CHAPTER TWO.
ANOTHER LITTLE "SPARK."
Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costslittle and expresses much.
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whetherwe regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence,recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity--having begun no doubt withAdam--or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by thewhistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by thelark, or sweetly by the little birds that "warble in the floweringthorn."
The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to drawthe reader's attention at present, is that which was exemplified oneNovember night (the same November night of which mention has been madein the previous chapter) by a small boy who, in his progress through thestreets of London, was arrested suddenly under the shadow of St. Paul'sby the bright glare and the tempting fare of a pastry-cook's window.
Being hungry, the small boy, thrusting his cold hands deep into hisempty trouser-pockets, turned his fat little face and round blue eyesfull on the window, and stared at the tarts and pies like a famishingowl. Being poor--so poor that he possessed not the smallest coin of therealm--he stared in vain; and, being light of heart as well as stout oflimb, he relieved his feelings by whistling at the food withinexpressible energy.
The air selected by the young musician was Jim Crow--a sable melody highin public favour at that time--the familiar strains of which hedelivered with shrill and tuneful precision, which intensified as hecontinued to gaze, until they rose above the din of cabs, vans, and'busses; above the house-tops, above the walls of the great cathedral,and finally awakened the echoes of its roof, which, coming out, from thecrevices and cornices where they usually slept, went dancing upwards onthe dome, and played around the golden cross that glimmered like a ghostin the dark wintry sky.
The music also awakened the interest of a tall policeman whose beat thatnight chanced to be St. Paul's Churchyard. That sedate guardian of thenight, observing that the small boy slightly impeded the thoroughfare,sauntered up to him, and just as he reached that point in the choruswhere Mr Crow is supposed to wheel and turn himself about, spun himround and gave him a gentle rap on the head with his knuckles, at thesame time advising him to move on.
"Oh!" exclaimed the small boy, looking up with an expression of deepconcern on his countenance, as he backed off the pavement, "I _hope_ Ididn't hurt you, bobby; I _really_ didn't mean to; but accidents willhappen, you know, an' if you won't keep your knuckles out of a feller'sway, why--"
"Come," muttered the policeman, "shut up your potato-trap for fear youcatch cold. Your mother wants you; she's got some pap ready for you."
"Ha!" exclaimed the small boy, with his head a little on one side, asthough he were critically inspecting the portrait of some curiousanimal, "a prophet it is--a blue-coated prophet in brass buttons, allbut choked with a leather stock--if not conceit. A horacle, six fut twoin its stockin's. I say, bobby, whoever brought you up carried you upmuch too high, both in body and notions. Wot _wouldn't_ they give for'im in the Guards, or the hoss-marines, if he was only eight incheswider across the shoulders!"
Seeing that the policeman passed slowly and gravely on withoutcondescending to take further notice of him, the small boy bade him anaffectionate farewell; said that he would not forget to mention himfavourably at head-quarters, and then continued his progress through thecrowded streets at a smart pace, whistling Jim Crow at the top of hisshrill pipe.
The small boy had a long walk before him; but neither his limbs,spirits, nor lips grew weary by the way. Indeed, his energies seemed toincrease with every step, if one might judge from the easy swagger ofhis gait, and the various little touches of pleasantry in which heindulged from time to time; such as pulling the caps over the eyes ofboys smaller than himself, winking at those who were bigger, utteringIndian war-whoops down alleys and lanes that looked as if they couldecho, and chaffing all who appeared to be worthy of his attentions.Those eccentricities of humour, however, did not divert his active mindfrom the frequent and earnest study of the industrial arts, as thesewere exhibited and exemplified in shop-windows.
"Jolly stuff that, ain't it?" observed another small boy, in a coat muchtoo long for him, as they met and stopped in front of a chocolate-shopat the top of Holborn Hill, where a steam-engine was perpetuallygrinding up such quantities of rich brown chocolate, that it seemedquite unreasonable, selfish, and dog-in-the-manger-ish of the young manbehind the counter to stand there, and neither eat it himself, nor letanyone else touch it.
"Yes, it's very jolly stuff," replied the first small boy, regarding hisquestioner sternly. "I know you'd like some, wouldn't you? Go in nowan' buy two pen'orth, and I'll buy the half from you w'en you come out."
"_Walker_!" replied the boy in the long coat.
"Just so; and I'd advise you to become a walker too," retorted theother; "run away now, your master's bin askin' after you for half anhour, _I_ know, and more."
Without waiting for a reply, the small boy (our small boy) swaggeredaway whistling louder than ever.
Passing along Holborn, he continued his way into Oxford Street, wherethe print-shop windows proved irresistibly attractive. They seemed alsoto have the effect of stimulating his intellectual and conceptivefaculties, insomuch that he struck out several new, and, to himself,highly entertaining pieces of pleasantry, one of which consisted ofasking a taciturn cabman, in the meekest of voices:
"Please, sir, you couldn't tell me wot's o'clock, could you?"
The cabman observed a twinkle in the boy's eye; saw through him; in ametaphorical sense, and treated him with silent contempt.
"Oh, I beg pardon, sir," continued the small boy, in the same meek tone,as he turned to move humbly away; "I forgot to remember that cabbiesdon't carry no watches, no, nor _change_ neither, they're much too wideawake for that!"
A sudden motion of the taciturn cabman caused the small boy to dartsuddenly to the other side of the crowded street, where he resumed hiseasy independent air, and his interrupted tune.
"Can you direct me to Nottin' Hill Gate, missus?" he inquired of anapplewoman, on reaching the neighbourhood of Tottenham Court Road.
"Straight on as you go, boy," answered the woman, who was busyingherself about her stall.
"Very good indeed," said the small boy, with a patronising air; "quitecorrectly answered. You've learnt geography, I see."
"What say?" inquired the woman, who was apparently a little deaf.
"I was askin' the price o' your oranges, missus."
"One penny apiece," said the woman, taking up one.
"They ain't biled to make 'em puff out, are they?"
To this the woman vouchsafed no reply.
"Come, missus, don't be cross; wot's the price o' yer apples now?"
"D'you want one?" asked the woman testily.
"Of course I does."
"Well, then, they're two a penny."
"Two a penny!" cried the small boy, with a look of surprise; "why, I'd'a said they was a penny apiece. Good evenin', missus; I never buyscheap fruit--cheap and nasty--no, no; good evenin'."
It seemed as if the current of the small boy's thoughts had beendiverted by this conversation, for he walked for some time with his eyescast on the ground, and without whistling, but whatever the feelingswere that might have been working in his mind, they were speedily put toflight by a facetious butcher, who pulled his hat over his eyes as hepassed him.
"Now then, pig-sticker, what d'ye mean by that?" he shouted, but as thebutcher walked on without deigning to reply, he let off his indignationby yelling in at the open door of a tobacco-shop and making off at abrisk run.
From this point in his progress, he became still more hilarious anddaring in his freaks, and turned aside once or twice into narrowstreets, where sounds of shouting or of music promised him freshexcitement.
On turning the corner of one of those streets, he passed a wide doorway,by the side of whi
ch was a knob with the word FIRE in conspicuousletters above it, and the word BELL below it. The small boy paused,caught his breath as if a sudden thought had struck him, and glancedround. The street was comparatively quiet; his heart beat high; heseized the bell with both hands, pulled it full out, and bolted!
Now it chanced that one of the firemen of the station happened to bestanding close to the door, inside, at the time. He, guessing themeaning of the ring at once, darted out and gave chase.
The small boy fled on the wings of terror, with his blue eyes startingfrom their sockets. The fireman was tall and heavy, but he was alsostrong and in his prime, so that a short run brought him up with thefugitive, whom he seized with a grip of iron.
"Now, then, young bottle-imp, what did you mean by that?"
"Oh! please, sir," gasped the small boy, with a beseeching look, "I_couldn't_ help it."
There was such a tone of truthfulness in this "_couldn't_" that ittickled the fireman. His mouth relaxed in a quiet smile, and, releasinghis intended victim, he returned to the station, while the small boydarted away in the direction of Oxford Street.
He had scarcely reached the end of the street, however, when a manturned the corner at full speed and ran him down--ran him down socompletely that he sent him head-over-heels into the kennel, and,passing on, darted at the fire-bell of the station, which he began topull violently.
The man was tall and dishevelled, partially clad in blue velvet, withstockings which had once been white, but were now covered from garter totoe with mud. One shoe clung to his left foot, the other was fixed bythe heel in a grating over a cellar-window in Tottenham Court Road.Without hat or coat, with his shirt-sleeves torn by those unfortunatesinto whose arms he had wildly rushed, with his hair streaming backwards,his eyes blood-shot, his face pale as marble, and perspiration runningdown his cheeks, not even his own most intimate friends would haverecognised Hopkins--the staid, softspoken, polite, and gentle Hopkins--had they seen him that night pulling like a maniac at the fire-bell.
And, without doubt, Hopkins _was_ a maniac that night--at least he wasafflicted with temporary insanity!
Fighting the Flames Page 2
