A comfortable evening at the Goose

When Mr. Bumpkin left the Mansion House, he was in a state of great triumph not to say ecstasy: for it seemed to him that he had had everything his own way. He was not cross-examined; no witnesses were called, and it had only been stated by the prisoner himself, not proved, although he said he should prove it at the trial, that the watch had been in the family for upwards of forty years.

“The biggest lie,” muttered Master Bumpkin, “that ever wur told.” And then he reasoned in this wise: “how could it a bin in his family forty year when he, Bumpkin, only lost it the day afore in the most barefaced manner? He was a pooty feller as couldn’t tell a better story than thic.”

And then methought in my dream, “Ah, Bumpkin, thou may’st triumph now, but little dreamest thou what is in store for thee at the trial. Wait till all those little insignificant points, hardly visible at present, shall rise, like spear-heads against thee at the Old Bailey and thrust thee through and through and make thee curse the advocate’s skill and the thief’s impudence and the inertness of the so-called Public Prosecutor: and mayhap, I know not yet, show thee how wrong and robbery may triumph over right and innocence. Thou hast raised thyself, good Bumpkin, from the humblest poverty to comparative wealth and a lawsuit: but boast not overmuch lest thou find Law a taskmaster instead of a Protector!

Thus, moralizing in my dream I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin after talking to some men betook himself to a Bus and proceeded on his way to the “Goose” at Westminster, whither he arrived in due time and in high spirits.

The Goose was a nice cosy public-house, situated, as I before observed, near the river side and commanded a beautiful view of the neighbouring wharves and the passing craft. It was a favourite resort of waterside men, carters, carriers, labourers on the wharf and men out of work. The Military also patronized it:—And many were the jovial tales told around the taproom hearth by members of Her Majesty’s troops to admiring and astonished Ignorance.

It was a particularly cold and bleak day, this ninth of March one thousand eight hundred and something. The wind was due East and accompanied ever and anon with mighty thick clouds of sleet and snow. The fireside therefore was particularly comfortable, and the cheery faces around the hearth were pleasant to behold.

Now Mr. Bumpkin, as the reader knows, was not alone in his expedition. He had his witness, named Joseph Wurzel: called in the village “Cocky,” inasmuch as it was generally considered that he set much by his wisdom: and was possessed of considerable attainments. For instance, he could snare a hare as well as any man in the county: or whistle down pheasants to partake of a Buckwheat refection which he was in the habit of spreading for their repast.

A good many fellows who were envious of Joe’s abilities avowed that “he was a regler cunnin’ feller, as ud some day find out his mistake;” meaning thereby that Joe would inevitably be sent to prison. Others affirmed that he was a good deal too cunning for that; that he was a regular artful dodger, and knew how to get round the vicar and all in authority under him. The reader knows that he was a regular attendant at Church, and by that means was in high favour. Nor was his mother behind hand in this respect, especially in the weeks before Christmas; and truly her religion brought its reward even in this world in the shape of Parish Gifts.

No doubt Joe was fond of the chase, but in this respect he but imitated his superiors, except that I believe he occasionally went beyond them in the means he employed.

Assembled in this common room at the Goose on the night in question, were a number of persons of various callings and some of no calling in particular. Most of them were acquainted, and apparently regular customers. One man in particular became a great favourite with Joe, and that was Jacob Wideawake the Birdcatcher; and it was interesting to listen to his conversation on the means of catching and transforming the London Sparrow into an article of Commerce.

Joe’s dress no doubt attracted the attention of his companions when he first made his appearance, for it was something out of the ordinary style: and certainly one might say that great care had been bestowed upon him to render his personal appearance attractive in the witness-box. He wore a wideawake hat thrown back on his head, thus displaying his brown country-looking face to full advantage. His coat was a kind of dark velveteen which had probably seen better days in the Squire’s family; so had the long drab waistcoat. His corduroy trousers, of a light green colour, were hitched up at the knees with a couple of straps as though he wore his garters outside. His neckerchief was a bright red, tied round his neck in a careless but not unpicturesque manner. Take him for all in all he was as fine a specimen of a country lad as one could wish to meet,—tall, well built, healthy looking, and even handsome.

Now Mr. Bumpkin, being what is called “a close man,” and prone to keep his own counsel on all occasions when it was not absolutely necessary to reveal it, had said nothing about his case before the Lord Mayor; not even Mrs. Oldtimes had he taken into his confidence. It is difficult to understand his motive for such secrecy, as it is impossible to trace in nine instances out of ten any particular line of human conduct to its source.

Acting probably on some vague information that he had received, Mr. Bumpkin looked into the room, and told Joe that he thought they should be “on” to-morrow. He had learned the use of that legal term from frequent intercourse with Mr. Prigg. He thought they should be on but “wur not sartin.”

“Well,” said Joe, “the sooner the better. I hates this ere hangin’ about.” At this Jack Outofwork, Tom Lazyman, and Bill Saunter laughed; while Dick Devilmecare said, “He hated hanging about too; it was wus than work.”

“And that’s bad enough, Heaven knows,” said Lazyman.

Then I saw that at this moment entered a fine tall handsome soldier, who I afterwards learned was Sergeant Goodtale of the One Hundred and twenty-fourth Hussars. A smarter or more compact looking fellow it would be impossible to find: and he came in with such a genial, good-natured smile, that to look at him would almost make you believe there was no happiness or glory on this side the grave except in Her Majesty’s service—especially the Hussars!

I also perceived that fluttering from the side of Sergeant Goodtale’s cap, placed carelessly and jauntily on the side of his head, was a bunch of streamers of the most fascinating red white and blue you ever could behold. Altogether, Sergeant Goodtale was a splendid sight. Down went his cane on the table with a crack, as much as to say “The Queen!” and he marched up to the fire and rubbed his hands: apparently taking no heed of any human being in the room.

Mr. Bumpkin’s heart leaped when he saw the military sight: his eyes opened as if he were waking from a dream out of which he had been disturbed by a cry of “fire:” and giving Joe a wink and an obviously made-up look, beckoned him out of the room. As they went out they met a young man, shabbily clad and apparently poorly fed. He had an intelligent face, though somewhat emaciated. He might be, and probably was, a clerk out of employment, and he threw himself on the seat in a listless manner that plainly said he was tired of everything.

This was Harry Highlow. He had been brought up with ideas beyond his means. It was through no fault of his that he had not been taught a decent trade: those responsible for his training having been possessed of the notion that manual labour lowers one’s respectability: an error and a wickedness which has been responsible for the ruin of many a promising youth before to-day.

Harry was an intelligent, fairly educated youth, and nothing more. What is to be done with raw material so plentiful as that? The cheapest marketable commodity is an average education, especially in a country where even our Universities can supply you with candidates for employment at a cheaper rate than you can obtain the services of a first-class cook. This young man had tried everything that was genteel: he had even aspired to literature: sought employment on the Press, on the Stage, everywhere in fact where gentility seemed to reign. Nor do I think he lacked ability for any of these walks; it was not ability but opportunity that failed him.

“Lookee ere, Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “harken to me. Don’t thee ’ave nowt to say to that there soger.”

“All right, maister,” said Joe, laughing; “thee thinks I be gwine for a soger. Now lookee ere, maister, I beant a fool.”

“No, thee beant, Joe. I knowed thee a good while, and thee beant no fool.”

Joe laughed. It was a big laugh was Joe’s, for his mouth was somewhat large, and a grin always seemed to twist it. On this occasion, so great was his surprise that his master should think he would be fool enough to enlist for a “soger,” that his mouth assumed the most irregular shape I ever saw, and bore a striking resemblance to a hole such as might be made in the head of a drum by the heel of a boot.

“I be up to un, maister.”

“Have no truck wi’ un, I tell ee; don’t speak to un. Thee be my head witness, and doant dare goo away; no, no more un if—”

“No fear,” said Joe. “’Taint likely I be gwine to listen to ee. I knows what he wants; he’s arter listin chaps.”

“Look ee ere, Joe, if ur speaks to thee, jist say I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un.”

“Right,” says Joe; “I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un straight.”

“Now, take heed; I’m gwine into the parlour wi’ Landlord.”

Accordingly, into the little quiet snuggery of Mr. Oldtimes, Mr. Bumpkin betook himself. And many and many an agreeable evening was passed with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes during the period when Mr. Bumpkin was waiting for his trial. For Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes being Somersetshire people knew many inhabitants of the old days in the village of Yokelton, where Mr. Bumpkin “were bred and born’d.”

Meanwhile the “head witness” had returned to the cheerful scene in the taproom, and sat leering out of the corners of his eyes upon the Sergeant, as though he expected every moment that officer would make a spring at him and have him upon the floor. But the Sergeant was not a bullying, blustering sort of man at all; his demeanour was quiet in the extreme. He scarcely looked at anyone. Simply engaged in warming his hands at the cheerful fire, no one had cause to apprehend anything from him.

But a man, Sergeant or no Sergeant, must, out of common civility, exchange a word now and then, if only about the weather; and so he said, carelessly,—

“Sharp weather, lads!”

Now, not even Joe could disagree with this; it was true, and was assented to by all; Joe silently acquiescing. After the Sergeant had warmed his hands and rubbed them sufficiently, he took off his cap and placed it on a little shelf or rack; and then took out a meerschaum pipe, which he exhibited without appearing to do so to the whole company. Then he filled it from his pouch, and rang the bell; and when the buxom young waitress appeared, he said,—

“My dear, I think I’ll have a nice rump steak and some onions, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” said the maid.

Now I observed that two or three matters were noteworthy at this point. First, Joe’s mouth so watered that he actually went to the fireplace and expectorated. Secondly, he was utterly amazed at the familiar manner in which the Sergeant was permitted to address this beautiful young person, who seemed to be quite a lady of quality. Thirdly, he was duly impressed and astounded with the luxurious appetite of this Sergeant of Hussars!

Then the young woman came back and said,—“Would you like to have it in the parlour, sir?”

“O no, my dear,” said the Sergeant; “I would rather have it here. I hate being alone.”

As he said this, he slightly glanced at Dick Devilmecare. Dick, flattering himself that the observation was addressed particularly to him, observed that he also hated being alone.

Then the Sergeant lighted his pipe; and I suppose there was not one in the company who did not think that tobacco particularly nice.

Next, the Sergeant rang again, and once more the pretty maid appeared.

“Lucy,” said he, “while my steak is getting ready, I think I’ll have three of whiskey hot, with a little lemon in it.”

At this there was an involuntary smacking of lips all round, although no one was conscious he had exhibited any emotion. The Sergeant was perfectly easy and indifferent to everything. He smoked, looked at the fire, sipped his grog, spread out his legs, folded his arms; then rose and turned his back to the fire, everyone thinking how thoroughly he enjoyed himself.

“That smells very nice, Sergeant,” said Harry.

“Yes, it’s very good,” said the Sergeant; “it’s some I got down at Yokelton, Somersetshire.”

Here Joe looked up; he hadn’t been home for a week, and began to feel some interest in the old place, and everything belonging to it.

“I comes from that ere place, Mr. Sergeant,” said he.

“Indeed, sir,” said the Sergeant, in an off-hand manner.

“Did thee buy un at a shop by the Pond, sir?”

“That’s it,” replied the Sergeant, pointing with his pipe, “to the right.”

“The seame plaace,” exclaimed Joe. “Why my sister lives there sarvant wi that ooman as keeps the shop.”

“Indeed!” said Sergeant Goodtale; “how very curious!”

And Jack said, “What a rum thing!”

And Bill said, “That is a rum thing!”

And Harry said it was a strange coincidence. In short, they all agreed that it was the most remarkable circumstance that ever was.