Chapter Eight Introduces Montgomery Julien Ethelbert Spinks
In the attic of an old house in Holywell Street, London, a frowsy-headed, freckled-faced youth was peering from the gabled window that fronted on the busy thoroughfare below. This lad was conspicuous for his lack of beauty. He had a round jolly face, a turned-up and rather negatively developed nose, and eyes of a neutral shade that might be described as gray or green with equal correctness. His mouth was capable of stretching to a length almost awe-inspiring when first beheld, but could be forgiven for this extravagance, because the teeth thus exposed were white and regular. His chin was square and slightly protruding, imparting a rather pugnacious expression to a face that in other respects seemed to indicate that its owner was of a decidedly good-humored disposition. He was stockily built, so thick-set, in fact, that a quick glance would incline one to the belief that he was rather plump than otherwise, but a closer examination would have revealed that he owed his size to the possession of an unusual amount of bone and muscle. This young gentleman rejoiced in the sobriquet of Buster, though his real title was much more elegant, while lacking entirely in the almost epigrammatic terseness of his nickname. At the present time he was anxiously waiting for the approach of an old-clothesman who was slowly making his way down the street, meanwhile inviting trade at the top of his lungs. Buster and the old-clothesman were acquaintances of long standing, though their relations were by no means of a friendly nature, the eagerness with which the boy awaited the man’s coming being caused entirely by a desire to drop a paper bag full of water upon the latter’s head from the height of three stories, a proceeding which Buster was sanguine would be productive of reason for unlimited merriment. He had the bag, empty as yet, clutched tightly in one hand, while the other was within easy reach of a cracked pitcher full of water standing on the floor near the window. A disreputable-looking bulldog, impartially divided as to color between brindle and dirty white, was inspecting proceedings in a most interested manner from his seat on a rickety stool in the nearest corner.
Buster sighed with impatience and the dog yawned in sympathy.
“Lord Castlereagh, your rudeness is honly hexceeded by your himperliteness, the both of wich is hunsurpassed save by your bad manners. You should put your bloomin’ paw hup before that ’ole in your phis’omy when you sees fit to hexhibit your inards.”
Lord Castlereagh cocked one dilapidated ear in token of attention and wagged his apology for a tail vigorously.
“You feels no remorse, eh?” demanded Buster, severely.
“Woof!” remarked Lord Castlereagh, in extenuation.
“You ’re a sinner, that’s wot you are,” announced the boy, decisively, “and Hi ’as grave fear that you ’ll never git to the dog-star when you are disceased.”
The bulldog seemed depressed at this prediction, and, as though resolved to convince Buster of the injustice of his statement, leaped off the stool and approached him with various contortions supposed to be illustrative of regret and a desire to obtain restoration to a place in the youth’s approval.
At this moment the old-clothesman paused beneath the window, and putting his hand trumpet-wise to his mouth, shrilly declared his ability and willingness to purchase whatever cast-off garments those dwelling in the vicinity might desire to sell. Buster promptly filled the paper bag with water from the pitcher, and, leaning out as far as he dared, dropped it with precise aim on the head of the old-clothesman. It landed fair and square upon the crown of the dilapidated beaver ornamenting his head, and burst with a soft squash, drenching his shoulders and scattering a spray all around him.
The dealer uttered a stream of oaths, and, mopping his face with a handkerchief of dubious hue, looked around for the author of this apparently unprovoked attack. As the missile had come from above, the fellow naturally looked upward in search of an enemy, but found nothing more suspicious in view than the head of a bulldog which was thrust from a window in dignified contemplation of the scene. Unfortunately the old-clothesman was well acquainted with the forbidding countenance of the dog, and promptly attributing his recent ducking to the usual companion of the animal, proceeded to vigorously announce his doubts as to the respectability of Buster’s immediate ancestry and his subsequent intentions when he should be so lucky as to encounter the aforesaid youth. It is almost needless to say that these plans for the future were scarcely of a nature to meet with the boy’s approval, involving as they did complete fistic annihilation. At once the head of Buster appeared in the window, an expression of surprise lighting his round face only to give way to one of gentle gratification when his eye fell upon the irate peddler.
“Did Hi ’ear some one mentioning of my name?” he demanded pleasantly. “Oh, ’ow do you do, Mr. Bekowsky? His your ‘ealth bloomin’?”
“I ’ll bloom you, you imperent little villain,” responded Bekowsky, threateningly, shaking his fist in his anger.
“Wot’s that, dear sir?” inquired Buster, in a polite tone. “You seems hexcited, Mr. Bekowsky. Hits very dangersome to get so over’eated, hand the summer his ’ardly went yet.”
“I ’ll overheat you if I lays my hands on you,” responded the old-clothesman.
“Then Hi ’ll ’ave to be a cooling of you fer protection,” announced Buster, cheerfully, and without the slightest warning he emptied the contents of the pitcher he had been concealing behind him over the enraged Bekowsky, drenching him thoroughly.
“Cool happlications is to be recommended when feverish,” he remarked, carefully lowering the pitcher to the floor of the room without withdrawing his head from the window, for, like all wise generals, he considered it unsafe to lose sight of the enemy even for a moment while the rear was unprotected.
“You murdering little devil, I ’ll pay you for this,” yelled the peddler.
“Hat the usual rates, hor special price?” asked Buster, looking interested.
A crowd began to gather, but this did not interfere with the boy’s pleasure in the slightest degree.
“It’s that little rat again,” said a red-faced, bull-headed cobbler. “He ’s the pest of the neighborhood.”
“You houghtent to let your disapintment carry you so far, Mr. Smirk,” said Buster, reprovingly. “‘Cause your shoes don’t just suit my cultivated taste in the way of feet, it don’t follow nobody helse ’ll buy ’em. They ’re doosed poor stuff, o’ course, but no doubt there is some foolish enough to wear ’em.”
The cobbler cursed him enthusiastically, and, encouraged by this support, the bespattered Bekowsky borrowed a rattan of a bystander, and announced his intention of favoring Buster with a call, for the purpose of inflicting a castigation which he described as much needed.
“Well, well!” exclaimed the lad, who was to be thus favored. “Ham I to be so honored? Why did n’t you let hit be known before, so Hi could pervide refreshments suitable for such a guest?”
“I ’ll be up there in a minute,” answered Bekowsky, flourishing his stick.
“Hi can ’ardly wait so long. Har you a-going to bring your missus?” inquired Buster, quite unintimidated. “Hi understands that common report says she is the best fighter in the family. Did she lick you last night, Hikey?”
This last was too much to be endured, so with another volley of oaths, the infuriated peddler took a firm grip on the rattan and entered the hall, the door of which stood invitingly open. The rabble assembled in front of the house gave a cheer and waited eagerly for developments. Meanwhile Buster continued to survey the crowd below with a critical glance, quite oblivious to the danger brought near by the approach of the peddler. A minute passed and then another, but the boy was still looking out the window, so it was evident that Bekowsky had not yet reached the garret. The crowd began to get uneasy.
“Were the ’ell is the bloomin’ ragbag gone ter?” asked one seedy individual. “Don’t ’e know ’ee ’s keeping us gents waiting?”
“Don’t get himpatient, friends,” advised Buster. “Bekowsky ’s lost ’is wind and the ’all is so dark he can’t see fer to find hit. Hi ’ll send ’im a bit o’ candle in a minute to ’elp ’im.”
“He has fell and busted his neck, maybe,” suggested a butcher’s apprentice, in a tone that seemed to indicate he would not regard such a happening entirely in the light of a calamity.
“Perhaps ’is ’art ’as been touched hand ’ee can’t bear to lay ’is ’and in hanger on a poor horphing like me,” said Buster, almost tearful at the thought of such tenderness. “Perhaps ’ee ’as a noble nature hin spite o’ that ’orrible phisomy.”
“What d’ ye’s mane by congregating in front of me door like this?” cried a harsh voice, flavored by a rich Milesian accent.
“Hit’s Mrs. Malone,” exclaimed Buster. “Hi’me that glad to lay heyes hon ’er. Come pertect me, Mrs. Malone.”
A burly Irishwoman, dressed in her best bib and tucker, as becomes a lady out making a few neighborly calls, elbowed her way through the crowd, sternly exhorting them to disperse.
“Oh, it’s you, you satan?” she remarked wrathfully, gazing up at the freckled countenance of the lad. “Wot shenanigans have you been up to now?”
“Hi can’t discuss my bizness hin front of a vulgar mob,” responded Buster, loftily. “Hif you ’ll come hup, Mrs. Malone, Hi ’ll be pleased to hinform you. Hotherwise Hi ’ll be forced to maintain an ’aughty silence.”
“Oh, I ’ll come up alright,” declared Mrs. Malone, bent on getting to the bottom of the trouble at once.
“Hi ’opes so,” replied Buster, doubtfully. “Shall Hi come to meet you?”
“Never mind.”
“Hi don’t mind, Mrs. Malone.”
Mrs. Malone vanished in the hall and proceeded upstairs at so rapid a gait that she failed to perceive on the dimly lighted stairway the figure of Bekowsky, who had been brought to a standstill by the sudden appearance of Lord Castlereagh in fighting array at the head of the stairs. The dog so strongly resented any movement, whether up or down, on the part of the old-clothesman, that that individual had remained stationary, not daring to stir a foot in either direction until Mrs. Malone collided with him, forcing him to advance upward on his hands and knees several steps, a performance that brought Lord Castlereagh leaping down upon him.
Bekowsky gave one yell of terror and flew down the stairs in three bounds, the dog yelping furiously at his heels, while Mrs. Malone escaped a bad fall only by hanging on to the banisters, against which she had backed herself in an effort to regain the breath rudely expelled from her lungs by the collision.
“Buster, you omadhaun, what devil’s work is this?” gasped Mrs. Malone, as Lord Castlereagh disappeared below.
Receiving no answer, the good woman prudently decided to abandon her visit to the garret until the bulldog should have returned to his domicile, leaving the stairs free from peril, and therefore turned her steps to her own headquarters on the floor beneath.