she avail herself of his strength to do her work, while she gaily hummed a time, and sadly 'hummed' poor Matthew.

There being nearly thirty offices in the building, there were of course in winter as many fires, and as many coal-scuttles required. When the eyes of the devoted Matthew gazed on the object of his heart's desire toiling up the well-stair, he felt he knew not what; and, with a heart palpitating with the apprehension that his proffered service might be rejected (poor deluded mortal!), he begged he might a.s.sist her. With a glance that he thought sufficient to ignite the insensible carbon, she accepted his offer. Happy Matthew!--he grasped the handles her warm red-hands had touched!--Cold-blooded, unimaginative beings may deride his enthusiasm; but after all, the sentiment he experienced was similar to, and quite as pure, as that of Tom Jones, when he fondled Sophia Western's little m.u.f.f.

But, alas!--

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

Two months after this event, 'his Mary' married the baker's man!--

Wallis's nephew had several times invited me to pay him a visit at his uncle's house, at Crouchend; and so once, during the absence of that gentleman who was ruralizing at Tonbridge, I trudged down to his villa.

Nothing would suit Master John, but that he must 'have out' his uncle's gun; and we certainly shot at, and frightened, many sparrows.

He was just pointing at a fresh quarry, when the loud crow of a c.o.c.k arrested his arm.

"That's Doddington's game 'un, I know," said Master John. "What d'ye think--if he did'nt 'pitch into' our 'dunghill' the other day, and laid him dead at a blow. I owe him one!--Come along." I followed in his footsteps, and soon beheld Chanticleer crowing with all the ostentation of a victor at the hens he had so ruthlessly widowed. A clothes-horse, with a ragged blanket, screened us from his view; and Master'John, putting the muzzle of his gun through a hole in this novel ambuscade, discharged its contents point blank into the proclaimer of the morn--and laid him low.

I trembled; for I felt that we had committed a 'foul murder.' Master Johnny, however, derided my fears--called it retributive justice--and ignominiously consigned the remains of a game-c.o.c.k to a dunghill!

The affair appeared so like a cowardly a.s.sa.s.sination, in which I was (though unwillingly--) 'particeps criminis'--that I walked away without partaking of the gooseberry-pie, which he had provided for our supper.

CHAPTER VI.--A Commission.

"Och! thin, Paddy, what's the bothuration; if you carry me, don't I carry the whiskey, sure, and that's fair and aqual!"

I was early at my post on the following morning, being particularly anxious to meet with Mr. Wallis's scapegrace nephew, and ascertain whether anybody had found the dead body of the game-c.o.c.k, and whether an inquest had been held; for I knew enough of the world to draw my own conclusions as to the result. He, although the princ.i.p.al, being a relative, would get off with a lecture, while I should probably be kicked out of my place.

In a fever of expectation, I hung over the banisters of the geometrical staircase, watching for his arrival.

While I was thus occupied, my nerves "screwed up,"--almost to cracking, Mr. Wallis's office-door was thrown open, and I beheld that very gentleman's round, pleasant physiognomy, embrowned by his travels, staring me full in the face. I really lost my equilibrium at the apparition.

"Oh!--it's you, is it," cried he. "Where's my rascal?"

"He's not come yet, sir," I replied.

"That fellow's never at hand when I want him--I'll cashier him by ____."

He slammed to his own door, and--opened it again immediately.

"Timmis come?" demanded he.

"No, sir; I don't think he'll be here for an hour."

"True--I'm early in the field; but what brings you here so soon?--some mischief, I suppose."

"I'm always early, sir, for I live hard by."

"Ha!--well--I wish--."