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My Doggie and I

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<h3>Chapter Eleven.</h3> <h4>Relates Generally to the Doings and Sayings of Robin Slidder.</h4> “My dear,” said Mrs McTougall one evening to the doctor, “since that little boy Slidder came to stay with us things have become worse and worse; in fact, the house is almost unbearable.” “My dear,” responded Dr McTougall, “you amaze me; surely the boy has not dared to be rude—insolent to you?” “Oh no, it’s not that; but he must really be forbidden to enter the nursery. Our darlings, you know, were dreadful enough before he came, but since then they have become absolute maniacs.” “You don’t mean to say that the little rascal has been teaching them bad words or manners, I hope?” returned the doctor, with a frown. “Dear me, no, papa; don’t get angry,” answered the anxious lady—“far from it. On the contrary, I really believe that our darlings have greatly improved his language and manners by their example; but Robin’s exuberant spirits are far too much for them. It is like putting fire to gunpowder, and they are so fond of him. That’s the difficulty. The boy does not presume, I must say that for him, and he is very respectful to nurse; but the children are constantly asking him to come and play with them, which he seems quite pleased to do, and then his mind is so eccentric, so inventive. The new games he devises are very ingenious, but so exceedingly dangerous and destructive that it is absolutely necessary to check him, and I want you to do it, dear.” “I must know something about the nature of the mischief before I can check it,” said the doctor. “Oh, it’s indescribable,” returned the lady; “the smell that he makes in the nursery with his chemical experiments is awful; and then poor Pompey, or Dumps, or whatever they call him—for they seem very undecided about his name—has not the life of—I was going to say—a dog with them. Only last night, when you were out, the ridiculous boy proposed the storming of an ogre’s castle. Nurse was down-stairs at the time, or it could never have happened. Well, of course, Robin was the ogre, darling Dolly was a princess whom he had stolen away, Jack was a prince who was to deliver her, and the others were the prince’s retainers. A castle was built in one corner of all the tables and chairs in the room piled on each other, with one particular chair so ingeniously arranged that the pulling of it out would bring the castle in ruins to the ground. The plan of attack, as far as I could make out, was that the prince should ring our dinner-bell at the castle gates and fiercely demand admittance, the demand to be followed by a burst from the trumpets, drums, and gongs of his soldiers. The ogre, seated on the castle top with the princess, after a few preliminary yells and howls, was to say, in a gruff voice, that he was too much engaged just then with his dinner—that three roast babies were being dished. When they were disposed of, the princess would be killed, and served up as a sort of light pudding, after which he would open the castle gate. A horrible smell was to be created at this point to represent the roasting of the babies. This was to be the signal for a burst of indignation from the prince and his troops, who were to make a furious assault on the door—one of our largest tea-trays—and after a little the prince was to pull away the particular chair, and rush back with his men to avoid the falling ruin, while the ogre and princess were to find shelter under the nursery table, and then, when the fall was over, they were to be found dead among the ruins. I am not sure whether the princess was to be revived, or she was to have a grand funeral, but the play never got that length. I was sitting here, listening to the various sounds overhead, wondering what they could be about, when I heard a loud ringing—that was the castle bell. It was soon followed by a burst of toy trumpets and drums. A most disgusting smell began to permeate the house at the same time, for it seems that the ogre set fire to his chemicals too soon. “Then I heard roaring and yelling, which really alarmed me—it was so gruff. When it stopped, there was a woeful howl—that was the burst of indignation. The assault came off next, and as the shouting of the troops was mingled with the hammering of the large tea-tray, the ringing of the dinner-bell, and the beating of the gong, you may fancy what the noise was. In the midst of it there was a hideous crash, accompanied by screams of alarm that were too genuine to be mistaken. I rushed up, and found the furniture lying scattered over the room, with darling Dolly in the midst, the others standing in solemn silence around, and Robin Slidder sitting on the ground ruefully rubbing his head. “The truth was that the particular chair had been pulled away before the proper time, and the castle had come down in ruins while the ogre and princess were still on the top of it. Fortunately Robin saved Dolly, at the expense of his own head and shoulder, by throwing his arms round her and falling undermost; but it was a narrow escape, and you really must put a stop to such reckless ongoings.” The doctor promised to do so. “I have to send Robin a message this forenoon, and will administer a rebuke before sending him,” he said; but it was plain, from the smile on the doctor’s face, that the rebuke would not be severe. “Robin,” he said, with much solemnity, when the culprit stood before him, “take this bottle of medicine to Mr Williams; you know—the old place—and say I want to know how he is, and that I will call to-morrow afternoon.” “Yes, sir,” said the boy, taking the bottle with an unusually subdued air. “And Robin—stop,” continued the doctor. “I am told that the children were visited by an ogre last night.” “Yes, sir,” answered the boy, with an uncertain glance at his questioner’s grave face. “Well, Robin, you know where that ogre lives. Just call and tell him from me that if he or any of his relations ever come here again I’ll cause them to undergo extraction of the spinal marrow, d’you understand?” At first little Slidder felt inclined to laugh, but the doctor’s face was so unusually stern that he thought better of it, and went away much impressed. Now Robin Slidder was no loiterer on his errands, nevertheless he did not deem it a breach of fidelity to cast an occasional glance into a picture-shop window, or to pause a few seconds now and then to chaff a facetious cabby, or make a politely sarcastic remark to a bobby. His connection with what he termed “’igh life” had softened him down considerably, and given a certain degree of polish to his wit, but it had in no degree repressed his exuberant spirits. The distance he had to go being considerable, he travelled the latter part of the way by omnibus. Chancing to be in a meditative frame of mind that day, he climbed to the roof of the ’bus, and sat down with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his eyes deep into futurity. Whether he saw much there I cannot tell, but after wandering for some time in that unknown region, his eyes returned to surrounding things, and, among other objects, alighted on the ’bus conductor, whose head was within a few inches of his toe. It was the head of the Slogger! That eccentric individual, having sprung up in a few months from the condition of a big boy to that of an exceedingly young man, had obtained a situation as conductor to a ’bus. He was so busy with his fares when Robin mounted the ’bus that he failed to observe him until the moment when the latter returned from futurity. Their eyes met simultaneously, and opened to such an extent that if size had counted for numbers they might have done for four boys. “Hallo, Buttons!” was the Slogger’s exclamation. “Hallo, Slogger!” was that of Robin. “Well, now, this is a pleasure! who’d a thought it?” said the conductor, reaching up his hand. “Is that for your fare or a shake, Slogger?” demanded Robin. “A shake, of course, old feller,” replied the other, as Robin grasped the proffered hand;—“but I say,” he added in a lower key, “there’s no Slogger now in this ’ere world; he’s dead an’ buried long ago. My name is Villum Bowls—no connection wotever with Slogger. Oh no! we never mention ’im;—but, I say, w’en did you go into the genteel line? eh, Slidder?” “Robin—Robin is my name now, Villum Bowls. I’ve changed it since we met last, though I hain’t cut old friends like you. Robin an’ Slidder ’ave been united, an’ a pretty pair they make, don’t they?” “Middlin’. ’Old on till I get that ancient stout party shoved in. Looks like as if he was a goin’ in the opposite direction, but it don’t matter so long as we can get ’im in.—Now, then, sir, mind the step. All right? I say, Slid— Robin, I mean—” “Vell, Slog— Villum, I mean; why don’t you say wot you mean, eh?” “’Ow d’you like grey tights an’ buttons?” said the Slogger, with a bland smile. “So—so,” replied Robin, with a careless air; “the grey is sober enough—quite suitable to my character—an’ I confess I’m fond o’ the buttons.” “There’s enough of ’em to form a goodish overcoat a’most,” said the Slogger with a critical grin, “but I should ’ave thought ’em not sufficiently waterproof in wet weather.” “Vell, they ain’t much use for that, Slog—eh, Villum; but you should see the dazzling display they makes in sunshine. W’y, you can see me half a mile off w’en I chance to be walking in Regent Street or drivin’ in the Park. But I value them chiefly because of the frequent and pleasant talks they get me with the ladies.” “You don’t mean for to say, Robin, that the ladies ever holds you by the button-’oles?” “No, I don’t; but I holds them wi’ the buttons. This is the way of it. W’en I chance to see a wery pretty lady—not one o’ your beauties, you know; I don’t care a dump for them stuck-up creatures! but one o’ your sweet, amiable sort, with souls above buttons, an’ faces one likes to look at and to kiss w’en you’ve a right to; vell, w’en I sees one o’ these I brushes up again’ ’er, an’ ’ooks on with my buttons to some of ’er togs. “If she takes it ill, looks cross, and ’alf inclined to use strong language, I makes a ’umble apology, an’ gets undone as fast as possible, but if she larfs, and says, ‘Stoopid boy; w’y don’t you look before you?’ or suthin o’ that sort, I just ’ooks on another tag to another button w’en we’re a fumblin’ at the first one, and so goes on till we get to be quite sociable over it—I might almost say confidential. Once or twice I’ve been the victim of misjudgment, and got a heavy slap on the face from angelic hands that ought to ’ave known better, but on the ’ole I’m willin’ to take my chance.” “Not a bad notion,” remarked the Slogger; “especially for a pretty little chap like you, Robin.” “Right you are,” replied the other, “but you needn’t try on the dodge yourself, for it would never pay with a big ugly grampus like you, Villum.” Having thus run into a pleasant little chat, the two waifs proceeded to compare notes, in the course of which comparison the Slogger gave an outline of his recent history. He had been engaged in several successful burglaries, but had been caught in the act of pocket-picking, for which offence he had spent some weeks in prison. While there a visitor had spoken to him very earnestly, and advised him to try an honest life, as being, to say the least of it, easier work than thieving. He had made the attempt. Through the influence of the same prison-visitor he had obtained a situation, from which he had been advanced to the responsible position which he then held. “And, d’you know, Robin,” said the Slogger, “I find that honesty pays pretty well, and I means to stick to it.” “An’ I suppose,” said Robin, “if it didn’t pay pretty well you’d cut it?” “Of course I would,” returned the Slogger, with a look of surprise; “wot’s the use o’ stickin’ to a thing that don’t pay?” “Vell, if them’s your principles you ain’t got much to ’old on by, my tulip,” said Robin. “An’ wot principles may you ’old on by, my turnip?” asked the Slogger. “It would puzzle me, rather, to tell that,” returned Robin, “’specially talkin’ down to the level of my own toes on the top of a ’bus; but I’ll tell you what, Villum, if you’ll come to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square, just back of Hoboy Crescent, w’ere my master lives, on Sunday next at seven in the evenin’, you’ll hear an’ see somethin’ as’ll open your eyes.” “Ah! a meetin’-’ouse’?” said the Slogger, with a slight smile of contempt. “Music-’alls and publics is meetin’-’ouses, ain’t they?” “Ah, but they ain’t prayer-meetin’ ’ouses,” rejoined the Slogger. “Not so sure o’ that Villum. There’s a deal o’ prayer in such places sometimes, an’ it’s well for the wisitors that their prayers ain’t always answered. But our meetin’-’ouse is for more than prayer—a deal more; and there’s my young missus—a real angel—comes in, and ’olds forth there every Sunday evening to young fellers like you an’ me. You just come an’ judge for yourself.” “No thankee,” returned the Slogger. As he spoke a lady with a lap-dog made powerful demonstrations with her umbrella. The ’bus stopped, and the conductor attended to his duties, while Robin, who really felt a strong desire to bring his old comrade under an influence which he knew was working a wonderful change in himself, sat meditating sadly on the obstinacy of human nature. “I say, Robin,” said the Slogger, on resuming his perch, “d’you know I’ve found traces o’ that young gal as you took such a interest in, as runned away from the old ’ooman, an’ was robbed by Brassey an’ me?” “You don’t mean that!” exclaimed Robin eagerly. “Yes I do. She’s in London, I believe, but I can’t exactly say where. I heard of her through Sal—you know Sal, who ’angs out at the vest end o’ Potter’s Lane. I expect to see Sal in ’alf an hour, so if you’re comin’ back this way, I’ll be at the Black Bull by two o’clock, and tell you all I can pump out of ’er.” “I’ll be there sharp,” said Robin promptly; “an now pull up, for I must take to my legs here.” “But I say, Robin, if we do find that gal, you won’t split on me, eh? You won’t tell ’er who I am or where I is? You won’t wictimise your old friend?” “D’you take me for a informer?” demanded Robin, with an offended look. “Hall right,” cried the Slogger, giving the signal to drive on. Robin sped quickly away, executed his mission, and returned to the Black Bull in a state of considerable excitement and strong hope. Slidder was doomed to disappointment. He reached the Black Bull at two o’clock precisely. “Vell, my fair one,” he said, addressing a waiting-maid who met him in the passage, “it’s good for sore eyes to see the likes o’ you in cloudy weather. D’you ’appen to know a young man of the name of Sl— I mean Villum Bowls?” “Yes I do, Mr Imp’rence,” answered the girl. “You couldn’t introdooce me to him, could you, Miss Sunshine?” “No, I couldn’t, because he isn’t here, and won’t likely be back for two hours.” This reply took all the humour out of Robin’s tone and manner. He resolved, however, to wait for half an hour, and went out to saunter in front of the hotel. Half an hour passed, then another, then another, and the boy was fain to leave the spot in despair. Poor Slidder’s temperament was sanguine. Slight encouragement raised his hopes very high. Failure depressed him proportionally and woefully low, but, to do him justice, he never sorrowed long. In the present instance, he left the Black Bull grinding his teeth. Then he took to clanking his heels as he walked along in a way that drew forth the comments of several street-boys, to whom, in a spirit of liberality, he returned considerably more than he received. Then he began to mutter between his teeth his private opinion as to faithless persons in general, and faithless Villum, alias the Slogger, in particular, whose character he painted to himself in extremely sombre colours. After that, a heavy thunder-shower having fallen and drenched him, he walked recklessly and violently through every puddle in his path. This seemed to relieve his spirit, for when he reached Hoboy Crescent he had recovered much of his wonted equanimity. The Slogger was not however, so faithless as his old friend imagined. He had been at the Black Bull before two o’clock, but had been sent off by his employer with a note to a house at a considerable distance in such urgent haste that he had not time even to think of leaving a message for his friend. In these circumstances, he resolved to clear his character by paying a visit on the following Sunday to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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