Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  SAMUEL TWITTER ASTONISHES MRS. TWITTER AND HER FRIENDS.

  In a former chapter we described, to some extent, the person andbelongings of a very poor man with five thousand a year. Let us nowmake the acquaintance of a very rich one with an income of five hundred.

  He has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of SamuelTwitter.

  On the night of which we write Mrs Twitter happened to have a "fewfriends" to tea. And let no one suppose that Mrs Twitter's few friendswere to be put off with afternoon tea--that miserable invention ofmodern times--nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin breadand butter. By no means. We have said that Samuel Twitter was rich,and Mrs Twitter, conscious of her husband's riches, as well as gratefulfor them, went in for the substantial and luxurious to an amazingextent.

  Unlimited pork sausages and inexhaustible buttered toast, balanced withmuffins or crumpets, was her idea of "tea." The liquid was a secondarypoint--in one sense--but it was always strong. It was the only strongliquid in fact allowed in the house, for Mr Twitter, Mrs Twitter, andall the little Twitters were members of the Blue Ribbon Army; more orless enthusiastic according to their light and capacity.

  The young Twitters descended in a graduated scale from Sammy, theeldest, (about sixteen), down through Molly, and Willie, and Fred, andLucy, to Alice the so-called "baby"--though she was at that time aremarkably robust baby of four years.

  Mrs Twitter's few friends were aware of her tendencies, and appreciatedher hospitality, insomuch that the "few" bade fair to develop by degreesinto many.

  Well, Mrs Twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was atits height. The subject of conversation was poverty. Mrs Loper, aweak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with 500pounds a year was a poor family. Mrs Loper did not know that MrsTwitter's income was five hundred, but she suspected it. Mrs Twitterherself carefully avoided giving the slightest hint on the subject.

  "Of course," continued Mrs Loper, "I don't mean to say that people withfive hundred are _very_ poor, you know; indeed it all depends on thefamily. With six children like you, now, to feed and clothe andeducate, and with everything so dear as it is now, I should say thatfive hundred was poverty."

  "Well, I don't quite agree with you, Mrs Loper, on that point. To mymind it does not so much depend on the family, as on the notions, andthe capacity to manage, in the head of the family. I remember onefamily just now, whose head was cut off suddenly, I may say in the primeof life. A hundred and fifty a year or thereabouts was the income thewidow had to count on, and she was left with five little ones to rear.She trained them well, gave them good educations, made most of theirgarments with her own hands when they were little, and sent one of herboys to college, yet was noted for the amount of time she spent invisiting the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, for whom she had alwaysa little to spare out of her limited income. Now, if wealth is to bemeasured by results, I think we may say that that poor lady was rich.She was deeply mourned by a large circle of poor people when she wastaken home to the better land. Her small means, having been judiciouslyinvested by a brother, increased a little towards the close of life, butshe never was what the world esteems rich."

  Mrs Twitter looked at a very tall man with a dark unhandsomecountenance, as if to invite his opinion.

  "I quite agree with you," he said, helping himself to a crumpet, "thereare some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, justas there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up.The former are really rich, the latter really poor."

  Having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, MrCrackaby,--that was his name,--proceeded to consume the crumpet.

  There was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agreewith their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. He quiteagreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with smallmeans was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possess--theliberality, not the small means--and that, on the other hand, richeswith a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but then--and the blacksheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said"but then"--it was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was upto famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to thegold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed intobronze,--exceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the sametime to make the two ends meet.

  As no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheep's argument,they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which Ignoranceseeks to conceal herself, and which Politeness substitutes for the moreemphatic "pooh," or the inelegant "bosh." Then, applying themselveswith renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nauticallyspeaking, and went off on a new tack.

  "Mr Twitter is rather late to-night, I think?" said Mr Crackaby,consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character.

  "He is, indeed," replied the hostess, "business must have detained him,for he is the very soul of punctuality. That is one of his many goodqualities, and it is _such_ a comfort, for I can always depend on him tothe minute,--breakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as toomany men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained bybusiness."

  "Ah, yes, business has much to answer for," remarked Mrs Loper, in atone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly badfellow; "whatever mischief happens with one's husband it's sure to bebusiness that did it."

  "Pardon me, madam," objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way,was Stickler, "business does bring about much of the disaster that oftenappertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by othermeans, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murders--"

  "Oh! Mr Stickler," suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, namedLarrabel, who usually did the audience part of Mrs Twitter's little teaparties, "how _can_ you suggest such ideas, especially when Mr Twitteris unusually late?"

  Mr Stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the companyby disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery,and murder in the abstract.

  "There, you've said it all over again," interrupted Mrs Larrabel, withan unwonted frown.

  "But then," continued Stickler, regardless of the interruption, "abroken leg, or a rifled pocket and stunned person, or a cut windpipe,may be applicable to the argument in hand without being applied to MrTwitter."

  "Surely," said Mrs Loper, who deemed the reply unanswerable.

  In this edifying strain the conversation flowed on until the eveninggrew late and the party began to grow alarmed.

  "I do hope nothing has happened to him," said Mrs Loper, with asolemnised face.

  "I think not. I have seen him come home much later than this--thoughnot often," said the hostess, the only one of the party who seemed quiteat ease, and who led the conversation back again into shallowerchannels.

  As the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was evensuggested by Mrs Loper that Crackaby should proceed to Twitter'soffice--a distance of three miles--to inquire whether and when he hadleft; while the smiling Mrs Larrabel proposed to send information tothe headquarters of the police in Scotland Yard, because the police kneweverything, and could find out anything.

  "You have no idea, my dear," she said, "how clever they are at ScotlandYard. Would you believe it, I left my umbrellar the other day in a cab,and I didn't know the number of the cab, for numbers won't remain in myhead, nor the look of the cabman, for I never look at cabmen, they areso rude sometimes. I didn't even remember the place where I got intothe cab, for I can't remember places when I've to go to so many, so Igave up my umbrellar for lost and was going away, when a policemanstepped up to me and asked in a very civil tone if I had lost anything.He was so polite and pleasant that I told him of my loss, though I knewit would do me no good, as he had not seen the cab or the cabman.

  "`I think, madam,' he said, `that if you go down to Scotland Yardto-mo
rrow morning, you may probably find it there.'

  "`Young man,' said I, `do you take me for a fool!'

  "`No, madam, I don't,' he replied.

  "`Or do you take my umbrellar for a fool,' said I, `that it should walkdown to Scotland Yard of its own accord and wait there till I called forit?'

  "`Certainly not, madam,' he answered with such a pleasant smile that Ihalf forgave him.

  "`Nevertheless if you happen to be in the neighbourhood of Scotland Yardto-morrow,' he added, `it might be as well to call in and inquire.'

  "`Thank you,' said I, with a stiff bow as I left him. On the way home,however, I thought there might be something in it, so I did go down toScotland Yard next day, where I was received with as much civility as ifI had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full ofumbrellas as an egg's full of meat--almost.

  "`You'd know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,' said the politeconstable who escorted me.

  "`Know it, sir!' said I, `yes, I should think I would. Seven andsixpence it cost me--new, and I've only had it a week--brown silk with aplain handle--why, there it is!' And there it was sure enough, and hegave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book,which I did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being sonervous. Now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the daybefore know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there?They say the days of miracles are over, but I don't think so, for thatwas a miracle if ever there was one."

  "The days of miracles are indeed over, ma'am," said the black sheep,"but then that is no reason why things which are in themselvescommonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. WhenI inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to conveyleft umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may notseem quite so surprising."

  Most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. Mrs Larrabelturned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, andrepeated her suggestion about making inquiries at Scotland Yard--thusdelicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by nomeans converted.

  They were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the streetdoor.

  "There he is at last," exclaimed every one.

  "It is his knock, certainly," said Mrs Twitter, with a perplexed look,"but rather peculiar--not so firm as usual--there it is again!Impatient! I never knew my Sam impatient before in all our wedded life.You'd better open the door, dear," she said, turning to the eldestTwitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit uplate, "Mary seems to have fallen asleep."

  Before the eldest Twitter could obey, the maligned Mary was heard toopen the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master'sstep was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily.

  The guests looked at each other anxiously. It might be that to someminds--certainly to that of the black sheep--visions of violatedblue-ribbonism occurred. As certainly these visions did _not_ occur toMrs Twitter. She would sooner have doubted her clergyman than herhusband. Trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and herconfidence in her Sam was unbounded.

  Even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkwardbang--the passage being dark--opened it with a fling, and stood beforethe guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiardeprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did notdoubt him.

  "Forgive me, my dear," he said, gazing at his wife in a manner thatmight well have justified the black sheep's thought, "screwed," "I--I--business kept me in the office very late, and then--" He cast animbecile glance at the bundle.

  "What _ever_ have you got there, Sam?" asked his wondering wife.

  "Goodness me! it moves!" exclaimed Mrs Loper.

  "Live poultry!" thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells andpenal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision.

  "Yes, Mrs Loper, it moves. It is alive--though not very much alive, Ifear. My dear, I've found--found a baby--picked it up in the street.Not a soul there but me. Would have perished or been trodden on if Ihad not taken it up. See here!"

  He untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round littlepinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly,at the assembled company.

  It is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze withcompound interest.