by R S Surtees
“What’n a chap is your old gen’leman?” inquired the “first pair boy out,” who, having been in service himself, where he might have remained if he could have kept sober, had still a curiosity to know how the world of servitude went on.
“Oh, hang’d if I knows,” replied Benjamin, “precious rum ‘un I assure you. Whiles, he’s well enough — then it’s Bin this, and Bin that, and Bin you’ll be a werry great man, Bin, and such like gammon; and then the next minute, praps, he’s in a reg’lar sky-blue, swearin’ he’ll cut my liver and lights out, or bind me apprentice to a fiddler — but then I knows the old fool, and he knows he carnt do without me, so we just battle on the best way we can together,” added Ben with a knowing toss of his head.
“You’ll have good wage I ‘spose,” rejoined Samuel, with a sigh, for his “governor” only gave him ten pounds a year, and no perquisites, or “stealings” as the Americans honestly call them.
“Precious little of that I assure you,” replied Benjamin— “at least the old warment never pays me. He swears he pays it to our old ‘oman; but I believe he pockets it himself, an old ram; but I’ll have a reckoning with him some of these odd days, or I’ll be off to the diggins. “What’n a blackguard’s your master?” now asked Ben, thinking to get some information in return.
“Hush!” replied Samuel, astonished at Ben’s freedom of speech, a thing not altogether understood in the country.
“A bad ‘un I’ll be bund,” continued the little rascal, “or he wouldn’t see you mooning about in such a rumbustical apology for a coat, with laps that scarce cover you decently;” reaching behind the aged post-boy, and taking up Mr. Samuel’s fan-tail as he spoke. “I never sees a servant in a cutty-coat, without swearing his master’s a screw. Now these droll things such as you have on, are just vot the great folks in London give their flunkeys to carry coals, and make up fires in, but never to go staring from home with. Then your country folks get hold of them, and think by clapping such clowns as you in them, to make people believe that they have other coats at home. Tell the truth now, old baggy-breeches, have you another coat of any sort?”
“Yee’as,” replied Samuel Strong, “I’ve a fustian one.”
“Vot, you a fustian coat!” repeated Benjamin in astonishment, “vy I thought you were a flunkey!”
“So I am,” replied Samuel, “but I looks ater a hus and shay as well.”
“Crikey!” cried Benjamin, “here’s a figure futman wot looks arter a ‘oss and chay — Vy you’ll be vot they call a man of “all vork,” a wite nigger — a wite Uncle Tom in fact! dear me,” added he, eyeing him in a way that drew a peal of laughter from the party, “vot a curious beast you must be! I shouldn’t wonder now if you could mow?”
“With any man,” replied Samuel, thinking to astonish Benjamin with his talent, —
“And sow?”
“Yee’as and sow.”
“And ploo?” (plough.)
“Never tried — dare say I could though.”
“And do you feed the pigs?” inquired Benjamin.
“Yee’as when Martha’s away.”
“And who’s Martha?”
“Whoy she’s a widder woman, that lives a’ back o’ the church. — She’s a son a-board a steamer, and she goes to see him whiles.”
“Your governor’s an apothecary, I suppose by that queer button,” observed Benjamin, eyeing Sam’s coat. “Wot we call a chemist and druggist in London. Do you look after the red and green winder bottles now? Crikey, he don’t look as though he lived on physic altogether, do he?” added Benjamin turning to Bill Brown, the helper, amid the general laughter of the company.
“My master’s a better man than ever you’ll be, you little ugly sinner,” replied Samuel Strong, breaking into a glow, and doubling a most serviceable-looking fist on his knee.
“We’ve only your word for that,” replied Benjamin, “he don’t look like a werry good ‘un by the way he rigs you out. ‘Ow many slaveys does he keep?”
“Slaveys,” repeated Samuel, “slaveys, what be they?”
“Vy cook-maids and such like h’animals — women in general.”
“Ow, two — one to clean the house and dress the dinner, t’other to milk the cows and dress the childer.”
“Oh, you ‘ave childer, ‘ave you, in your ‘ouse?” exclaimed Benjamin in disgust. “Well come, our’s is bad, but we’ve nothing to ekle (equal) that. I wouldn’t live where there are brats for no manner of consideration.”
“You’ve a young Missis, though, haven’t you?” inquired the aged post-boy, adding, “at least there was a young lady came down in the chay along with the old folk.”
“That’s the niece,” replied Benjamin— “a jolly nice gal she is too — often get a tissy out of her — That’s to say, she don’t give me them herself exactly, but the young men as follows her do, so it comes to the same thing in the end. She has a couple of them you see, first one pays, and then t’other. Green, that’s him of Tooley Street, gives shillings because he has plenty; then Stobbs wot lives near Boroughbridge, gives half-crowns, because he hasn’t much. Then Stobbs is such a feller for kissin’ of the gals.— ‘Be’have yourself or I’ll scream,’ I hears our young lady say, as I’m a listenin’ at the door. ‘Don’t,’ says he, kissin’ of her again, ‘you’ll hurt your throat, — let me do it for you.’ Then to hear our old cove and Stobbs talk about ‘unting of an evening over their drink, you’d swear they were as mad as ‘atters. They jump, and shout, and sing, and talliho! till they whiles bring the street-keeper to make them quiet.”
“You had a fine run t’other day, I hear,” observed Joe, the deputy-helper, in a deferential tone to Mr. Brady.
“Uncommon!” replied Benjamin, shrugging up his shoulders at the recollection of it, and clearing the low bars of the grate out with his toe.
“They tell me your old governor tumbled off,” continued Joe, “and lost his ‘oss.”
“Werry like,” replied Benjamin with a grin, “he generally does tumble h’off. I’m dashed if it ar’nt a disgrace to an ‘oss to be ridden by such a lubber! A great fat beast! he’s only fit for a vater carriage.” Haw! haw! haw! haw! haw! haw! went the roar of laughter among the party; haw! haw! haw! haw! haw! pealed the second edition.
“He’s a precious old file too,” resumed the little urchin, elated at the popularity he was acquiring, “to hear him talk, I’m blow’d if you wouldn’t think he’d ride over an ‘ouse, and yet somehow or other, he’s never seen after they go away, unless it be bowling along the ‘ard road; — t’other mornin’ we had as fine a run as ever was seen, and he wanted to give in in the middle of it, and yesterday he stood starin’ like a stuck pig in the wood, stead of ridin’ to his ‘ounds. If I hadn’t been as lively as a lark, and lept like a louse, we should never have seen an ‘ound no more. They’d have run slap to France, or whatever there is on the far side of the hill, if the world’s made any further that way. Well, I rides, and rides, for miles and miles, as ‘ard as ever the ‘oss could lay legs to the ground, over every thing, ‘edges, ditches, gates, stiles, rivers, determined to stick by ’em, — see wot a mug I’ve got with rammin through the briars — feels just as if I’d had it teased with a pair of wool-combs; howsomever, I did, and I wouldn’t part company with them, and the consequence was, we killed the fox — my eyes, such a wopper! — longer than that,” said he, stretching out both his arms, “and as big as abull — fierce as fury — flew at my snout — nearly bit it off — kept a hold of him though — and worried his soul out — people all pleased — farmer’s wife in particklar — offered me a drink o’ milk — axed for some jackey — had none, but gave me whiskey instead, — Vill any man here sky a copper for a quartern of gin?” inquired Benjamin, looking round the party. “Then who’ll stand a penny to my penny, and let me have a first go?” No one closing with either of these handsome offers, Ben took up his tops, looked at the soles, then replacing them before the fire, felt in his stable-jacket-pocket, which was lying over h
is own saddle, and bringing out a very short dirty old clay-pipe, he filled it out of the public tobacco-box of the saddle-room, and very complacently crossing his legs, proceeded to smoke. Before he had time to make himself sick, the first pair boy out, interrupted him by asking what became of his master during the run.
“Oh! dashed if I know,” replied Benjamin, “but that reminds me of the best of the story — We killed our fox you see, and there were two or three ‘ossmen up, who each took a fin and I took the tail, which I stuck through my ‘oss’s front, and gathering the dogs, I set off towards home, werry well pleased with all I had done. Well, after riding a very long way, axing my way, for I was quite a stranger, I came over a hill at the back of the wood, where we started from, when what should I see in the middle of a big ploughed field but the old ‘un himself, an ‘unting of his ‘oss that had got away from him. There was the old file in his old red coat and top-boots, flounderin’ away among the stiff clay, with a hundredweight of dirt stickin’ to his heels, gettin’ the ‘oss first into one corner and then into another, and all but catchin’ hold of the bridle, when the nag would shake his head, as much as to say, ‘Not yet, old chap,’ and trot off to the h’opposite corner, the old ‘un grinnin’ with h’anger and wexation, and followin’ across the deep wet ridge and furrow in his tops, reg’larly churnin’ the water in them as he went.
“Then the ‘oss would begin to eat, and Jorrocks would take ‘Bell’s Life’ or ‘The Field’ out of his pocket, and pretend to read, sneaking nearer and nearer all the time. When he got a few yards off, the ‘oss would stop and look round, as much as to say, ‘I sees you, old cock,’ and then old J. would begin coxin’— ‘Whoay, my old feller, who-ay — who-ay, my old bouy,’ (Benjamin imitating his master’s manner by coaxing the old post-boy), until he got close at him again, when the ‘oss would give a half-kick and a snort, and set off again at a quiet jog-trot to the far corner again, old J. grinnin’ and wowin’ wengeance against him as he went.
“At last he spied me a lookin’ at him through the high ‘edge near the gate at the corner of the field, and cuttin’ across, he cried, ‘Here Binjimin! Binjimin, I say!’ for I pretended not to hear him, and was for cuttin’ away, ‘lend me your quad a minute to go and catch mine upon;’ so, accordingly, I got down, and up he climbed. ‘Let out the stirrups four ‘oles,’ said he, quite consequential, shuffling himself into his seat; ‘Vot you’ve cotched the fox ‘ave ye?’ said he, lookin’ at the brush danglin’ through the ‘ead stall. ‘Yes,’ says I to him says I, ‘we’ve cotched him.’ Then vot do you think says he to me? Vy, says he to me, says he, ‘Then cotch my ‘oss,’ and away the old wagrant went, ‘oss, ‘ounds, brush, and all, tellin’ everybody he met as how he’d cotched the fox, and leavin’ me to run about the ploughed land after his great hairy-heel’d nag — my tops baint dry yet and never will, I think,” added Benjamin, putting them closer to the fire, and giving it another poke with his toe.
“What’n ‘osses does he keep?” inquired the return post-boy.
“Oh, precious rips, I assure you, and no mistake. Bless your ‘eart, our old chap knows no more about an ‘oss than an ‘oss knows about him, but to hear him talk — Oh, Crikey! doesn’t he give them a good character, especial ven he wants to sell vun. He von’t take no one’s adwice neither. Says I to him t’other mornin’ as he was a feelin’ of my ‘oss’s pins, ‘That ere ‘oss would be a precious sight better if you’d blister and turn him out for the vinter.’ ‘Blister and turn him out for the vinter! you little rascal,’ said he, lookin’ as though he would eat me, ‘I’ll cut off your ‘ead and sew on a button, if you talks to me about blisterin’.’ Says I to him, says I, ‘You’re a thorough-bred old hidiot for talking as you do, for there isn’t a grum in the world . what doesn’t swear by blisters!’ I’d blister a cork leg if I had one,” added Benjamin, “so would any grum. Blisterin’ against the world, says I, for everything except the worms. Then it isn’t his confounded stupidity only that one has to deal with, but he’s such an unconscionable old screw about feeding of his ‘osses — always sees every feed put afore them, and if it warn’t for the matter of chopped inions (onions) that I mixes with their corn, I really should make nothing out of my stable, for the old ‘un pays all his own bills, and orders his own stuff, and ven that’s the case those base mechanics of tradesmen never stand nothin’ to no one.”
“And what do you chop the onions for, Mr. Benjamin?” inquired Samuel Strong.
“Chop inions for!” exclaimed Ben with astonishment, “and is it possible that you’ve grown those great fiery viskers on either side of your chuckle head and not be hup to the chopped inion rig? My eyes, but you’ll never be able to keep a gal, I think! Vy you double-distilled fool—”
“Come, sir,” interrupted Samuel, again doubling his enormous fist, that would almost have made a head for Benjamin, amid a general roar of laughter, “keep a clean tongue in your head, or I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
“Oh, you’re a man of that description, are you!” exclaimed Benjamin, pretending to be in a fright, “you don’t look like a dentist either somehow — poor hignorant hass. Vy the chopped inion rig be just this — you must advance a small brown out of your own pocket to buy an inion, and chop it werry small. Then s’pose your chemist and druggist chap gives his ‘oss four feeds a-day (vich I s’pose will be three more nor he does), and sees the grain given, which some wicked old warmints will do, you take the sieve, and after shakin’ the corn, and hissin’ at it well, just take half a handful of chopped inion out of your jacket pocket, as you pass up to the ‘oss’s ‘ead, and scatter it over the who’ats, then give the sieve a shake, and turn the whole into the manger. The governor seeing it there, will leave, quite satisfied that the ‘oss has had his dues, and perhaps may get you out of the stable for half an hour or so, but that makes no odds, when you goes back you’ll find it all there, and poulterers like it none the worse for the smell of the inions. That, and pickin’ off postage-stamps, is about the only parquisite I has.”
“Now, Mr. von eye,” said he, turning to Bill Brown, the one-eyed helper, “is it time for my ‘osses to have their bucket of water and kick in the ribs?”
The time for this luxurious repast not having arrived, Benjamin again composed himself in his corner with his pipe, and the party sat in mute astonishment at his wonderful precocity.
The return post-boy (whose time was precious) at length broke silence, by asking Benjamin if he was living with his first master.
“Deed am I,” replied Ben, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “and had I known as much of sarvice as I does now, I’d have staid at school all my life — Do what they will at school, they carn’t make you larn, and there’s always plenty of playtime. Crikey, ’ow well I remembers the day our old cock kidnapped me. Me and putty-faced Joe, and Peter Pink-eye Rogers, were laying our heads together how we could sugar old mother Gibb’s milk, that’s she as keeps the h’apple and purple sugar-stick stall by the skittle-ground at the Royal Artilleryman, on Pentonville Hill; vell, we were dewising how we should manage to get her to give us tick for two pennorth of Gibraltar-rock, when Mr. Martin, the ‘ead master, and tail master too, I may call him, for he did all the flogging, came smiling in with a fat stranger at his ‘eels, in a broad-brimmed caster, and ‘essian boots with tassels, werry much of the cut of old Paul Pry, that they used to paint upon the ‘busses and pint pots, though I doesn’t see no Paul Prys now a-days.
“Well, this ’ere chap was old Jorrocks, and h’up and down the school he went, lookin’ first at one bye (boy) and then at another, the master all the while hegging him on, just as the old ‘un seemed to take a fancy, swearing they was all the finest byes in the school, just as I’ve since ‘eard old J. himself chaunting of his ‘osses ven he’s ‘ad one for to sell, but still the old file was difficult to suit — some were too long in the body, some in the leg, others too short, another’s ‘ead was too big, and one whose nose had been flattened by a brick-bat from
a Smithfield drover’s bye, didn’t please him. Well, on he went, h’up one form, down another, across the rest, until he got into the middle of the school, where the byes sit face to face, with their books on their knees, instead of havin’ a desk afore them, and the old cock havin’ got into the last line, began h’examining of them werry closely, fearin’ he was not goin’ for to get suited.
“‘Werry rum, Mr. Martin,’ said he, ‘werry rum, I’ve been to the kilt and bare-legged school in ‘Atton Garding, the green coat and yellow breeches in ‘Ackney, the red coat and blue vestkits at ‘Olloway, the skyblues and jockey-caps at Paddington Green, and found nothin’ at all to my mind; must be gettin’ out of the breed of nice little useful bouys, I fear,’ said he, and just as he said the last words, he came afore me, with his ‘ands behind his back, and one ‘and was open as if he wanted summut, so I spit in it.
“‘Hooi! Mr. Martin,’ roared he, jumpin’ round, ‘here’s a bouy spit in my ‘and! the biggest gog wotever was seen!’ showing his mauley to Martin with it all runnin’ off; and Martin seeing who was behind, werry soon fixed upon me— ‘You little dirty, disreputable ‘bomination,’ said he, seizing of me by the collar, at least wot should have been a collar, for at the Corderoy’s they only give us those quaker-like upright sort of things, such as old fiery-face there,” looking at Samuel Strong, “has on. Says Martin to me, says he, laying hold on me werry tight, ‘vot the deuce and old Davey, do you mean by insultin’ a gen’leman that will be Lord Mayor? Sir, I’ll flog you within half a barley-corn of your life!’
“‘Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon, sir,’ I cried, ‘thought the gen’leman had a sore ‘and, and a little hointment’d do it good.’
“‘Haw! haw! haw!’ roared Jorrocks, taking out a red cotton wipe and rubbing his ‘and dry, ‘haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Martin, werry good — promisin’ bouy that, I thinks, promisin’ bouy that, likes them with mischief — likes them with mischief, poopeys (puppeys) and bouys — never good for nothin’ unless they ‘ave. — Don’t you mind,’ said he, pokin’ Martin in the ribs with his great thick thumb, ‘don’t you mind Beckford’s story ‘bout the pointer and the turkeys?’ Martin didn’t, so J. proceeded to tell it afore all the school. ‘Ye see,’ said he, ‘a gent gave another a pointer poop, and enquiring about it a short time arter, the gent who got it said he feared it wasn’t a goin’ to do him any good, cos as how it hadn’t done him any ‘arm. But meetin’ him again a fortnight arter, he changed his tune, and thought well on him, for,’ says he, ‘he’s killed me heighteen turkeys since I saw you — haw! haw! haw! — he! he! he! — ho! ho! ho!’ — a guffaw in which the saddle-room party joined.”
