The Uses and Abuses of Joseph
"It is just the same with what you may call the human joints," observedHenry. He was in one of his philosophic moods that evening. "It alldepends upon the cooking. I never see a youngster hanging up in therefrigerator, as one may put it, but I says to myself: 'Now I wonder whatthe cook is going to make of you! Will you be minced and devilled andfricasseed till you are all sauce and no meat? Will you be hammeredtender and grilled over a slow fire till you are a blessing to mankind?Or will you be spoilt in the boiling, and come out a stringy rag, animmediate curse, and a permanent injury to those who have got to swallowyou?'"There was a youngster I knew in my old coffee-shop days," continuedHenry, "that in the end came to be eaten by cannibals. At least, so thenewspapers said. Speaking for myself, I never believed the report: hewasn't that sort. If anybody was eaten, it was more likely the cannibal.But that is neither here nor there. What I am thinking of is whathappened before he and the cannibals ever got nigh to one another. Hewas fourteen when I first set eyes on him--Mile End fourteen, that is;which is the same, I take it, as City eighteen and West Endfive-and-twenty--and he was smart for his age into the bargain: a trifletoo smart as a matter of fact. He always came into the shop at the sametime--half-past two; he always sat in the seat next the window; and threedays out of six, he would order the same dinner: a fourpenny beef-steakpudding--we called it beef-steak, and, for all practical purposes, it wasbeef-steak--a penny plate of potatoes, and a penny slice of roly-polypudding--'chest expander' was the name our customers gave it--to follow.That showed sense, I always thought, that dinner alone; a more satisfyingmenu, at the price, I defy any human being to work out. He always had abook with him, and he generally read during his meal; which is not a badplan if you don't want to think too much about what you are eating. Therewas a seedy chap, I remember, used to dine at a cheap restaurant where Ionce served, just off the Euston Road. He would stick a book up in frontof him--Eppy something or other--and read the whole time. Ourfour-course shilling table d'hote with Eppy, he would say, was a banquetfit for a prince; without Eppy he was of opinion that a policemanwouldn't touch it. But he was one of those men that report things forthe newspapers, and was given to exaggeration."A coffee-shop becomes a bit of a desert towards three o'clock; and,after a while, young Tidelman, for that was his name, got to putting downhis book and chatting to me. His father was dead; which, judging fromwhat he told me about the old man, must have been a bit of luck foreverybody; and his mother, it turned out, had come from my own village inSuffolk; and that constituted a sort of bond between us, seeing I hadknown all her people pretty intimately. He was earning good money at adairy, where his work was scouring milk-cans; and his Christianname--which was the only thing Christian about him, and that, somehow oranother, didn't seem to fit him--was Joseph."One afternoon he came into the shop looking as if he had lost a shillingand found sixpence, as the saying is; and instead of drinking water asusual, sent the girl out for a pint of ale. The moment it came he drankoff half of it at a gulp, and then sat staring out of the window."'What's up?' I says. 'Got the shove?'"'Yes,' he answers; 'but, as it happens, it's a shove up. I've beentaken off the yard and put on the walk, with a rise of two bob a week.'Then he took another pull at the beer and looked more savage than ever."'Well,' I says, 'that ain't the sort of thing to be humpy about.'"'Yes it is,' he snaps back; 'it means that if I don't take precious goodcare I'll drift into being a blooming milkman, spending my life yelling"Milk ahoi!" and spooning smutty-faced servant-gals across arearailings.'"'Oh!' I says, 'and what may you prefer to spoon--duchesses?'"'Yes,' he answers sulky-like; 'duchesses are right enough--some of 'em.'"'So are servant-gals,' I says, 'some of 'em. Your hat's feeling a bitsmall for you this morning, ain't it?'"'Hat's all right,' says he; 'it's the world as I'm complainingof--beastly place; there's nothing to do in it.'"'Oh!' I says; 'some of us find there's a bit too much.' I'd been upsince five that morning myself; and his own work, which was scouring milk-cans for twelve hours a day, didn't strike me as suggesting a life ofleisured ease."'I don't mean that,' he says. 'I mean things worth doing.'"'Well, what do you want to do,' I says, 'that this world ain't bigenough for?'"'It ain't the size of it,' he says; 'it's the dulness of it. Thingsused to be different in the old days.'"'How do you know?' I says."'You can read about it,' he answers."'Oh,' I says, 'and what do they know about it--these gents that sit downand write about it for their living! You show me a book cracking up theold times, writ by a chap as lived in 'em, and I'll believe you. Tillthen I'll stick to my opinion that the old days were much the same asthese days, and maybe a trifle worse.'"'From a Sunday School point of view, perhaps yes,' says he; 'but there'sno gainsaying--'"'No what?' I says."'No gainsaying,' repeats he; 'it's a common word in literatoor.'"'Maybe,' says I, 'but this happens to be "The Blue Posts Coffee House,"established in the year 1863. We will use modern English here, if youdon't mind.' One had to take him down like that at times. He was thesort of boy as would talk poetry to you if you weren't firm with him."'Well then, there's no denying the fact,' says he, 'if you prefer itthat way, that in the old days there was more opportunity for adventure.'"'What about Australia?' says I."'Australia!' retorts he; 'what would I do there? Be a shepherd, likeyou see in the picture, wear ribbons, and play the flute?'"'There's not much of that sort of shepherding over there,' says I,'unless I've been deceived; but if Australia ain't sufficientlyuncivilised for you, what about Africa?'"'What's the good of Africa?' replies he; 'you don't read advertisementsin the "Clerkenwell News": "Young men wanted as explorers." I'd driftinto a barber's shop at Cape Town more likely than anything else.'"'What about the gold diggings?' I suggests. I like to see a youngsterwith the spirit of adventure in him. It shows grit as a rule."'Played out,' says he. 'You are employed by a company, wages tendollars a week, and a pension for your old age. Everything's playedout,' he continues. 'Men ain't wanted nowadays. There's only room forclerks, and intelligent artisans, and shopboys.'"'Go for a soldier,' says I; 'there's excitement for you.'"'That would have been all right,' says he, 'in the days when there wasreal fighting.'"'There's a good bit of it going about nowadays,' I says. 'We aregenerally at it, on and off, between shouting about the blessings ofpeace.'"'Not the sort of fighting I mean,' replies he; 'I want to do somethingmyself, not be one of a row.'"'Well,' I says, 'I give you up. You've dropped into the wrong world itseems to me. We don't seem able to cater for you here.'"'I've come a bit too late,' he answers; 'that's the mistake I've made.Two hundred years ago there were lots of things a fellow might havedone.'"'Yes, I know what's in your mind,' I says: 'pirates.'"'Yes, pirates would be all right,' says he; 'they got plenty of sea-airand exercise, and didn't need to join a blooming funeral club.'"'You've got ideas above your station,' I says. 'You work hard, and oneday you'll have a milk-shop of your own, and be walking out with a prettyhousemaid on your arm, feeling as if you were the Prince of Waleshimself.'"'Stow it!' he says; 'it makes me shiver for fear it might come true. I'mnot cut out for a respectable cove, and I won't be one neither, if I canhelp it!'"'What do you mean to be, then?' I says; 'we've all got to be something,until we're stiff 'uns.'"'Well,' he says, quite cool-like, 'I think I shall be a burglar.'"I dropped into the seat opposite and stared at him. If any other ladhad said it I should have known it was only foolishness, but he was justthe sort to mean it."'It's the only calling I can think of,' says he, 'that has got anyelement of excitement left in it.'"'You call seven years at Portland "excitement," do you?' says I,thinking of the argument most likely to tell upon him."'What's the difference,' answers he, 'between Portland and the ordinarylabouring man's life, except that at Portland you never need fear beingout of work?' He was a rare one to argue. 'Besides,' says he, 'it'sonly the fools as gets copped. Look at that diamond robbery in BondStreet, two years ago. Fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewels stolen,and never a clue to this day! Look at the Dublin Bank robbery,' says he,his eyes all alight, and his face flushed like a girl's. 'Three thousandpounds in golden sovereigns walked away with in broad daylight, and neverso much as the flick of a coat-tail seen. Those are the sort of men I'mthinking of, not the bricklayer out of work, who smashes a window andgets ten years for breaking open a cheesemonger's till with nine andfourpence ha'penny in it.'"'Yes,' says I, 'and are you forgetting the chap who was nabbed atBirmingham only last week? He wasn't exactly an amatoor. How long dothink he'll get?'"'A man like that deserves what he gets,' answers he; 'couldn't hit apolice-man at six yards.'"'You bloodthirsty young scoundrel,' I says; 'do you mean you wouldn'tstick at murder?'"'It's all in the game,' says he, not in the least put out. 'I take myrisks, he takes his. It's no more murder than soldiering is.'"'It's taking a human creature's life,' I says."'Well,' he says, 'what of it? There's plenty more where he comes from.'"I tried reasoning with him from time to time, but he wasn't a sort ofboy to be moved from a purpose. His mother was the only argument thathad any weight with him. I believe so long as she had lived he wouldhave kept straight; that was the only soft spot in him. Butunfortunately she died a couple of years later, and then I lost sight ofJoe altogether. I made enquiries, but no one could tell me anything. Hehad just disappeared, that's all."One afternoon, four years later, I was sitting in the coffee-room of aCity restaurant where I was working, reading the account of a cleverrobbery committed the day before. The thief, described as a well-dressedyoung man of gentlemanly appearance, wearing a short black beard andmoustache, had walked into a branch of the London and Westminster Bankduring the dinner-hour, when only the manager and one clerk were there.He had gone straight through to the manager's room at the back of thebank, taken the key from the inside of the door, and before the man couldget round his desk had locked him in. The clerk, with a knife to histhroat, had then been persuaded to empty all the loose cash in the bank,amounting in gold and notes to nearly five hundred pounds, into a bagwhich the thief had thoughtfully brought with him. After which, both ofthem--for the thief seems to have been of a sociable disposition--gotinto a cab which was waiting outside, and drove away. They drovestraight to the City: the clerk, with a knife pricking the back of hisneck all the time, finding it, no doubt, a tiresome ride. In the middleof Threadneedle Street, the gentlemanly young man suddenly stopped thecab and got out, leaving the clerk to pay the cabman."Somehow or other, the story brought back Joseph to my mind. I seemed tosee him as that well-dressed gentlemanly young man; and, raising my eyesfrom the paper, there he stood before me. He had scarcely changed at allsince I last saw him, except that he had grown better looking, and seemedmore cheerful. He nodded to me as though we had parted the day before,and ordered a chop and a small hock. I spread a fresh serviette for him,and asked him if he cared to see the paper."'Anything interesting in it, Henry?' says he."'Rather a daring robbery committed on the Westminster Bank yesterday,' Ianswers."'Oh, ah! I did see something about that,' says he."'The thief was described as a well-dressed young man of gentlemanlyappearance, wearing a black beard and moustache,' says I."He laughs pleasantly."'That will make it awkward for nice young men with black beards andmoustaches,' says he."'Yes,' I says. 'Fortunately for you and me, we're clean shaved.'"I felt as certain he was the man as though I'd seen him do it."He gives me a sharp glance, but I was busy with the cruets, and he hadto make what he chose out of it."'Yes,' he replies, 'as you say, it was a daring robbery. But the manseems to have got away all right.'"I could see he was dying to talk to somebody about it."'He's all right to-day,' says I; 'but the police ain't the fools they'rereckoned. I've noticed they generally get there in the end.'"'There's some very intelligent men among them,' says he: 'no question ofit. I shouldn't be surprised if they had a clue!'"'No,' I says, 'no more should I; though no doubt he's telling himselfthere never was such a clever thief.'"'Well, we shall see,' says he."'That's about it,' says I."We talked a bit about old acquaintances and other things, and then,having finished, he handed me a sovereign and rose to go."'Wait a minute,' I says, 'your bill comes to three-and-eight. Sayfourpence for the waiter; that leaves sixteen shillings change, whichI'll ask you to put in your pocket.'"'As you will,' he says, laughing, though I could see he didn't like it."'And one other thing,' says I. 'We've been sort of pals, and it's notmy business to talk unless I'm spoken to. But I'm a married man,' Isays, 'and I don't consider you the sort worth getting into trouble for.If I never see you, I know nothing about you. Understand?'"He took my tip, and I didn't see him again at that restaurant. I keptmy eye on the paper, but the Westminster Bank thief was never discovered,and success, no doubt, gave him confidence. Anyhow, I read of two orthree burglaries that winter which I unhesitatingly put down to Mr.Joseph--I suppose there's style in housebreaking, as in other things--andearly the next spring an exciting bit of business occurred, which I knewto be his work by the description of the man."He had broken into a big country house during the servants' supper-hour,and had stuffed his pockets with jewels. One of the guests, a youngofficer, coming upstairs, interrupted him just as he had finished. Josephthreatened the man with his revolver; but this time it was not a nervousyoung clerk he had to deal with. The man sprang at him, and a desperatestruggle followed, with the result that in the end the officer was leftwith a bullet in his leg, while Joseph jumped clean through the window,and fell thirty feet. Cut and bleeding, if not broken, he would neverhave got away but that, fortunately for him, a tradesman's cart happenedto be standing at the servants' entrance. Joe was in it, and off like aflash of greased lightning. How he managed to escape, with all thecountry in an uproar, I can't tell you; but he did it. The horse andcart, when found sixteen miles off, were neither worth much."That, it seems, sobered him down for a bit, and nobody heard any more ofhim till nine months later, when he walked into the Monico, where I wasthen working, and held out his hand to me as bold as brass."'It's all right,' says he, 'it's the hand of an honest man.'"'It's come into your possession very recently then,' says I."He was dressed in a black frock-coat and wore whiskers. If I hadn'tknown him, I should have put him down for a parson out of work."He laughs. 'I'll tell you all about it,' he says."'Not here,' I answers, 'because I'm too busy; but if you like to meet methis evening, and you're talking straight--'"'Straight as a bullet,' says he. 'Come and have a bit of dinner with meat the Craven; it's quiet there, and we can talk. I've been looking foryou for the last week.'"Well, I met him; and he told me. It was the old story: a gal was at thebottom of it. He had broken into a small house at Hampstead. He was onthe floor, packing up the silver, when the door opens, and he sees a galstanding there. She held a candle in one hand and a revolver in theother."'Put your hands up above your head,' says she."'I looked at the revolver,' said Joe, telling me; 'it was about eighteeninches off my nose; and then I looked at the gal. There's lots of 'emwill threaten to blow your brains out for you, but you've only got tolook at 'em to know they won't."'They are thinking of the coroner's inquest, and wondering how the judgewill sum up. She met my eyes, and I held up my hands. If I hadn't Iwouldn't have been here."'Now you go in front,' says she to Joe, and he went. She laid hercandle down in the hall and unbolted the front door."'What are you going to do?' says Joe, 'call the police? Because if so,my dear, I'll take my chance of that revolver being loaded and of yourpulling the trigger in time. It will be a more dignified ending.'"'No,' says she, 'I had a brother that got seven years for forgery. Idon't want to think of another face like his when he came out. I'm goingto see you outside my master's house, and that's all I care about.'"She went down the garden-path with him, and opened the gate."'You turn round,' says she, 'before you reach the bottom of the lane andI give the alarm.' And Joe went straight, and didn't look behind him."Well, it was a rum beginning to a courtship, but the end was rummer. Thegirl was willing to marry him if he would turn honest. Joe wanted toturn honest, but didn't know how."'It's no use fixing me down, my dear, to any quiet, respectablecalling,' says Joe to the gal, 'because, even if the police would let mealone, I wouldn't be able to stop there. I'd break out, sooner or later,try as I might.'"The girl went to her master, who seems to have been an odd sort of acove, and told him the whole story. The old gent said he'd see Joe, andJoe called on him."'What's your religion?' says the old gent to Joe."'I'm not particular, sir; I'll leave it to you,' says Joe."'Good!' says the old gent. 'You're no fanatic. What are yourprinciples?'"At first Joe didn't think he'd got any, but, the old gent leading, hefound to his surprise as he had."'I believe,' says Joe, 'in doing a job thoroughly.'"'What your hand finds to do, you believe in doing with all your might,eh?' says the old gent."'That's it, sir,' says Joe. 'That's what I've always tried to do.'"'Anything else?' asks the old gent."'Yes; stick to your pals,' said Joe."'Through thick and thin,' suggests the old gent."'To the blooming end,' agrees Joe."'That's right,' says the old gent. 'Faithful unto death. And youreally want to turn over a new leaf--to put your wits and your energy andyour courage to good use instead of bad?'"'That's the idea,' says Joe."The old gent murmurs something to himself about a stone which thebuilders wouldn't have at any price; and then he turns and puts itstraight:"'If you undertake the work,' says he, 'you'll go through with it withoutfaltering--you'll devote your life to it?'"'If I undertake the job, I'll do that,' says Joe. 'What may it be?'"'To go to Africa,' says the old gent, 'as a missionary.'"Joe sits down and stares at the old gent, and the old gent looks himback."'It's a dangerous station,' says the old gent. 'Two of our people havelost their lives there. It wants a man there--a man who will dosomething besides preach, who will save these poor people we havegathered together there from being scattered and lost, who will be theirchampion, their protector, their friend.'"In the end, Joe took on the job, and went out with his wife. A bettermissionary that Society never had and never wanted. I read one of hisearly reports home; and if the others were anything like it his life musthave been exciting enough, even for him. His station was a small islandof civilisation, as one may say, in the middle of a sea of savages.Before he had been there a month the place had been attacked twice. Onthe first occasion Joe's 'flock' had crowded into the Mission House, andcommenced to pray, that having been the plan of defence adopted by hispredecessor. Joe cut the prayer short, and preached to them from thetext, 'Heaven helps them as helps themselves'; after which he proceededto deal out axes and old rifles. In his report he mentioned that he hadtaken a hand himself, merely as an example to the flock; I bet he hadnever enjoyed an evening more in all his life. The second fight began,as usual, round the Mission, but seems to have ended two miles off. Inless than six months he had rebuilt the school-house, organised a policeforce, converted all that was left of one tribe, and started a tinchurch. He added (but I don't think they read that part of his reportaloud) that law and order was going to be respected, and life andproperty secure in his district so long as he had a bullet left."Later on the Society sent him still further inland, to open up a freshstation; and there it was that, according to the newspapers, thecannibals got hold of him and ate him. As I said, personally I don'tbelieve it. One of these days he'll turn up, sound and whole; he is thatsort."
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