The whole of the front of my master’s house seemed to be devoted to business. The ground floor was quite open, with furniture of every description piled up to the ceiling; and from the windows above hung hearth-rugs, pieces of carpet, long strings of tinware, brushes, and so on, sufficient in my eyes to supply the entire population of Great Britain.
He seemed to deal in every household requisite; the number and variety of articles for sale were quite bewildering, and to an unpractised eye appeared to be piled up anyhow on either side, without any regard to law or order, leaving a small narrow lane only to travel in and out.
Down this lane came the boy Jim, Mr. Harkaway’s son and heir, a lad of twelve years, who hailed his father with a sullen visage, and the inquiry, ‘Now, then, what do you want?’
‘Take the nags round,’ said Mr. Harkaway, ‘and give ’em both a feed. You need not be particular with the new one, Blossom—he’s done no work to-day.’
‘Will he kick?’ asked Jim.
‘Quiet as a lamb,’ replied his father; and the boy, with rather a suspicious look at me, led Sam round the corner, and I perforce followed.
32Mr. Harkaway’s stable was certainly a most abominable hole, bad enough to kill any horse fresh from the country with the look of it; but as I afterwards learnt from Sam and my own sad experience, there were hundreds of worse places, where even man himself was glad to dwell—indeed, an entire family lived and slept in a wretched room over our wretched stable.
Jim gave Sam a pretty good feed, and me a handful of hay; after this he made up two slovenly beds for us, and retired for the night. I was glad when he was gone, as I wanted to be alone with Sam, for I was burning with curiosity to hear what sort of life was in store for me.
Sam attacked the food given to him as if he were in need of it, and went on munching for some time without a word; and I kept silent, fearing that any remarks I might make would be deemed intrusive, and thus defeat the end I had in view. We were only divided by a pole, so that even lying down it would be easy to converse, and I waited patiently. Sam munched his food to the last wisp of hay and kernel of corn; then settling down, condescended to address me.
‘Well, youngster,’ he said, with a sort of grunt, ‘where do you hail from?’
‘Upton,’ I replied.
‘Country,’ returned Sam. ‘Ah! you will find it different here.’
‘I am afraid so,’ I replied softly, with a sigh.
‘There is a little life here,’ continued Sam, who apparently had not heard my remark. ‘No trotting about for miles and seeing nothing but hedgerows and trees and fields full of grass and corn, tantalizing a hungry horse to death; no brooks to wet your feet and legs by crossing, and not half the flies to bother you. We have flies, of course, but they don’t seem half so hungry as they are in the country—it’s the air, I suppose.’
‘The country air is supposed to give an appetite,’ I remarked, not caring to say too much in praise of the country at present.
‘That is why I hate it,’ growled Sam. ‘Harkaway goes into the country sometimes, and brings me home so horribly sharp that I could eat my halter, but he gives me no more corn: a feed is a feed to him, although it may not be more than half 33a feed to me. Harkaway is wretchedly stupid; but most men are like him.’
I coughed an assent to this, and Sam went on for awhile grumbling about the short allowance of corn he received, until I thought I might venture to ask for a little information about my master. Sam, to my joy, received my inquiries in a very amiable spirit.
‘Harkaway,’ he said, ‘is a furniture dealer, principally second-hand. He will buy anything, from the lid of a saucepan to an entire house of furniture, and will gladly sell the same if he can realize a fair or an unfair profit. He calls it “turning an honest penny;” but honest as it may be, I have heard him tell the most abominable falsehoods while transacting the most simple acts of business. He will declare, with all the solemnity of a man upon oath, that he gave so-and-so for such a thing, and that he will lose by the transaction, when he knows it did not cost him half the money, and that he will realize a very respectable profit.’
‘It is very sad,’ I said.
‘And it is also absurd,’ returned Sam; ‘for no man believes him—they know as well as he does that he sells for profit, and profit alone; as for any motive of philanthropy, you won’t find such a thing in men of the Harkaway class.’
‘You say the furniture is second-hand,’ I said; ‘where does he get it from?’
‘Mostly from homes where ruin has stepped in, an unwelcome guest,’ replied Sam solemnly. ‘When a man gets into difficulties, his landlord seizes his furniture, and sells it for rent. Upon these occasions the goods are generally put up by auction, and then Harkaway buys with the rest of the public. But very often the ruined tenant is not only ruined, but a man of bad principles; then he calls in my master, sells everything he has, and goes away with every debt unpaid. These are very profitable transactions, for he generally gets the goods at his own price.’
‘But are not some of these seizures oppressive?’ I asked.
‘Very,’ replied Sam. ‘Some landlords are very harsh, and turn the widow and orphan into the streets without the least remorse.’
34‘What becomes of them?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Sam, shaking his head; ‘when you have been in London a year or two, you will have seen enough to guess what becomes of the helpless and unfortunate.’
‘Tell me something about Mr. Harkaway’s family,’ I said; ‘give me an idea of his character.’
‘Call him Harkaway—we have no misters this side of the water,’ replied Sam. ‘So you want an idea of his character and family. Well, here it is. Harkaway is a sordid, grasping man, who has not an idea beyond making money; it is never out of his thought—he dreams pounds, shillings, and pence, I think. His idea of everything is, what is it worth, and what will it fetch? He would die of despair in Paradise, if there was nothing to buy and sell. His wife is just like him, and when a bad bargain is made, which sometimes happens, they mourn together like parents bereaved of a promising family. Jim is their son. Nursed and cradled upon the pounds, shillings, and pence idea, he has no love, no sentiment, no religion—he possesses nothing which helps to make man noble; and I verily believe that, young as he is, he would sell his parents for five shillings, if anybody would be rash enough to buy them. He feels no love or gratitude towards them; he is cold, crafty, and cruel to a terrible degree; he tortures insects, beats dogs, and pinches children like a little ogre; and the day is not far distant when he will prove a thorn in the side of the parents who have made him what he is.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘I cannot precisely tell,’ replied Sam. ‘But such children mostly develop into lovers of low dissipation; they haunt music halls and low dancing saloons, spending, in a manner quite at variance with their sordid nature, the money accumulated by the craft of their parents. I have known many such, and I can see this boy is already in the downward road.’
I said I was sorry to hear it, and hoped Sam would prove to be a false prophet for the boy’s sake. Sam grunted something in reply, and gave out signs of falling asleep. As I had now learned all I cared to know for the present, I said no more, and we were soon both enjoying sound repose.