[... back to menu for this book]
[-200-]
"DEPUTY" AT PUGMASTER'S.
PUGMASTER'S Lodging House is one of a row that skulks in a blind alley
between Bishopsgate Street and Whitechapel. There used to be a double row in the
alley; but a few years since Metropolitan Improvements assaulted the shameful
"no thoroughfare" with a vigour that threatened the entire
annihilation of Pugmaster and all his crew. Having succeeded in demolishing one
side of the way, Metropolitan Improvement faltered in its virtuous intention,
let the cleared site on a building lease, backed out of the alley with its
implements of demolition, and has not been heard of since. The building erected
on the reclaimed ground is a metal warehouse - a store on an extensive scale for
all manner of castings in brass and copper of a handy and portable description.
It is well known that "metal" of all kinds has an irresistible
attraction for thieves and vagabonds of the type common to Pugmaster's Alley. A
few pounds' weight of it are easily stowed away, and, as a rule, there are
difficulties in identifying it.
Then, again, whatever may be its character or quality, it is
"worth its weight ;" and, despite all laws and Acts of Parliament to
the contrary, any quantity of it, from half a pound to half a hundredweight, may
be turned into ready money in the twinkling of a marine-store dealer's
scale-beam. The metal warehouse stands with its back to the alley; and the only
outlet or look-out [-201-] into it from the blank
brick wall is a sort of half-door, half-window, at which, occasionally, goods
are delivered. It is an ordinary window, secured - as may plainly be seen from
the outside - only with an ordinary catch. The opening is not more than eight
feet from the ground, and it might safely be wagered that any night there might
be found in Pugmaster's Alley twenty active young fellows both able and willing
to make an entry by that window in as little time as it takes to count ten. Nor
is it any secret to that twenty - nay, to the fifty times twenty that nightly
find harbourage in the alley, one and all of whom are afflicted with a hankering
after metal - that, entrance to the warehouse once gained, the plunder of
valves, taps, hinges, and fine compact, weighty caps for axletrees, would be
almost inexhaustible. Yet for six years has that metal warehouse remained as
safe from molestation as though a troop of soldiery, similar to that which
guards the Bank of England nightly passed its threshold.
Why was this ? I put the question to the person I deemed best
able to answer; and he responded with a grin and a chuckle that seemed to make
even his wooden leg quiver. We were in the warehouse in which was the window
overlooking Pugmaster's Alley. Peering cautiously to make sure that he was not
overheard, he replied,
"It's the rummiest thing you ever heard tell of. I don't
know who put the rumour about, but I'll swear I didn't. They've got hold of it
somehow that I sleeps on a bench under this winder, and that I never lays down
without having my poleaxe just handy, and that I have swore a oath to chop down
the first one that tries at that winder. I've swore to give 'em no warning, but
to wait till whichever of 'em it is raises the sash and [-202-]
puts in his head and shoulders, to chop him down like a bullock."
This was Giles, the sole after-dark resident and custodian of
the warehouse - a sinister-looking, broad-shouldered, squat-built old gentleman,
who had seen much naval service in his earlier days, and who, though he has
enjoyed a pension for at least twenty years past, is still as tough as
rhinoceros hide.
"Then there is no truth in the rumour ?" said
I; but at that moment there appeared in the passage of Pugmaster's lodging
house - it was not more than half a dozen yards across the alley, and our window
was open - a villanous figure of a man with soldering-irons sticking out of the
pocket of his greasy, ragged jacket, as though to give colour to his pretence of
being a brazier. Mr Giles nudged me, and looking another way, remarked solemnly,
as though in continuation of our conversation- "I'd split his skull just
like a sheep's head is split, if I had to stand my trial for it." I was
quite aware that the remark was intended for the edification of the brazier, but
if he heard it it had no great effect on him. He merely scowled and snorted; but
that may have been his ordinary morning salutation to a world that could not
appreciate his honest efforts.
This same old Giles the watchman had first excited my
curiosity respecting Pugmaster's. The street-door of Pugmaster's was never shut.
It was the only means of lighting the dingy kitchen at the end of the passage by
day, and at night it stood wide open for the accommodation of lodgers. It was
held back by a large stone, the face of which was rubbed smooth and polished by
the friction of trousers' legs and of female skirts. On this stone did
Pugmaster's Deputy sit of evenings before the [-203-] press
of business began, and smoke his short pipe, and talk with Mr Giles, who, after
the warehouse was closed, frequently sat at his window and smoked his pipe.
Sometimes the watchman would so far unbend as to read the
murders out of the weekly newspaper to the attentive young man sitting on the
stone in the opposite passage, and who, I really believe, setting aside the
pole-axe, entertained great respect and admiration for Mr Giles. "Any time
when you would like to go over Pugmaster's, say the word, sir, and I'll go with
you," Mr Giles, on more than one occasion, had been good enough to remark;
and on the day I called on him, prepared to take him at his word, I found him
quite ready.
We discovered the "Deputy" - a slim young man, of
not prepossessing appearance-taking his breakfast in the kitchen. He was airily
attired in a very dirty shirt and a pair of greasy black trousers, secured at
the waist with a leather strap, and worn without braces. His hair was long and
lank, and so bountifully oiled as to defeat the young man's intention to
"curl it under," after the approved "Newgate knocker"
fashion ; but he had not washed his face, and his hands were almost as grimy as
his turned-back shirt-sleeves. He was luxuriating in a breakfast, the chief
ingredients of which were toast- which he spread with dripping contained in a
gallipot - and red herrings. He had an abundant supply of smoking hot
coffee in a vessel of zinc with a wooden handle, like a washing bowl. His
greeting was affable, though somewhat striking in its terms.
"Morning, Mr Giles," said he. " Ow do you find
yourself this mornin', sir?"
I expected to see my friend resent the sanguinary imputation;
but since he merely made cheery response that he was "bobbish," I set
it down in my own mind [-204-] that Mr Giles
accepted the ugly prefix to his name as referring rather to the mystic poleaxe
than to himself.
"We think of going over the house, if you've got no
objection," said Mr Giles.
"You're welcome. We're registered, don't you know?"
replied the Deputy, with a glance in my direction.
But Mr Giles whispered him, and at once set his mind at ease.
Too much so, because he made himself suddenly and demonstratively friendly.
" Ow are yer?" said he; and before I could object,
he caught my hand in the dirty paw with which he had just spread a round of
toast, and shook it as though he had known me for years.
"You was pretty full last night," remarked Mr
Giles; "I see em comin' in pretty thick after twelve."
"I didn't see no light in your winder."
"That says nothing," returned Mr Giles, vaguely
hinting poleaxe. "I lays awake hours in the dark sometimes, with my eye at
that there bottom pane. Anybody at home?"
"On'y the Bedrid," replied the Deputy.
" Course; he's always at home," responded Mr Giles,
lightly; "it would be rather a mirricle to ketch him out."
"You won't ave a drop of coffee?" asked the
hospitable Deputy, holding the washing bowl towards us with a persuasive smile;
"it's werry good.''
But Mr Giles had recently breakfasted, and I don't care much
for coffee myself; so we started at once for upstairs.
"We has women as well as men," said the Deputy,
when we reached the first landing of what hundreds of years ago had been a
handsome, roomy mansion; "but we're werry strict. Lor' bless you, they know
better than to carry on here. We floors 'em out; and a male
[-205-] ketched coming down, or a female ketched going up, after they've
been quartered, gets their travelling ticket, whatever the hour might be."
All this, rendered into English by Mr Giles, meant that males
and females seeking lodgings at Pugmaster's were lodged on separate floors, and
that any attempt to evade the decent rule was punished by instant expulsion from
the premises.
The first floor, which was devoted to married couples, was
the first we entered. I am not thoroughly acquainted with the Lodging-House Act,
but I believe one of its provisions is that there shall be no more than one bed
and bedstead in each room set apart for the use of the married, and that each
room shall afford a certain quantity of pure air adjudged to be sufficient for
healthful respiration. I don't say that this salutary law was absolutely set at
defiance at Pugmaster's, but most decidedly Pugmaster had ventured as near the
edge of infraction as he possibly could without toppling over. The apartment was
about forty feet long and twenty wide ; and the whole space was divided into
strips, each barely large enough to contain a bedstead, the partitioning being a
mere flimsy screen of half-inch deal not more than seven feet high, with a gap
at bottom between it and the floor wide enough for any human creature of
moderate bulk to crawl through. I pointed this out to the Deputy, and his reply
was that "that was 'ow it was rigistered."
"And how about the air?" said I.
"What air?" returned the Deputy.
"As to the quantity; you are particular on that score,
of course?"
"Get out," said Mr Deputy, grinning; "what the
ell's their hair to do with us?"
[-206-] Then, a light suddenly
dawning on him, he continued,
"Oh, the rigistered air, you mean. Oh, it's all right
enough there's nothink here but wot's rigistered."
"But it doesn't seem to me that there can be sufficient
air in this place for so many lodgers, when the beds are full."
"Ay, but look on the quality on it," returned the
Deputy, pointing to an open window that overlooked a wretched tree, naked and in
the last stage of consumption; and as he spoke he inhaled a heavy mouthful, and
slapped his chest as though he liked the flavour, admired it for its density,
and regarded it as a sort of over-proof spirit that might be diluted
tremendously and still retain strength enough for ordinary purposes.
"We charges a tanner a pair - for married 'uns, that
is," said Mr Deputy, " and fourpence for single 'uns."
"But suppose a married couple have children?"
"Then they pays for 'em, of course. Dash it all!"
said the Deputy, " the omblibusts does that."
"But little children - mere infants, I allude to."
"They all counts," returned Deputy; "they
ain't got no call to bring 'em to 'blige us; we don't want 'em."
I inquired of Deputy if the bedsteads were always in the
state in which they now appeared - with a thick coating of grease and dirt all
over the head-board - and if what I saw was about the average cleanliness of the
sheets ; to which he replied, with much satisfaction, that what I saw was the
average condition of things "as nigh as a toucher," and that
everything was duly "rigistered."
When I entered the married folks' dormitory, I looked
anxiously about me for a personage whose existence had been but vaguely hinted
by Mr Deputy at the commencement of our interview, when he spoke of "only
the Bedrid." We had by this time ascended the next
[-207-] flight of stairs, and I was about to ask further concerning the
mysterious Bedrid, when Deputy opened a door, and at the same time gave me a
clue. In size the apartment was similar to the one below, but there were no
partitions, and a long range of bedsteads, each about the width of an ordinary
hearthrug, extended the length of the side walls. I don't think that the windows
had been opened as yet, and the air of the place was misty having in it, among
other things, a flavour of rum. In a few moments my eyes grew used to the mist,
and then I could make out that one of the bedsteads in a distant corner was
occupied. There was an upraised arm, a hand grasping a bottle, and making with
it signs of beckoning. Mr Deputy hurried forward, and we followed.
"'Ow are yer, old cock ?" the Deputy inquired
cordially; to which the "old cock" - of whom nothing was visible but
the arm and hand, the bottle, a green woollen nightcap, and a pair of bloodshot
eyes peering over the edge of the frowsy coverlet-replied hoarsely that he was
"on the werge of sinking, and would the Deputy be good enough to procure
him a quarten of rum."
"Why, 'tain't time," said the Deputy, cheerily;
"it's bare eleven by the church clock."
"The church clock's a liar," returned the fierce
old cock, uncovering his hideous unshaven muzzle to give more distinct utterance
to the accusation; "you go and do what you're asked ; that's a good
lad."
Then, for the first time observing Mr Giles and myself, he
looked scared, and mutely appealed to the Deputy for an explanation. Being
assured that it was all right, his apprehensions subsided. After a few moments'
reflection, he thrust under the bed-clothes [-208-] the
hand that had just grasped the rum-bottle, and, after a little delay, hauled up
what evidently was the end of a trouser brace - "in case of fire," he
whispered, hoarsely, at the same time wagging his ugly head vigorously in
support of his assertion. "It 'ud be a horful thing to be burned in the
bed, so I sleeps in 'em." On which Mr Giles winked at the Deputy, who
gravely chafed his nose with the rum-bottle ; and both said it was the best
thing he could do. As the Deputy was anxious to fetch the rum, we could stay
with the Bedrid no longer; but the Deputy kindly enlightened me.
"He's the best customer we've got," said he ;
"he's been where you see him now laying these months and months. He's got a
parrylatic stroke through saying 'Lord, strike me a cripple,' so they tell. He's
a wonder at livin'. 'Cept bread, rum and saveloys is his wittles. He
drinks rum all day long, and he has reg'ler two saveloys for his supper. Got
money? I should rayther think that he had. Where? Why, in his trowsis pockets,
to be sure. Didn't he show you the braces of 'em? Well, he always wears 'em -
never had 'em off once since I've knowed him. Course it's all gammon about
wearing 'em in bed in case of fire; it's cos he's afraid of trusting anybody
with his money. Where does he get it from? Ah! that's what I should like
to know. There's a old woman - his sister, he says she is - comes to see him
once a fortnight; and p'raps she brings him it. Lor' bless you, he pays like a
prince. When they're reg'ler, as many of 'em are wot lodges here, we chucks in
Sundays; but he won't have it; he makes me the 'lowance of it, and many a
sixpence as well. Well, d'ye see, I nusses him; he's helpless as a young 'un,
and I fetches him his rum and that. How much? Why, about a pint and a quarten a
day; and there he lays, singing to [-209-] hisself
mostly, but sometime swearing awful, and layin' awake all night for fear that
any of em should get up to their tricks with his trowsis."
There was a good deal to be seen at Pugmaster's after this,
but I could not banish the rum-swigging, saveloy-devouring, bedridden, frightful
old savage from my mind. There was an opportunity for doing so, however; for,
quitting the chamber of horrors I have mentioned, Mr Deputy opened the door of a
room between the foul bedrooms, from which there instantly issued the loveliest
odours of violets and other sweet-scented spring flowers that ever greeted human
nostrils.
"That's a freshener, ain't it?" exclaimed the
Deputy. "They're tiresome young beggars; but we always get this treat this
time o' year."
"Who are the tiresome young beggars?" I inquired.
"The flower-selling gals," returned Mr Deputy.
"Them's their stocks;" and as he spoke, he pointed to a great pile of
flower-laden baskets, by the side of what seemed to be a heap of tramps'
cast-off rags. Violets were there, lilies of the valley, wall-flowers,
primroses, and dainty sprigs deftly got up as buttonholers. "They are
obliged to be up very early to get 'em at Covent Garden, so they comes back and
turns in again till it's time to ketch the swells as buys 'em."
It was nice to smell the sweet flowers in that pestiferous
hole of Pugmaster's; but what about the villanous odours of fever and pestilence
with which the innocent buds and blooms might become impregnated during their
sojourn of several hours between the bedrooms of a common lodging-house? Who
would suspect deadly malaria lurking in the blushing leaves of the dainty spring
rosebud held so gratefully to the face of beauty? This subject provided me with.
food for reflec-[-210-]tion long after I had parted
from Mr Deputy and wooden-legged Giles; but the object that clung to my memory,
and haunted it, was the hideous old bedridden man of money, who passed months
abed in his trousers, living on raw rum and saveloys.