Every one has heard of those ponies—those shaggy, chubby1, innocent-looking little creatures—for which the world is indebted, we suppose, to Shetland.
Well, once on a time, one of the most innocent-looking, chubbiest2, and shaggiest of Shetland ponies—a dark brown one—stood at the door of a mansion3 in the west-end of London.
It was attached to a wickerwork vehicle which resembled a large clothes-basket on small wheels. We do not mean, of course, that the pony4 was affectionately attached to it. No; the attachment5 was involuntary and unavoidable, by reason of a brand-new yellow leather harness with brass6 buckles7. It objected to the attachment, obviously, for it sidled this way, and straddled that way, and whisked its enormous little tail, and tossed its rotund little head, and stamped its ridiculously small feet; and champed its miniature bit, as if it had been a war-horse of the largest size, fit to carry a Wallace, a Bruce, or a Richard of the Lion-heart, into the midst of raging battle.
And no wonder; for many months had not elapsed since that brown creature had kicked up its little heels, and twirled its tail, and shaken its shaggy mane in all the wild exuberance8 of early youth and unfettered freedom on the heather hills of its native island.
In the four-wheeled basket sat a little girl whom it is useless to describe as beautiful. She was far beyond that! Her delicate colour, her little straight nose, her sparkling teeth, her rosebud9 of a mouth, her enormous blue eyes, and floods of yellow hair—pooh! these are not worth mentioning in the same sentence with her expression. It was that which carried all before it, and swept up the adoration10 of man-and-woman-kind as with the besom of fascination11.
She was the only child of Sir Richard Brandon. Sir Richard was a knight12 and a widower13. He was knighted, not because of personal merit, but because he had been mayor of some place, sometime or other, when some one connected with royalty14 had something important to do with it! Little Diana was all that this knight and widower had on earth to care for, except, of course, his horses and dogs, and guns, and club, and food. He was very particular as to his food. Not that he was an epicure15, or a gourmand16, or luxurious17, or a hard drinker, or anything of that sort—by no means. He could rough it, (so he said), as well as any man, and put up with whatever chanced to be going, but, when there was no occasion for roughing it, he did like to see things well cooked and nicely served; and wine, you know, was not worth drinking—positively nauseous—if it was not of the best.
Sir Richard was a poor man—a very poor man. He had only five thousand a year—a mere18 pittance19; and he managed this sum in such a peculiar20 way that he never had anything wherewith to help a struggling friend, or to give to the poor, or to assist the various religious and charitable institutions by which he was surrounded; while at certain intervals21 in the year he experienced exasperating22 difficulty in meeting the demands of those torments23 to society, the tradespeople—people who ought to be ashamed of themselves for not being willing to supply the nobility and gentry24 with food and clothing gratuitously25! Moreover, Sir Richard never by any chance laid anything by.
Standing26 by the pony’s head, and making tender efforts to restrain his waywardness, stood a boy—a street boy—a city Arab. To a Londoner any description of this boy would be superfluous27, but it may be well to state, for the benefit of the world at large, that the class to which he belonged embodies28 within its pale the quintessence of rollicking mischief29, and the sublimate30 of consummate31 insolence32.
This remarkable33 boy was afflicted34 with a species of dance—not that of Saint Vitus, but a sort of double-shuffle, with a stamp of the right foot at the end—in which he was prone35 to indulge, consciously and unconsciously, at all times, and the tendency to which he sometimes found it difficult to resist. He was beginning to hum the sharply-defined air to which he was in the habit of performing this dance, when little Diana said, in a silvery voice quite in keeping with her beauty—
“Let go his head, boy; I’m quite sure that he cannot bear restraint.”
It may be remarked here that little Di was probably a good judge on that point, being herself nearly incapable36 of bearing restraint.
“I’d better not, miss,” replied the boy with profound respect in tone and manner, for he had yet to be paid for the job; “he seems raither frisky37, an’ might take a fancy to bolt, you know.”
“Let his head go, I say!” returned Miss Diana with a flashing of the blue eyes, and a pursing of the rosebud mouth that proved her to be one of Adam’s race after all.
“Vell, now, don’t you think,” rejoined the boy, in an expostulating tone, “that it would be as veil to vait for the guv’nor before givin’ ’im ’is ’ead?”
“Do as I bid you, sir!” said Di, drawing herself up like an empress.
Still the street boy held the pony’s head, and it is probable that he would have come off the victor in this controversy38, had not Diana’s dignified39 action given to the reins40 which she held a jerk. The brown pony, deeming this full permission to go on, went off with a bound that overturned the boy, and caused the fore-wheel to strike him on the leg as it passed.
Springing up with the intention of giving chase to the runaway41, the little fellow again fell, with a sharp cry of pain, for his leg was broken.
At the same moment Sir Richard Brandon issued from the door of his mansion leisurely42, and with an air of calm serenity43, pulling on his gloves. It was one of the knight’s maxims45 that, under all circumstances, a gentleman should maintain an appearance of imperturbable46 serenity. When, however, he suddenly beheld47 the street boy falling, and his daughter standing up in her wickerwork chariot, holding on to the brown pony like an Amazon warrior48 of ancient times, his maxim44 somehow evaporated. His serenity vanished. So did his hat as he bounded from beneath it, and left it far behind in his mad and hopeless career after the runaway.
A policeman, coming up just as Sir Richard disappeared, went to the assistance of the street boy.
“Not much hurt, youngster,” he said kindly49, as he observed that the boy was very pale, and seemed to be struggling hard to repress his feelings.
“Vell, p’raps I is an’ p’raps I ain’t, Bobby,” replied the boy with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile, for he felt safe to chaff50 or insult his foe51 in the circumstances, “but vether hurt or not it vont much matter to you, vill it?”
He fainted as he spoke52, and the look of half-humorous impudence53, as well as that of pain, gave place to an expression of infantine repose54.
The policeman was so struck by the unusual sight of a street boy looking innocent and unconscious, that he stooped and raised him quite tenderly in his arms.
“You’d better carry him in here,” said Sir Richard Brandon’s butler, who had come out. “I saw it ’appen, and suspect he must be a good deal damaged.”
Sir Richard’s footman backing the invitation, the boy was carried into the house accordingly, laid on the housemaid’s bed, and attended to by the cook, while the policeman went out to look after the runaways55.
“Oh! what ever shall we do?” exclaimed the cook, as the boy showed symptoms of returning consciousness.
“Send for the doctor,” suggested the housemaid.
“No,” said the butler, “send for a cab, and ’ave the boy sent home. I fear that master will blame me for givin’ way to my feelin’s, and won’t thank me for bringin’ ’im in here. You know he is rather averse56 to the lower orders. Besides, the poor boy will be better attended to at ’ome, no doubt. I dare say you’d like to go ’ome, wouldn’t you?” he said, observing that the boy was looking at him with a rather curious expression.
“I dessay I should, if I could,” he answered, with a mingled57 glance of mischief and pain, “but if you’ll undertake to carry me, old cock, I’ll be ’appy to go.”
“I’ll send you in a cab, my poor boy,” returned the butler, “and git a cabman as I’m acquainted with to take care of you.”
“All right! go a’ead, ye cripples,” returned the boy, as the cook approached him with a cup of warm soup.
“Oh! ain’t it prime!” he said, opening his eyes very wide indeed, and smacking58 his lips. “I think I’ll go in for a smashed pin every day o’ my life for a drop o’ that stuff. Surely it must be wot they drinks in ’eaven! Have ’ee got much more o’ the same on ’and?”
“Never mind, but you drink away while you’ve got the chance,” replied the amiable59 cook; “there’s the cab coming, so you’ve no time to lose.”
“Vell, I am sorry I ain’t able to ’old more, an’ my pockets wont60 ’old it neither, bein’ the wuss for wear. Thankee, missus.”
He managed, by a strong effort, to dispose of a little more soup before the cab drew up.
“Where do you live?” asked the butler, as he placed the boy carefully in the bottom of the cab with his unkempt head resting on a hassock, which he gave him to understand was a parting gift from the housemaid.
“Vere do I live?” he repeated. “Vy, mostly in the streets; my last ’ome was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but I do sometimes condescend61 to wisit my parents in their mansion ’ouse in Vitechapel.”
“And what is your name? Sir Richard may wish to inquire for you—perhaps.”
“May he? Oh! I’m sorry I ain’t got my card to leave, but you just tell him, John—is it, or Thomas?—Ah! Thomas. I knowed it couldn’t ’elp to be one or t’other;—you just tell your master that my name is Robert, better known as Bobby, Frog. But I’ve lots of aliases62, if that name don’t please ’im. Good-bye, Thomas. Farewell, and if for ever, then—you know the rest o’ the quotation63, if your eddication’s not bin64 neglected, w’ich is probable it was. Oh! by the way. This ’assik is the gift of the ’ouse-maid? You observe the answer, cabby, in case you and I may differ about it ’ereafter.”
“Yes,” said the amused butler, “a gift from Jessie.”
“Ah!—jus’ so. An’ she’s tender-’earted an’ on’y fifteen. Wots ’er tother name? Summers, eh? Vell, it’s prettier than Vinters. Tell ’er I’ll not forget ’er. Now, cabman—’ome!”
A few minutes more, and Bobby Frog was on his way to the mansion in Whitechapel, highly delighted with his recent feast, but suffering extremely from his broken limb.
Meanwhile, the brown pony—having passed a bold costermonger, who stood shouting defiance65 at it, and waving both arms till it was close on him, when he stepped quickly out of its way—eluded a dray-man, and entered on a fine sweep of street, where there seemed to be no obstruction67 worth mentioning. By that time it had left the agonised father far behind.
The day was fine; the air bracing68. The utmost strength of poor little Diana, and she applied69 it well, made no impression whatever on the pony’s tough mouth. Influences of every kind were favourable70. On the illogical principle, probably, that being “in for a penny” justified71 being “in for a pound,” the pony laid himself out for a glorious run. He warmed to his work, caused the dust to fly, and the clothes-basket to advance with irregular bounds and swayings as he scampered72 along, driving many little dogs wild with delight, and two or three cats mad with fear. Gradually he drew towards the more populous73 streets, and here, of course, the efforts on the part of the public to arrest him became more frequent, also more decided74, though not more successful. At last an inanimate object effected what man and boy had failed to accomplish.
In a wild effort to elude66 a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. That lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle75. The front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer’s shop, the other into a chemist’s window. Thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! The hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. As to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed—or appeared to change—to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin.
But what of the fair little charioteer? Truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. The doctrine76 that extremes meet contains much truth in it—truth which is illustrated77 and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. A tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. In little Diana’s case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. She was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. Moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune78, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances.
At the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable79 Number 666—we are not quite sure of what division—in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. He was a superb specimen80 of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like Hercules, and the figure of Apollo. He turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in England!
Number 666 proved a most effectual buffer81, for Di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation82, exclaiming—
“Oh! I have killed him! I’ve killed him!” and burst into tears.
“No, my little lady,” said Number 666, as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, “you’ve not quite done for me, though you’ve come nearer the mark than any man has ever yet accomplished83. Come, now, what can I do for you? You’re not hurt, I hope?”
This sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident.
“Hurt? oh! no, I’m not hurt,” exclaimed Di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of Number 666; “but I’m quite sure you must be hurt—awfully. I’m so sorry! Indeed I am, for I didn’t mean to knock you down.”
This also was received by the crowd with a hearty84 laugh, while Number 666 sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least—only a little stunned85 at first, but that was quite gone.
“Wot does she mean by knockin’ of ’im down?” asked a small butcher’s boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker86’s boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning.
“She means wot she says,” replied the small baker’s boy with the dignified reticence87 of superior knowledge, “she knocked the constable down.”
“Wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?—walk-er!”
“Very good; you’ve no call to b’lieve it unless you like,” replied the baker’s boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, “but she did it, though—an’ that’s six month with ’ard labour, if it ain’t five year.”
At this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac88 enter. He was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic89.
“My child! my darling! my dear Di!” he gasped90.
“Papa!” responded Diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug.
“Oh! I say,” whispered the small butcher, “it’s a melly-drammy—all for nuffin!”
“My!” responded the small baker, with a solemn look, “won’t the Lord left-tenant be down on ’em for play-actin’ without a licence, just!”
“Is the pony killed?” inquired Sir Richard, recovering himself.
“Not in the least, sir. ’Ere ’e is, sir; all alive an’ kickin’,” answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, “but the hinsurance offices wouldn’t ’ave the clo’se-baskit at no price. Shall I order up the remains91 of your carriage, sir?”
“Oh! I’m so glad he’s not dead,” said Diana, looking hastily up, “but this policeman was nearly killed, and I did it! He saved my life, papa.”
A chorus of voices here explained to Sir Richard how Number 666 had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom92.
“I am deeply grateful to you,” said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming93 any merit for having merely performed his duty—he might say, involuntarily.
“Will you come to my house?” said Sir Richard. “Here is my card. I should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and—”
“And the remains,” suggested the small butcher, seeing that Sir Richard hesitated.
“Be so good as to call a cab,” said Sir Richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey.
“Here you are, sir!” cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn94 near to bide95 his time.
Sir Richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving Number 666 to look after the pony and the remains.
Thus curiously96 were introduced to each other some of the characters in our tale.
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1
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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chubbiest
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| adj.胖乎乎的，圆胖的，丰满的( chubby的最高级 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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gourmand
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| n.嗜食者 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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sublimate
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| v.(使)升华，净化 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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42
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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47
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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48
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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51
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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54
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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runaways
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| （轻而易举的）胜利( runaway的名词复数 ) | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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aliases
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| n.别名，化名( alias的名词复数 ) | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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