PAGE 26
The Fatal Boots
by
Ah, those WERE jolly times! but Ma was obliged to give up the lodging-house at last–for, somehow, things went wrong after my sister’s departure–the nasty uncharitable people said, on account of ME; because I drove away the lodgers by smoking and drinking, and kicking up noises in the house; and because Ma gave me so much of her money:–so she did, but if she WOULD give it, you know, how could I help it? Heigho! I wish I’d KEPT it.
No such luck. The business I thought was to last for ever: but at the end of two years came a smash–shut up shop–sell off everything. Mamma went to the Waters’s: and, will you believe it? the ungrateful wretches would not receive me! that Mary, you see, was SO disappointed at not marrying me. Twenty pounds a year they allow, it is true; but what’s that for a gentleman? For twenty years I have been struggling manfully to gain an honest livelihood, and, in the course of them, have seen a deal of life, to be sure. I’ve sold cigars and pocket-handkerchiefs at the corners of streets; I’ve been a billiard-marker; I’ve been a director (in the panic year) of the Imperial British Consolidated Mangle and Drying Ground Company. I’ve been on the stage (for two years as an actor, and about a month as a cad, when I was very low); I’ve been the means of giving to the police of this empire some very valuable information (about licensed victuallers, gentlemen’s carts, and pawnbrokers’ names); I’ve been very nearly an officer again–that is, an assistant to an officer of the Sheriff of Middlesex: it was my last place.
On the last day of the year 1837, even THAT game was up. It’s a thing that very seldom happened to a gentleman, to be kicked out of a spunging-house; but such was my case. Young Nabb (who succeeded his father) drove me ignominiously from his door, because I had charged a gentleman in the coffee-rooms seven-and-sixpence for a glass of ale and bread and cheese, the charge of the house being only six shillings. He had the meanness to deduct the eighteenpence from my wages, and because I blustered a bit, he took me by the shoulders and turned me out–me, a gentleman, and, what is more, a poor orphan!
How I did rage and swear at him when I got out into the street! There stood he, the hideous Jew monster, at the double door, writhing under the effect of my language. I had my revenge! Heads were thrust out of every bar of his windows, laughing at him. A crowd gathered round me, as I stood pounding him with my satire, and they evidently enjoyed his discomfiture. I think the mob would have pelted the ruffian to death (one or two of their missiles hit ME, I can tell you), when a policeman came up, and in reply to a gentleman, who was asking what was the disturbance, said, “Bless you, sir, it’s Lord Cornwallis.” “Move on, BOOTS,” said the fellow to me; for the fact is, my misfortunes and early life are pretty well known–and so the crowd dispersed.
“What could have made that policeman call you Lord Cornwallis and Boots?” said the gentleman, who seemed mightily amused, and had followed me. “Sir,” says I, “I am an unfortunate officer of the North Bungay Fencibles, and I’ll tell you willingly for a pint of beer.” He told me to follow him to his chambers in the Temple, which I did (a five-pair back), and there, sure enough, I had the beer; and told him this very story you’ve been reading. You see he is what is called a literary man–and sold my adventures for me to the booksellers; he’s a strange chap; and says they’re MORAL.
*****
I’m blest if I can see anything moral in them. I’m sure I ought to have been more lucky through life, being so very wide awake. And yet here I am, without a place, or even a friend, starving upon a beggarly twenty pounds a year–not a single sixpence more, upon MY HONOR.