Scamp and I: A Story of City By-Ways

Could it be from Dick?

Well, that was certainly an unlikely guess. Dick, who was also in prison, able to write to another boy? He passed this thought by with a little laugh of derision.

His next idea was Flo.

He had been really in his own rough fashion fond of Flo, he had liked her pretty little face, and enjoyed in his flush and successful days bringing home dainties for her to cook for all their suppers. In spite of himself he had a respect for Flo, and though he might have loved her better if she had been willing to learn his trade, and help him in his thieving, yet the pluck she showed in keeping honest, roused a certain undefined respect within him.

But of all the ignorant children he ever met, he often said to himself that Flo was the most ignorant. Why she knew nothing of the world, nothing whatever.

How he had laughed at her ideas of earls and dukes and marquises – at her absurd supposition that she could be the queen.

Was there ever before in the records of man, a London child so outrageously ignorant as this same little Flo? She write him a letter! she had probably never heard of a letter.

Besides, even if she could write, would she? What were her feelings to Jenks now, that she should show him so great a kindness? He had broken his word to her, he had converted her brother, her much-loved, bright little brother, into a thief. By means of him he had tasted prison discipline, and was branded with a dishonest stain for ever. He remembered the reproach in her eyes when she stood in the witnesses’ box, and gave those funny little reluctant answers about him and Dick.

Even there too she had shown her ignorance, and proclaimed to the whole police-court that she was the greatest little simpleton that ever walked.

No, be she where she might now, poor child, it was his wildest guess of all to suppose that she could write to him.

Who wrote the letter? There was no one else left for him to guess, unless! but here his breath came quick and fast, the beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, he caught up the letter and gazed at it, a white fear stealing over him. No, thank God! He flung it down again with a gesture of intense relief – that was not her writing. She knew how to write, but not like that. She had not written to him. No, thank God! – he murmured this again fervently, – things were bad with him, but they had not come to such a dreadful pass as that. She thought him dead, drowned, come to a violent end; anyhow, done with this present life – she did not know that he, his honest, brave father’s only son, had stood in the prisoner’s dock, had slept in the dark cell, had worn the prisoner’s dress, with its mask, and distinguishing brand!

The chapel-bell rang; he started up, thrust his precious unopened letter into his pocket, adjusted his, mask, and walked with his fellow-prisoners in silent, grim, unbroken order into chapel.

Had any one looked beneath the mask, they would have seen, for the first time since perhaps his entrance into that prison, that the old sullen expression had left his face, that it wore a look of interest and satisfaction. He hugged his letter very close to his breast, and edged himself into the queer little nook allotted to him, from which he could just see the chaplain, and no one else. As a rule he either went to sleep in chapel, or made faces at the chaplain, or fired pellets of bread, which he kept concealed about him, at the other prisoners. On one occasion the spirit of all evil so far possessed him, that one of these, as hard as any shot, came with a resounding report on the mild nose of the then officiating chaplain, as he was fumbling for a loose sheet of his sermon, and nobody discovered that he was the offender. How often he had chuckled over this trick, over the discomfiture of the Rev. Gentleman, and the red bump which immediately arose on his most prominent feature; how often, how very often, he had longed to do it again. But to-day he had none of this feeling: if he had a thousand bread pellets ready, they might have lain quite harmless in his pocket. He was restless, however, and longed to get back to his cell, not to open his letter, he did not mean to do that until quite the evening, but to hold it in his hand, and turn it round and gaze at it; he was restless, and wished the hour and a quarter usually spent in chapel was over, and he looked around him and longed much to find somebody or something to occupy his attention, for Jenks never dreamed of joining in the prayers, or listening to the lessons.

The prison chapel is not constructed to enable the prisoners to gaze about them, and as the only individual Jenks could see was the chaplain, he fixed his eyes on him.

He did this with a little return of his old sullenness, for though he was a good man, and even Jenks admitted this, he was so tired of him. He had seen him so very, very often, in his cell and at chapel. After spending his life amid the myriad faces of London, Jenks had found the months, during which he had never gazed on any human countenance but that of his warder, the governor, chaplain, and doctor, interminably long.

He was sick of those four faces, sick of studying them so attentively, he knew every trick of feature they all possessed, and he was weary of watching them. But of all the four the face of the chaplain annoyed him most, perhaps because he had watched him so often in chapel. But to-day it might be a shade better to look at him than to gaze at the hard dead wood in front of his cell-like pew – so sullenly he raised his eyes to the spot where he expected to find him. He did so, then gave a start, and the sullenness passed away like a cloud; his lucky star was in the ascendant to-day – a stranger was in the chaplain’s place, he had a fresh face to study. He had a fresh face to study, and one that even in a London crowd must have occupied his attention. A man bordering on fifty, with grey hair, a massive chin, very dark, very deeply-set eyes, and an iron frame, stood before him.

Jenks hated effeminate men, so he looked with admiration at this one, and presently, the instincts of his trade being ever uppermost, began to calculate how best he could pick his pockets, and what a dreadful grip the stranger could give his – Jenks’ – throat with those great muscular hands.

Suddenly he felt a grip somewhere else, a pang of remorse going right through his hardened heart. The strange chaplain, for half an instant, had fixed his deep-set eyes on him, and immediately it began to occur to Jenks what a shameful fellow he must be to allow such a man as that to speak without listening to him.

The new face was so pleasing, that for a moment or two he made an effort to rouse himself, and even repeated “Our Father” beneath his breath, just to feel what the sensation was like. Then old habits overcame him – he fell asleep.

He was in a sound, sweet sleep, undetected by the warder, when suddenly a movement, a breath of wind, or perhaps the profound silence which reigned for a moment through the little chapel, awoke him – awoke him thoroughly. He started upright, to find that the stranger was about to deliver his text.

This was the text:

“And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest.”

The stranger’s voice was low and fervent; he looked round at his congregation, taking them all in, those old sinners, and young and middle-aged sinners, who, in the common acceptation of the term, were sinners more than other men.

He looked round at them, and then he gave it to them.

In that low fervent voice of his, his body bent a little forward, he opened out to them a revelation, he poured out on them the vials of God’s wrath. Not an idea had he of sparing them, he called things by their right names, and spoke of sin, such sin as theirs – drunkenness, uncleanness, thieving – as the Bible speaks of these things; and he showed them that every one of them were filthy and gone astray utterly.

When he said this – without ever raising his voice, but in such a manner, with such emphasis, that every word told home – he sketched rapidly two or three portraits for them to recognise if they would.

They were fancy portraits, but they were sketched from a thousand realities. The murderer’s last night in his cell – the drunkard with the legions of devils, conjured up by delirium tremens, clustering round him – the lost woman dying out in the snow. Then, when many heads were drooping with shame and terror, he suddenly and completely changed his tone.

With infinite pity in his voice he told them that he was sorry for them, that if tears of blood could help them, he would shed them for them.

Their present lives were miserable, degraded, but no words could tell what awaited them when God arose to execute vengeance.

On every man, woman, and child, that vengeance was coming, and was fully due. It was on its road, and when it overtook them, the dark cell, the whipping-post, solitary confinement for ever, would seem as heaven in comparison.

Then he explained to them why the vengeance was so sure, the future woe so inevitable.

“I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest.”

Did they know that? Then let them hear it now. Every time the thief stole, every time the drunkard degraded his reason, and sank below the level of the beasts; every time the boy and girl did the thousand and one little acts of deceit which ended so shamefully; then they crucified the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open shame.

It was Jesus of Nazareth whom they persecuted.

Would God allow such love as His Son’s love to be trampled on and used slightingly? No, surely. He had borne too long with them; vengeance was His, and He would repay.

When the minister had gone so far, he again changed his voice, but this time it changed to one of brightness.

He had not brought them to look at so dark a sight as their own sin and ruin without also showing them a remedy. For every one of them there was a remedy, a hiding-place from the wrath of God. Jesus, whom they persecuted, still loved them. Still loved them! Why, His heart was yearning over them, His pity, infinite, unfathomable, encompassing them. They were not too bad for Jesus – not a bit of it.

For such as them He died, for such as them He pleaded with His Father. If they came to Him – and nothing was easier, for He was always looking out for them – He would forgive them freely, and wash their souls in His blood, and make them ready for heaven. And while on earth He would help them to lead new lives, and walk by their sides Himself up the steep paths of virtue.

Such as they too wicked for Heaven? No, thank God. Jesus Himself led in the first thief into that holy place; and doubtless thousands such as he would yet be found around the throne of God!

There was dead silence when the preacher had finished; no eager shuffling and trooping out of chapel. The prisoners drew down their masks, and walked away in an orderly and subdued manner. No human eye could detect whether these men and women were moved by what they had heard or not. They were quieter than usual, that was all.

As for Jenks, he walked in his place with the others, and when he got to his cell, sat down soberly. His face was no longer dead and sullen, it had plenty of feeling, and excited feeling too. But the look of satisfaction he had worn when gazing at his letter was gone.

That parson had gone down straight, with his burning words, to the place where his heart used to be – had gone down, and found that same heart still there – nearly dead, it is true, but still there – and probed it to the quick.

He sat with his head buried in his hands, and began to think.

Old scenes and old memories rose up before the boy – pure scenes and holy memories. Once he had lisped texts, once he had bent his baby knees in prayer. How far off then seemed a prison cell and a criminal’s life!

Hitherto, ever since he had taken to his present career, he had avoided thought, he had banished old times. He had, even in the dark cell, kept off from his mental vision certain facts and certain events.

They were coming now, and he could not keep them off. O God! how his mother used to look at him, how his father used to speak to him!

Though he was a great rough boy, a hardened young criminal, tears rolled down his cheeks at the memory of his mother’s kiss. He wished that parson had not preached, he was thoroughly uncomfortable, he was afraid.

For the last year and more Jenks had made up his mind to be a thief in earnest. He called it his profession, and resolved to give up his life to it. The daring, the excitement, the false courage, the uncertainty, the hairbreadth escapes, all suited his disposition.

His prison episode had not shaken his resolve in the least. He quite determined, when the weary months of confinement were over, and he was once more free, to return to his old haunts and his old companions. He would seek them out, and expound to them the daring schemes he had concocted while in prison. Between them they would plan and execute great robberies, and never be taken – oh no. He, for one, had had his lesson, and did not need a second; happen what might, he would never again be taken. Not all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men, should again lay hands on him, or come between him and his freedom.

It was nonsense to say that every thief knew what prison was, and spent the greater part of his time in prison! He would not be down on his luck like that! He would prosper and grow rich, and then, when rich, he might turn honest and enjoy his money.

This was his plan – all for the present life. He had never given the other life a thought. But now he did; now, for the first time, he reflected on that terrible thing for any unforgiven soul to contemplate – the wrath of God.

Some day, however successful he might be in this life, he must die, and his naked soul appear before God; and God would ask him so many things, such a piled-up account of sins he would have to lay to his charge. And his father and mother would look on and reproach him, and God would pass sentence on him – he could not escape. He had crucified the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame!

Jenks was not ignorant, like Flo and Dick, he knew of these things. The thought in his mind became intolerable. He paced up and down his cell, and hailed with pleasure the welcome interruption of his Sunday dinner.

When it was finished, he again drew out his letter, hoping and wishing that the old feeling of satisfaction would return at sight of it. But it did not. Try as he might, it did not. He endeavoured to guess who sent it, but no fresh ideas would occur to him. He thought of Flo, and he thought of his mother – he fought against the thought of his mother, and endeavoured to push it away from him. But, struggle as he might, it would come back; and at last, in desperation, he opened the letter.

It was not a long letter when opened, but had appeared thick by reason of a little parcel it contained, a little parcel, wrapped in two or three folds of silver paper. Jenks looked at the parcel as it lay on his knee, then took it up and began to unfold it. His fingers trembled, he did not know why. He threw the parcel from him and spread out the letter to read. Not very much writing in it, and what there was, was printed in large round type. Motes began to dance before his eyes, he put down the letter, and again took up the parcel. This time he opened it, unwrapping slowly fold after fold of the soft paper. Two locks of hair fell out, a grey and a brown, tied together with a thread of blue silk. They dropped from Jenks’ fingers; he did not touch them. He gazed at them as they lay on the floor of his cell, the brown lock nearly hidden by the silver. A soft breeze came in and stirred them; he turned from them, gave them even a little kick away, and then, with a burning face, began to read his letter.

“Jenks, —

“I thot ’as yo’d like fur to no – yor mother ’ave furgiven yo, she nos as yo is a thif, and tho she may ’av freted a good bit at fust, she’s werry cherful now – she ’av the litel jackit, and trouses, and westkit, hal redy, as yo used to war wen a litel chap. She ’av them let hout hal rond, and they’l fit yo fine. She livs in the old place – wery butiful it his, and she ’av me, flo, livin’ wid ’er, and scamp to, we ’av livd yer hever sins yo and Dick was in prisin, and we both furgivs yo Jenks, wid hal our ’arts, and yor mother ses as yo is a comin’ bak wen the singin’ burds com, and the floers, and we’ll ’av a diner fur yo, and a welcom, and lov. yer mother don’t no as i is sendin’ this and i ’av kut orf a bit of ’er ’air, unknonst to ’er, and a bit of mi ’air to, widch shos as we thincs of yo, and furgivs yo; and Jenks, I wrot this mi own self, miss mary shoed me ’ow, and i ’av a lot mor in mi ’art, but no words, on’y god lovs yo, yor fond litel —

“flo.

“miss mary, she put in the stops.”

“I am Jesus of Nazareth, whom thou persecutest – it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”

This latter part of the text came back also to the boy’s memory; he bent his head over the odd little letter and saturated it with tears. He snatched up the two locks of hair and covered them with kisses.

His mother had forgiven him – his mother loved him.

She knew he was a thief, and she loved him.

How he had tried to keep this knowledge from her, how he had hoped that during these past three years she had supposed him dead! Her only son, and she a widow, dead! Far better – far, far better, than that she should believe him to be a thief!

He recalled now the last time he had seen her – he recalled, as he had never dared to do hitherto, the history of that parting. He had been wild for some time, irregular at school, and in many ways grieving his parents’ hearts; and his father, before he started on that last voyage, had spoken to him, and begged him to keep steady, and had entreated him, as he loved his mother, as he loved him, his father, as he loved his God, to keep away from those bad companions who were exercising so hateful an influence on his hitherto happy, blameless life. And with tears in his eyes, the boy had promised, and then his brave sailor father had kissed him, and blessed him, and gone away never to return again. And for a time Jenks was steady and kept his word, and his mother was proud of him, and wrote accounts, brilliant, happy accounts, of him to his father at sea. But then the old temptations came back with greater force than before, and the promise to his father was broken and forgotten, and he took really to bad ways.

His mother spoke to him of idleness, of evil companions, but she never knew, he felt sure, how low he had sunk, nor at last, long before he left her house, that he was a confirmed thief. He was a confirmed thief, and a successful thief, and he grew rich on his spoils.

One evening, however, as he expressed it, his luck went against him. He had been at a penny gaff, where, as usual, he had enriched himself at the expense of his neighbours. On his way home he saw a policeman dodging him – he followed him down one street and up another. The boy’s heart beat faster and faster – he had never been before a magistrate in his life, and dreaded the disgrace and exposure that would ensue. He managed to evade the policeman, and trembling, entered his home, and stole up the stairs, intending to hide in his own little bed-room. He reached it, and lay down on his bed. There was only a thin canvas partition between his tiny room and his mother’s. In that room he now heard sobs, and listening more intensely, heard also a letter being read aloud. This letter brought the account of his father’s death – he had died of fever on board ship, and been buried in the sea. His last message, the last thing he said before he died, was repeated in the letter.

“Tell wife, that Willie will be a comfort to her; he promised me before I went away to keep a faithful and good lad.”

The boy heard so far, then, stung with a maddening sense of remorse and shame, stole out of the house as softly as he had entered it – met the policeman at the door, and delivered himself into his hands; by him he was taken to the police-station, then to prison for a day or two.

But when he was free he did not return home, he never went home again. His mother might suppose him dead, drowned, but never, never as long as she lived should she know that he was a thief. For this reason he had given himself up to the policeman; to prevent his entering that house he had met him on the threshold and delivered himself up. And his only pure pleasure during the past guilty years was the hope that his mother knew nothing of his evil ways.

But now she did know, the letter said she did know. What suffering she must have gone through I what agony and shame! He writhed at the thought.

Then a second thought came to him – she knew, and yet she forgave him – she knew, and yet she loved him.

She was preparing for his return, getting ready for him.

Now that she was acquainted with the prison in which he was wearing out his months of captivity, perhaps she would even come on the day that captivity was over, perhaps she would meet him at the prison gates, and take his hand, and lead him home to the little old home, and show him the clothes of his innocent, happy childhood, ready for him to put on, and perhaps she would kiss him – kiss the face that had been covered with the prisoner’s mask – and tell him she loved him and forgave him! Would she do this, and would he go with her?

“I am Jesus whom thou persecutest.”

Back again came the sermon and its text to his memory.

“Every time you commit a theft, or even a much smaller sin, you persecute Jesus,” said the preacher.

Jenks had known about Jesus, but hitherto he had thought of Him simply as an historical character, as a very good man – now he thought of Him as a man good for him, a man who had laid down His life for him, and yet whom he persecuted.

If he went on being a thief he would persecute Jesus —that was plain. And little Flo had said in her letter that God loved him, God and Jesus loved him. Why, if this was so, if his mother loved him, and God loved him, and the old little bright home was open to him, and no word of reproach, but the best robe and the fatted calf waiting for him, would it be wise for him to turn away from it all? to turn back into that dark wilderness of sin, and live the uncertain, dangerous life of a thief, perhaps be unlucky, and end his days in a felon’s cell? And when it all was over – the short life – and no life was very long – to feel his guilty soul dragged before God to receive the full vials of the wrath of Him whom he had persecuted.

He was perplexed, overcome, his head was reeling; he cast himself full length on the floor of his cell – he could think no longer – but he pressed the grey lock and the brown to his lips.

Chapter Eighteen

God Calls His Little Servant

At last, carefully as they were all worked, and tedious as the job was, the jacket, vest, and trousers were finished. They were brushed, and rubbed with spirits of turpentine to remove every trace of grease, and then wrapped up carefully in a white sheet, with two pen’orth of camphor to keep off the moths, and finally they were locked up in Mrs Jenks’ box along with her Sunday gown, shawl, and bonnet.

Flo watched these careful preparations with unfeigned delight. She was quite as sure now as Mrs Jenks that the lad for whom such nice things were ready would come back in the spring. Every word of the letter her patient little fingers had toiled over had gone forth with a prayer, and there was no doubt whatever in her mind that the God who had given her her bed, and taken care of her, would do great things for Jenks also.

About this time, too, there actually came to her a little letter, a funnily-printed, funnily-worded little letter from Dick himself, in which he told her that he was learning to read and write, that his first letter was to her, that he was happy and doing well, and that never, no never, never, never would he be a thief any more; and he ended by hoping that when the spring came, Flo would pay him a little visit!

When this letter was shown to Miss Mary and to the widow, they agreed that when the spring came this should be managed, and not only Flo, but Miss Mary herself, and the widow, and Scamp, and perhaps the widow’s lad, should pay Dick a visit. And Flo pictured it all often in her mind, and was happy.