face any storm if his officers spoke,Or the wildest of sights that the hurricane woke.
Now Dick Sprit was a sailor,
Tight and bold in a gale or
A storm. He would cheer in a fight,
’Mid the bullets’ flight,
And sooner than hear any praise or flattery,
Would have run his head in a “Rooshun” battery.
Now Dick his pockets had ten times slapped,
His fingers snapped, and his trousers clapped;
He had thought of his home and the Christmas-time,
The long shore days ’mid the frosty rime.
He had gone on shore, run the gauntlet well,
’Scaped the Jews’ oiled words and the grog-shops’ smell.
The night was cold and the way was dark,
What mattered when Dick was free of his bark,
And with kit on his back, and stick in his fist,
His pay in his pocket, and cheek full of twist,
He started off for his six miles’ tramp
To his native spot, spite of snow or damp.
Dick twisted his twist, and he flourished his stick,
And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick,
For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or spar
Is heartily welcome to every tar.
The night was cold and the way was dark,
And the town lights shone here and there like a spark,
As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped,
Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped.
But what was that when with four years’ pay,
And a leave of absence for many a day,
With the old folks waiting their boy to meet,
Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet,
Hurried along o’er the crunching snow,
As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow.
Some three miles past, and the sailor now
Paused by a hedge where the holly bough
Grew thick and dense, and though dim the night
There were memories many within that sight,
For the days of old came hurrying by,
And that Christmas past when he said good-bye;
While then came the thoughts of years soon sped,
Of the distant climes and the blood he’d shed,
Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild,
Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild.
But now once more he was nearing home
After his four years’ tiring roam;
And with bounding heart how the night he blest,
And thought of the coming days of rest.
Some three miles past, when his blood was chilled
By a shriek which through every muscle thrilled;
He stood for a moment, and then could hear
The sounds of a struggle and trampling near;
Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight,
While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light.
Dick’s feelings were wrought to the highest pitch;
His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch,
Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak,
With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke,
When hard by a cottage a lanthorn’s light
Cast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight:
With gory features and blade in hand
Two ruffians stooped and their victim scanned;
As over the struggling form they leant,
Dick paused no more, but his sapling went,
Cut one – cut two on each villain’s head,
Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead,
And then they fell with a deep drawn groan,
While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan,
But suddenly turning, he ran like mad,
And breathlessly muttered, “’Twas really too bad.
Be blest if he ever did see such a rig
As to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!”
And Dick was right, for ’twas really no joke,
Though our sailor lad here had no “pig in a poke;”
But though courage should merit the best of our praise,
There’s a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes’ rays
Should be shed on our mind when we think to engage,
And not in our hurry go blind in our rage;
Discretion should lead us, or else every whit,
We may turn out as blind as the sailor – Dick Sprit.
Chapter Four
Come Back
“Ha-ha-ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach – Shadrach Pratt, light porter at Teman, Sundry, and Sope’s, the wholesale and retail grocers in the City. “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Shadrach, stopping, with one foot on the wet pavement and the other in the snowy slush of the kennel, to slap his thigh, and say: “That’s a good ’un, that is – ‘What do the Arabs of the desert live on? the sand which is there.’ That is a good one, rale grit. Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the little man. “I’ll ask ’em that after dinner to-morrow.”
Who’d have thought, to see the little fellow go skipping along through the wet, splashy snow, that there were holes in the sides of his boots, and that one sole had given up the stitches that morning and gone off, being not buried, but suffering the fiery ordeal of burning, curling about upon its funereal pyre as though still alive? Who’d have thought that he had had no dinner this Christmas-eve, and was now off, post-haste, to his home in Bermondsey (pronounced Bummonsey), to get dinner and tea together – a hot meal of bloater and bread-and-butter – with orders to be back in an hour at the latest? for it was busy tide with the firm, and whatever Shadrach’s duty may have been at other times, he was heavy porter now decidedly.
Over the bridge, round the corner, down by Tooley Street warehouses, famed for suffering from an ailment that must amongst buildings answer to the Saint Anthony’s fire of the human being; down past sacking, sailcloth, and rope warehouses; and down past marine stores, and miseries enough to give a man an ultramarine tint; and then home in the pleasant and unsalubrious locality of Snow’s Fields. Snow there was in plenty – muddy, slushy snow; but the only field visible was a large field for improvement; but then, as Shadrach said, “How handy for business!”
“Here’s father!” was the cry, as the little man rushed in, hugged his wife, and had his legs hugged at the same time; and then he was in the warm place by the tea-tray, toasting his steaming boots, and watching the water being poured into the hissing, hot earthen teapot.
“Now, then,” said Mrs Pratt, “they’ve all had their teas; and you’re not to touch them, or give them a scrap. But have you had your dinner?”
