In the small sea-port of Bilton, before mentioned, there dwelt an old and wealthy merchant and ship-owner, who devoted a small portion of his time to business, and a very large portion of it to what is usually termed “doing good.” This old gentleman was short, and stout, and rosy, and bald, and active, and sharp as a needle.
In the short time that Mr Arthur Jollyboy devoted to business, he accomplished as much as most men do in the course of a long day. There was not a benevolent society in the town, of which Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk (as he styled his cottage), was not a member, director, secretary, and treasurer, all in one, and all at once! If it had been possible for man be ubiquitous, Mr Jollyboy would have been so naturally; or, if not naturally, he would have made himself so by force of will. Yet he made no talk about it. His step was quiet, though quick; and his voice was gentle, though rapid; and he was chiefly famous for talking little and doing much.
Some time after the opening of our tale, Mr Jollyboy had received information of Mrs Grumbit’s stocking movement. That same afternoon he put on his broad-brimmed white hat and, walking out to the village in which she lived, called upon the vicar, who was a particular and intimate friend of his. Having ascertained from the vicar that Mrs Grumbit would not accept of charity, he said abruptly,—“And why not—is she too proud?”
“By no means,” replied the vicar. “She says that she would think shame to take money from friends as long as she can work, because every penny that she would thus get would be so much less to go to the helpless poor; of whom, she says, with much truth, there are enough and to spare. And I quite agree with her as regards her principle; but it does not apply fully to her, for she cannot work so as to procure a sufficient livelihood without injury to her health.”
“Is she clever?” inquired Mr Jollyboy.
“Why, no, not particularly. In fact, she does not often exert her reasoning faculties, except in the common-place matters of ordinary and every-day routine.”
“Then she’s cleverer than most people,” said Mr Jollyboy, shortly. “Is she obstinate?”
“No, not in the least,” returned the vicar with a puzzled smile.
“Ah, well, good-bye, good-bye; that’s all I want to know.”
Mr Jollyboy rose, and, hurrying through the village, tapped at the cottage door, and was soon closeted with Mrs Dorothy Grumbit. In the course of half an hour, Mr Jollyboy drew from Mrs Grumbit as much about her private affairs as he could, without appearing rude. But he found the old lady very close and sensitive on that point. Not so, however, when he got her upon the subject of her nephew. She had enough, and more than enough, to say about him. It is true she began by remarking, sadly, that he was a very bad boy; but, as she continued to talk about him, she somehow or other gave her visitor the impression that he was a very good boy! They had a wonderfully long and confidential talk about Martin, during which Mr Jollyboy struck Mrs Grumbit nearly dumb with horror by stating positively what he would do for the boy,—he would send him to sea! Then, seeing that he had hit the wrongest possible nail on the head, he said that he would make the lad a clerk in his office, where he would be sure to rise to a place of trust; whereat Mrs Grumbit danced, if we may so speak, into herself for joy.
“And now, ma’am, about these stockings. I want two thousand pairs as soon as I can get them!”
“Sir?” said Mrs Grumbit.
“Of course, not for my own use, ma’am; nor for the use of my family, for I have no family; and if I had, that would be an unnecessarily large supply. The fact is, Mrs Grumbit, I am a merchant and I send very large supplies of home-made articles to foreign lands, and two thousand pairs of socks are a mere driblet. Of course I do not expect you to make them all for me, but I wish you to make as many pairs as you can.”
“I shall be very happy—” began Mrs Grumbit.
“But, Mrs Grumbit, there is a peculiar formation which I require in my socks that will give you extra trouble, I fear; but I must have it, whatever the additional expense may be. What is your charge for the pair you are now making?”
“Three shillings,” said Mrs Grumbit.
“Ah! very good. Now, take up the wires if you please, ma’am, and do what I tell you. Now, drop that stitch,—good; and take up this one,—capital; and pull this one across that way,—so; and that one across this way,—exactly. Now, what is the result?”
The result was a complicated knot; and Mrs Grumbit, after staring a few seconds at the old gentleman in surprise, said so, and begged to know what use it was of.
“Oh, never mind, never mind. We merchants have strange fancies, and foreigners have curious tastes now and then. Please to make all my socks with a hitch like that in them all round, just above the ankle. It will form an ornamental ring. I’m sorry to put you to the trouble, but of course I pay extra for fancy-work. Will six shillings a-pair do for these?”
“My dear sir,” said Mrs Grumbit, “it is no additional—”
“Well, well, never mind,” said Mr Jollyboy. “Two thousand pairs, remember, as soon as possible,—close knitted, plain stitch, rather coarse worsted; and don’t forget the hitch, Mrs Grumbit, don’t forget the hitch.”
Ah! reader, there are many Mrs Grumbits in this world, requiring hitches to be made in their stockings!
At this moment the door burst open. Mrs Dorothy Grumbit uttered a piercing scream, Mr Jollyboy dropped his spectacles and sat down on his hat and Martin Rattler stood before them with the white kitten in his arms.
For a few seconds there was a dead silence, while an expression of puzzled disappointment passed over Mr Jollyboy’s ruddy countenance. At last he said—
“Is this, madam, the nephew who, you told me a little ago, is not addicted to fighting?”
“Yes,” answered the old lady faintly, and covering her eyes with her hands, “that is Martin.”
“If my aunt told you that, sir, she told you the truth,” said Martin, setting down the blood-stained white kitten, which forthwith began to stretch its limbs and lick itself dry. “I don’t ever fight if I can help it but I couldn’t help it to-day.”
With a great deal of energy, and a revival of much of his former indignation, when he spoke of the kitten’s sufferings, Martin recounted all the circumstances of the fight; during the recital of which Mrs Dorothy Grumbit took his hand in hers and patted it, gazing the while into his swelled visage, and weeping plentifully, but very silently. When he had finished, Mr Jollyboy shook hands with him, and said he was a trump, at the same time recommending him to go and wash his face. Then he whispered a few words in Mrs Grumbit’s ear, which seemed to give that excellent lady much pleasure; after which he endeavoured to straighten his crushed hat; in which attempt he failed, took his leave, promised to call again very soon, and went back to the Old Hulk—chuckling.
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