Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season - Fenn George Manville

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heartily welcome to every tar.

      The night was cold and the way was dark,

      And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,

      As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped,

      Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.

      But what was that when with four years’ pay,

      And a leave of absence for many a day,

      With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,

      Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,

      Hurried along o’er the crunching snow,

      As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.

      Some three miles past, and the sailor now

      Paused by a hedge where the holly bough

      Grew thick and dense, and though dim the night

      There were memories many within that sight,

      For the days of old came hurrying by,

      And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;

      While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,

      Of the distant climes and the blood he’d shed,

      Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,

      Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.

      But now once more he was nearing home

      After his four years’ tiring roam;

      And with bounding heart how the night he blest,

      And thought of the coming days of rest.

      Some three miles past, when his blood was chilled

      By a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;

      He stood for a moment, and then could hear

      The sounds of a struggle and trampling near;

      Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,

      While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.

      Dick’s feelings were wrought to the highest pitch;

      His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,

      Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,

      With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,

      When hard by a cottage a lanthorn’s light

      Cast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:

      With gory features and blade in hand

      Two ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;

      As over the struggling form they leant,

      Dick paused no more, but his sapling went,

      Cut one – cut two on each villain’s head,

      Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,

      And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,

      While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan,

      But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,

      And breathlessly muttered, “’Twas really too bad.

      Be blest if he ever did see such a rig

      As to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!”

      And Dick was right, for ’twas really no joke,

      Though our sailor lad here had no “pig in a poke;”

      But though courage should merit the best of our praise,

      There’s a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes’ rays

      Should be shed on our mind when we think to engage,

      And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;

      Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,

      We may turn out as blind as the sailor – Dick Sprit.

      Chapter Four

      Come Back

      “Ha-ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach – Shadrach Pratt, light porter at Teman, Sundry, and Sope’s, the wholesale and retail grocers in the City. “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach, stopping, with one foot on the wet pavement and the other in the snowy slush of the kennel, to slap his thigh, and say: “That’s a good ’un, that is – ‘What do the Arabs of the desert live on? the sand which is there.’ That is a good one, rale grit. Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the little man. “I’ll ask ’em that after dinner to-morrow.”

      Who’d have thought, to see the little fellow go skipping along through the wet, splashy snow, that there were holes in the sides of his boots, and that one sole had given up the stitches that morning and gone off, being not buried, but suffering the fiery ordeal of burning, curling about upon its funereal pyre as though still alive? Who’d have thought that he had had no dinner this Christmas-eve, and was now off, post-haste, to his home in Bermondsey (pronounced Bummonsey), to get dinner and tea together – a hot meal of bloater and bread-and-butter – with orders to be back in an hour at the latest? for it was busy tide with the firm, and whatever Shadrach’s duty may have been at other times, he was heavy porter now decidedly.

      Over the bridge, round the corner, down by Tooley Street warehouses, famed for suffering from an ailment that must amongst buildings answer to the Saint Anthony’s fire of the human being; down past sacking, sailcloth, and rope warehouses; and down past marine stores, and miseries enough to give a man an ultramarine tint; and then home in the pleasant and unsalubrious locality of Snow’s Fields. Snow there was in plenty – muddy, slushy snow; but the only field visible was a large field for improvement; but then, as Shadrach said, “How handy for business!”

      “Here’s father!” was the cry, as the little man rushed in, hugged his wife, and had his legs hugged at the same time; and then he was in the warm place by the tea-tray, toasting his steaming boots, and watching the water being poured into the hissing, hot earthen teapot.

      “Now, then,” said Mrs Pratt, “they’ve all had their teas; and you’re not to touch them, or give them a scrap. But have you had your dinner?”

      “No,” said Shadrach; “only stayed my stomach with half a pint of four ale and a hot tater, at one; but I’ve brought a bloat – There, bless my soul! I always did say the tail of your coat is not a safe place, and if I ain’t been setting upon it. What a good job it was a hard-roed ’un. Not hurt a bit. Who’ll toast it?”

      “Me – me – me!” chorussed some six or seven voices; and then the most substantial-looking of the family was picked out, and she began toasting till the fish began to curl its head and tail together, when the toaster happening to turn her head to watch the distribution of “dog’s bits” (ie scraps of bread-and-butter), the bloater glided from the fork, and had to be picked from the ashes and wiped.

      But it was not so very gritty when done, and only made Shadrach think about the Arabs and the sandwiches; though, after distributing so many scraps, father’s share of bloater, or grit, was not large; and then up jumped the refreshed head of the family, and prepared for another start.

      “’Tain’t much, eighteen shillings a week, with a family, is it?” said Shadrach, counting the money out in his wife’s hand; “but, never mind, there’s lots worse off.”

      Mrs Pratt gave a shrug, as much as to say, “And lots better.” But, smiling again, she told what preparations had been made towards the next day.

      “There, I can’t stop,” said Shadrach; “you must do it all. Goose, you know! Wait till it’s quite late at Leadenhall, and then you’ll get it cheap. They can’t sell them all out.”

      Mrs Pratt seemed to think that the goose would make a fearful hole in eighteen shillings.

      “There’s coals, and grosheries, and vegetables, and bread, and butter; and Ginger’s boots are in a sad state, and – and – ”

      Certainly,

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