Chapter I

Now that Old England is cracking up, as far as the Nobility is concerned, who are selling their estates, castles, and large houses, which are being turned into schools, museums, hospitals, homes for weak-minded—things entirely different from what they were built for—it seems a pity that the old usages and traditions of gentleman’s service should die with the old places, where so many high jinks and junketings have been carried on in the old days, now gone for ever. The newly rich, who filled their pockets while Tommy was fighting—many of them have bought these fine old estates—are a poor substitute for the real thing. They will send their sons to Oxford or Cambridge, but for generations they will not get the stains off their hands of what they did in the great war; not forgetting who they did.

They may spend their money in giving fêtes, parties, balls, and use every device to get into Society, or what is left of it, but all their doings will only be a sham, a poor substitute. You cannot make a silk purse out of a souced mackerel, neither will they command the same respect; it is simply so much work for so much money, and there the matter ends.

I have lived in the service of a noble family who were ruined by the war; they were such nice people to their servants that, could I have afforded to do it, I would have worked for them for nothing; in fact I did work for them for a year without wages, but they had to continue to reduce the number of indoor servants from twenty-five down to three, outdoor servants in proportion. “How are the mighty fallen!”

Fifty years ago a Lord of the Manor, or a member of the Nobility, was a little tin god on his estate in the country; the people touched their hats to him, or his lady; they looked up to them for advice or help in times of trouble—the villiage people generally living in the same houses all their lives; so that their affairs were known to the people at the Big House. Not so now; people are here to-day and gone to-morrow, are better educated, can think for themselves, and generally only for themselves. No respect is shown when passing each other on the road; the lord in his car would perhaps prefer to run down some of his own villiagers; for class hatred is growing fast; the gulf between rich and poor gets wider and wider, servants seldom remain in one place long enough, even if their employers were so disposed, to take any interest in them.

On crossing Belgrave Square last season, I was comparing the change that had come over things in the course of a few years. One used to see about eight o’clock in the evening gaily comparisoned pairs of horses and carriages, with footmen powdered and breeched, silk stockings, and a lot of pomp and show.

What does one see now?

Gentry need not leave their own houses to go out to dinner, untill within a few minutes that dinner should be on the table. They dart up in a stinking car that sends out noxious fumes; offensive to everyone but themselves.

They dart out of the car, and into the house, as though they had stolen something, and did not want anyone to see them.

Compare this with what it used to be. Two matched footmen would get down, march up to the door, and if a double knocker, both would knock (which they had practised beforehand) then march back to the carriage in a stately fashion, let down the steps, and hand out the ladies. Now, everything is all hurry and scurry. They order out the car, tell the chauffeur to drive to some place; when they get there they want to be somewhere else, when they get there they want to be somewhere else; all is unrest; they keep the chauffeur at it sometimes for fifteen hours at a stretch, go to some restaurant and get a snack, then go on again. It does not matter if the chauffeur gets time to get his meals or not: the engine does not get tired, neither must the chauffeur get tired.

English home life is all broken up. The husband may meet his wife at meals, and he may not; most probably not. At any given meal time, or at any entertainment, the chances are that the gentleman will be found dining with a “lady” not his wife, and the lady dining with some gentleman, not her husband: and the chauffeur is waiting outside for hours in the cold and wet.

When one is passing along Piccadilly on the top of a ’bus one can see the “Swells” lounging in their copious chairs, reading the newspapers, and smoking cigars. Pray don’t envy them, for half of them go there to get out of range of their wives’ tongues, who make it too hot for them to stop at home.

As an instance of what they think of a chauffeur the following occurred this year. They had used the car all day, in the evening the chauffeur asked if he could have the evening off. The “gentleman” asked what he wanted the evening off for.

“To go and see my sick wife. I also have a dead child lying at home,” replied the chauffeur.

“You are a damned nusiance, wanting time off. I wanted you to drive me to the theatre, and supper afterwards,” replied the gentleman.

Then the chauffeur replied, “You may dam well drive yourself, for I will never drive you another yard.”

The inhuman monster. They are nearly all alike. “Self, self, self” again, and if any left, “Self again.”

Another amusing incident occurred a few years ago in Bruton Street. I know the lady and I know the chauffeur.

The “lady,” when she wanted to tell him something in the car, had the habit of poking him in the back of his neck with the ferrule of her umbrella. One day she called, “Smith” (jab in the back of the neck), “why did you not go the other way?” Soon after (jab), “Now we are here, call at Wilkin’s” (jab), “there it is, on the left” (another jab). That was the last, for he drew the car to the side of the street, got out, took off his cap and coat, threw them in the car, and said, “My lady, drive the car yourself. I have had enough of your jabs in the neck.” He went away and left her there.

Any chauffeur driving in London has quite enough to do to watch and dodge the traffic, without being jabbed in the back of the neck with an umbrella.

It requires the temper of an angel to take the insults of some of the gentry; not that I suppose an angel would enjoy being jabbed in the back of the neck with an umbrella more than a human being, but there is no accounting for tastes.

When a servant retaliates in this style they should take care to have something to fall back upon. In this case he went and drove for tradesmen. He said, “No more of your gentry for me!” Otherwise they are certain to “down” you; they won’t “give you a character,” and do all they can to prevent you from earning a living. “What care I how good you be, If you are not good to me.” Tradesmen, when they come in contact with them, always tody, bow, and scrape, but they make them pay through the nose for it.

A few weeks ago I happened to be in one of the “Slavey Markets,” the place where they hire servants. A man spoke to me: a stranger. He said: “Thank God, I am to have nothing more to do with the gentry. My wife and I have taken a little business. I think some of the gentry ought to be boiled.” I replied, “Excuse me from differing from you in a little detail; I think some of them ought to be baked.” The gentry would simply laugh at this, for they know they hold the whip hand, every time. They hold all the trump cards, and always win if a servant is the opponent. Do they ever ask themselves this question, “Where did I come from? and why? Where am I going to, and when?”

A certain scientist, a short time ago, valued the material commercial value of the human frame at—Women, four shillings and twopence; men—three shillings and sixpence. The women, having more fat on their frames from which glycerine could be made. Now this is something to “throw ones weight about” on, isn’t it? considering God’s creatures are all made of the same stuff. But the gentry think they are best china, the poor common clay. But the dressmakers and tailors find the gentry’s frames handy to hang their expensive clothes and furs on. Which goes to show that the brain, the soul, the thinking machine, is all that matters; and I know several gentry that has no more brains than a rabbit. They may have them, but they have never had occasion to use them, further than to write out a cheque, take it to the bank, and “carry on.” Although in this country one is supposed to be innocent until proved guilty, a servant is generally watched at first untill he or she has proved themselves to be innocent, and honest.

Some butlers delight in besting a mistrustful Bos. I knew one personally. The Bos kept the keys of the wine cellar himself. When he wanted wine out of the cellar he called the butler, handed him the keys, stood at the cellar door, told the butler to get wine out of a certain bin. The butler brought out the bottle carefully in front of him, but he had another bottle in his coat-tail pocket for himself; he locked the cellar door, handed the Bos the keys, and all was well.

Certainly there is a vim about “doing down” a mistrustful devil like that, and as to the wine, it was like stolen kisses, “Sweet.”

A rather curious, well thought out plan of robbery happened in Berkeley Square some years ago, at a titled lady’s house. The footman had been given notice to leave as he was unsuitable. After he had left a man called at the front door with a parcel of silk, to be taken to the lady’s-maid at the top of the house: he was to wait for an answer. The new footman asked the man to sit down in the hall and wait. The footman came down with the parcel of silk saying, “It must be a mistake, the lady’s-maid knew nothing about it.” The man said he would take it back to the shop.

When her ladyship went to dress for dinner she found her jewel case ripped open, and all her jewellery gone. This is how it was worked. While the new footman was gone upstairs with the silk the man in the hall opened the door and let in the old footman who, knowing the ways of the house, hid himself in the dining-room, either behind a curtain or under the table, until he heard the new footman let the man (his confederate) out, and heard the new footman go downstairs. (He knew the ways of the house, and had watched her ladyship go out in her carriage.) He then crept upstairs, did the trick, came down, and let himself out. But, not being professionals at the game, they did not know how to dispose of the swag, and were caught trying to dispose of some of the jewellery at a pawn-shop. The old footman afterwards explained how it was done. Their enginuity was worthy of a better cause.

While I am on the subject of robberies I will here set down a story about burglary. I was in a hunting box in Bucks. for the season. Burglaries had been frequent at several houses all round the county: one happened very near us. One night the kitchenmaid came running to me and said, “There is someone in my bedroom, the door is fastened and I can’t get in.” I went outside and saw that her window was open. I sent down to the hunting stables, asking that all the grooms and stable helpers should come to the house, arming themselves with hay-forks, sticks, and shovels. I got my revolver, placed the men outside the window, while I and a footman went up to the door inside the house. I tried the door, but it would not open. I shouted, “You are surrounded, and bound to be taken; you had better come out and give yourself up. I have a revolver, and shall have first shot.” No answer! So the footman and I put our shoulders to the door to burst it open. I told him to spring back to the side of the door, in case the burglar should shoot. We pushed our hardest, the door gave way, we sprang back and listened. Not a sound. We then went into the room, looked under the bed, in the wardrobe, up the chimney, but found nothing. On examining the door we found that a corner of the carpet had come unfastened, and so held the door fast. The result of all this was I had to stand a gallon of beer, to compensate the grooms and helpers for being disturbed in their rest.

I now propose to give the history of my life, from the very beginning, giving all the incidents that has happened in the course of fifty years’ service amongst the Nobility and Aristocracy of this country.

How many thousands of people pass the doors of the gentry in the streets and squares in the West End of London, or see their country mansions, have any idea of the internal workings of these houses?

I propose to open the doors of some of them, and what I will show you about gentleman’s service, I hope will at least be interesting.

I was born of very poor, but very prowd parents not very far from Southampton. When I say prowd I don’t mean the three P.’s: pride, poverty, and pianos: but the pride of working, and paying one’s way, and not borrowing a half-penny from anyone: though I own it must have been a tight squeeze at times for my mother and father to find enough for us to eat, and clothes to our backs, also pay for our education. I had one brother and two sisters, another was born before myself but died in infancy.

My mother was certainly from a better family than my father, in education; and in every sence of propriety, a lady in disposition without wealth. In the early part of the eighteenth century very few people, perhaps ten in every hundred of the working class could read and write. There were no board schools then: education had to be paid for by the pupils, or their representatives.

My mother helped me in everything I ever learnt. As soon as I could toddle, I went to an old Dames school. The old lady had come down in the world, so took infants to learn them the alphabet, at three-pence per week, and perhaps there was another consideration in it: she had care of the infants, and so allowed the mothers to get on with their work, which was certainly worth three-pence per week.

My mother’s father had a farm near Southampton. She and her brothers and sisters used to ride to a good school in Southampton on ponies. Eventually the farm was burnt down. It was not insured. Insurance was not so common in those days. So the family was scattered. She and her sisters going into service. My mother went as lady’s-maid to two ladies in the town in which I was born, remaining with them till she got married. My father worked for the same employers for more than twenty-five years.

One has very little recollection of what happened the first two years of one’s life, but I must have been about that age. I recollect being allowed to play in our little parlour (a room kept sacred for Sundays only) the occasion being that I had taken the medicine (we used to call it “physic”).

My mother always gave us periodically a dose of rhubarb and jalap a very nasty concoction. She put it in our mouths and held our noses, so that we were forced to swallow it when we took the next breath. That is the first thing on this earth that I can remember. I was allowed to play in the parlour with an old wooden horse, on wheels, minus head or tail: it had a red stripe round its body, but it had a fascination for me. My mother used to help to keep the wolf from the door by keeping the schools swept and clean, for a few shillings a week, probably not more than three. She also went to the Vicar’s house to work, perhaps one day a week, for about eighteen pence and her food. I feel sure she often went short of food and nourishment herself in order that her children should have enough to eat.

I remember asking her what was the meaning of the word “shubby.” She said she had never heard it. But I said, “They sing it in church. As it was in the ’ginning, is now, and ever shubby.” An explanation followed.

At that time the effect of the Russian War was still felt, especially by the poor, bread being a shilling a loaf. My mother had a strain of the fighting blood in her veins, for nearly all her relations were sailors who fought in the old “wooden walls” of England, one being a Quartermaster, and fought under Nelson. I remember a Bible we had, on the fly leaf the Quartermaster had made notes of the sea battles, and the names of ships that went into action, and names of enemy ships taken.

In after years I have heard my mother say how prowd she was when he took her to London after the Russian War, in his Quartermaster’s uniform. She told me the Russians, who had been prisoners, drank the oil out of the street lamps.

When I was old enough to go to the boys’ school I began at the bottom class. Somehow I took to learning like a new-fledged duckling taking to water, and greatly assisted by my mother, who could answer every question I wished to ask, I could with safety be backed to be in the “first three” in my class.

In after years, when about twenty years of age, I went to a phrenologist, “just for fun.” I did not speak to him a single word, to give him any idea as to what or who I was, but at once sat in the chair. He “felt my bumps,” and said I was either fit to be an actor, a lawyer, or a parson, but fate destined that I should be neither. I continued at school untill I was strong enough to be useful to somebody, and do some sort of work, probably at the age of ten or twelve, working half a day, and going to school half a day. I was also pleased to earn a shilling or two to give to my mother.

Our schoolmaster was one of the best. He found out I had a good voice, and got me in the Church Choir, where there were sixteen boys and twelve men, and a good organist who tried to drive some of the mysteries of music and harmony into us: he might almost have had sixteen monkeys to deal with.

We went to practice two evenings a week. The church at that time was lit by colza oil lamps and candles. We used to play some awful games on the organist. When the practice was finished us boys would rush down the stairs, through the belfry, after putting a tin tack through the rim of his top hat, fastening it to the seat, then putting out all the lamps, leaving him to come down in the dark, also putting one of the bell ropes across the stairs.

I do not propose to appear as a model boy—far from it—for if not the ringleader of any mischief that was going on I was always willing to take part in it, and took my punishment, in the shape of a cane and numbers of lines to write, with a certain amount of pluck. Being near Portsmouth, gunpowder had a rare fascination for us, but how to get it? That was the question. Most of us used to be allowed a halfpenny a week pocket money. We would agree to go seperately to the ironmonger’s shop and ask for a penny-worth of it, “to blow out mother’s copper” on washing days, or a wasp’s nest. We were generally successful, though the shopmen must have known we had some mischief on hand.

Most of us had small brass cannons. I had one six inches long, but we used to put too much gunpowder into them. One day I fired it off outside the back door of our house, touched it off with a red-hot poker, but I never saw the cannon again. It either burst, or went up in the air.

On our visits to our uncle’s farm I always covetted an old horse pistol that hung on the wall of the kitchen. Eventually he gave it to me, cautioning me to be careful; he also gave me the mould for leaden bullets. The pistol is sixteen inches long. Any sort of metal that would melt was brought into requisition, sometimes the tablespoons were missing to make bullets.

One day I heard a terrific bang. I saw my brother had fired it off at a chalk bird he had drawn on the lavatory door at the bottom of the garden. I ran down to see how near he was to his mark, and asked him if anyone was inside the lavatory. He said, “I don’t know.” With much trepidation we opened the door, there was no one there; but the bullet had made a round hole through the door and knocked a brick out of the wall at the back. Had there been anyone there they would have had a hole through, about the waist line.

Those old guns and pistols were fired by a percussion cap. There was no absolute certainty of their going off when the trigger was pulled, but would often mis-fire, or hang fire.

On one occasion my brother and I were shooting thrushes in the orchard. The gun mis-fired. I took it from my shoulder to put on another cap when the gun went off, the shots passing my brother by a few inches. I thought I had shot him.

The reader may say, “What has all this got to do with gentleman’s service?” I simply want to show what sort of metal the writer is made of. If the readers will only have a little patience I will take them through gentleman’s service right enough, in every grade from hall-boy to butler and house steward, and from scullery maid to housekeeper. They will then see why so very few select the job in order to get a living.

I must have been about eight or nine years old when a party of boys went fishing for minnows in a river. The tide did not come up from the sea as far as our fishing ground, but only as far as a flour mill—the river water was collected in an immense mill pond—and drove the mill when the tide was down, twice in every twenty-four hours. On the landward end of the mill pond a bridge spanned the river, of twenty feet high, on five arches. Here we fished, with our sticks and string and a pennyworth of small fish-hooks and worms, turning our knickers up as far as possible and wading in.

I happened to be on the top of the bridge, in the centre. I shouted something down to my chums. At that moment my rod slipped out of my hand and fell into the river. I shouted, “save my rod,” and lost my ballance, and over I went. The next thing I saw was several people standing round me. I was laid on my back on a red brick floor in somebody’s house. When I opened my eyes somebody said, “He will be all right now!” From that day to this I never knew who saved me: my only trouble was that I had skinned my knuckles against the buttress of the bridge as I fell. I was told to run away home. Outside, I found my chums waiting expectantly; so we all went towards home. But what about my wet clothes? They would tell the tale. So, on crossing a rough piece of ground called the Oggplat (why it was called by that name I never knew) and as the sun was very hot, I took off all my clothes and laid them on the grass to dry, one of my chums lent me his jacket as a footpath crossed the Oggplatt. When we thought my clothes were dry I put them on, and we went home. My mother asked what made me so late for tea. I laid low, and said nothing.

I was sitting on a stool having my tea, which had been put aside for me, when some woman knocked at the door and asked how her son was. Mother said: “Which one.” She replied: “Eric” (that’s me) “didn’t you know he was drowned in the river?” “No,” said my mother, “he is in the kitchen having his tea.” That gave the game away. Mother soon had my partly dried clothes off, and she sent me to bed.

I must have had phneumonia, or some other fine thing, for I was jolly bad the next day or so. I remember asking my mother, as she sat down by my little bed, if I was going to die. She replied, “No: I hope not.” Anyhow, no doubt it saved me from a good thrashing, as I was told not to go fishing; and my father could lay it on a bit thick for disobedience. I did not get much of it, but what I did get I deserved, and more.

All this time I was making good progress at school. I passed the examinations as they periodically came up. Our schoolmaster was a good one. He would not allow any bullying. If he saw a big boy bullying or striking a smaller boy he would call me or one of the others, and say, “Go and give so-and-so a good licking,” and then discreetly disappear. I would go up to the bully in the playground and ask him why he struck a smaller boy than himself. This led to a “few words,” then suddenly the cry, “A fight,” a ring was quickly formed, a line drawn on the gravel with a boot (why, I don’t know, except that we had to toe it) then we set to work. If one of us got knocked down it was unlawful for the other to strike him when down, but if both were on the ground, it was lawful to go on fighting. When the schoolmaster thought I had given him enough he would appear. Both of us had to go up for punishment for fighting. I got light strokes on the hand with the cane, the other fellow got heavy strokes, and a good lecture about bullying small boys.

My father, in his trade, had to hire and pay a boy to assist him. So I suppose he thought as I was clever enough to get into plenty of mischief I was clever enough to assist him. I was taken from school half a day. Every morning my father would leave the house at half-past five. I left it at half-past six, in order to begin work at seven o’clock. My father was not so well educated as my mother. He could manage to read and write and keep his accounts. He had strong opinions on politics, and things in general; and was always ready to back up his opinions with his fists, if necessary. One idea he was very hot on. He would say that Church and State walked hand-in-hand. The State would punish you bodily for any offences against the law. The Church would threaten you with eternal damnation after you are dead; and that is the way they keep the people in order. Well, if you lift the curtain, he was not very far wrong.

Nowadays, if anyone throws their empty lobster tins over into the neighbors’ gardens, and pokes their tongues out at each other, they take a summons out and you appear at the Police Court.

In 1840 they had a better and quicker way of settling the matter. My father would say, “Just step outside for a few minutes. We will soon settle it.” He could use his fists a bit. He also thought he could dance a hornpipe. He could, in an old-fashioned way. When he was a young man the Lord of the Manor would put up prizes at holiday times for competitions in boxing, single-stick (the winner had to make his opponent’s blood run an inch to win), also sides at a cricket match on the village green, and all kinds of old-fashioned games; to end up with a supper at the Inn, after which the “ladies” would join in a mazy dance. Country dances and a polka was the extent of the programme. He thought he was a champion, and an authority as to how it ought to be done.

He was a keen sportsman, a remarkably good shot. He had two guns, one had a barrel five feet long, the other shorter. About that time all the commons, also the foreshores at low tide, were taken over by the Government. People could no longer turn their cows, horses, and pigs freely to graze, and roam free of cost. Give my father a gun, and something to shoot, and he was happy. I have known him take a shot at a starling, or even a sparrow in flight, during his dinner hour. I never knew him to miss. The restrictions made it difficult to get a bit of sport. I have known him to take his gun to pieces, put it inside his coat, and off down to the foreshore on a winter’s night, for wild ducks and geese. He seldom came back empty-handed, he would bring them down with his long muzzle-loading gun. His idea was that God sent these things for all to enjoy, all wild beasts and birds.

I have known him when he had his gun inside his coat going down the road, on seeing a policeman coming up, to turn back and go another way. He would never allow me to go with him on these excursions.

He used to tell me that when he was a young man he had a dog called “Bob.” Father would place nets in the rabbit runs along the road, then he would say, “Go on, Bob.” The dog would take a half-circle of about two hundred yards on the opposite side of the hedge. It was not long before he had his Sunday dinner in his pocket. If anyone should come along father was out enjoying the evening air, what ho! If he had a gun licence I never saw it.

He used to go to church on Sunday evenings. His dress was: half Wellington boots, that went up under his trowsers; a black satin waistcoat, with coloured flowers, hand-worked roses, I think, down the front; his shirt collar was turned up, and a long silk neckkerchief, put first round the front, crossed at the back, brought to the front, and tied in a bow; a black coat; and top hat, not extra smooth; he also carried a stick.

He was very fond of my reading the weekly newspaper to him in the evening when he came home from work. Then he would criticise the politicians and their doings. His mother’s house was burnt when he was a young man. He told me that if a house or habitation was built on common land, between sunset and sunrise with smoke coming out of the chimney, that place was yours. He and his brothers did it for their mother. I have seen it. Principally made of clay and wattle, and what bricks they could collect from the ruins of the burnt house. I think he called it “Keyhold.” There was just two rooms and a brick floor.

My youngest sister was quite a little housewife in her way. She had a fascination for nursing babies after she got too old for dolls. One day she had borrowed a neighbour’s baby to look after. She sat it on the floor while she did the housework, my mother having gone out to work. I was playing hockey with some boys in the road, when I saw her come to the front door and shout to me, “I am all a-fire.” By the expression of her face I thought she was laughing, but it was the contortion of fear: then I saw the smoke. I bounded over the garden wall, took her indoors, and with the short brush she had been sweeping with I beat out the flames. She had been sweeping up the hearth, and in turning round with the fender the back of her frock caught alight. I soon had all her smouldering clothes off, and called in a neighbour. Her back was burnt, and all her hair was burnt off. I was only just in time. But, curious to relate, after the advice of a doctor, she had a beautiful lot of hair, which grew on a scalp that before looked like a bladder of lard.

Just one or two more of my school-day escapades then I am off into gentleman’s service.

We attended choir practice every Wednesday and Friday. It happened that the estate steward and estate carpenter of a large gentleman’s house, just outside the town, got themselves in bad repute through women, or no woman, something of that sort; us boys did not know exactly what it was, but the people broke all the windows in the steward’s house in High Street. The affair caused a great commotion in the town.

Now, choir boys could not be out of an affair like this, so we agreed to give the carpenter, whose house we passed on our way home from practice, a volley of stones at his front door, then all bolt home as fast as our legs could carry us.

That passed off all right, but the next practice night we agreed to repeat the dose. We were bad stratigists, for the carpenter must have known it was the choir boys; all other boys had gone to bed at that time—9.30 P. M.—in a country town, also he could see the lights in the church at the end of the street. We were all ranged up, each with a stone in his hand, waiting for the word “Fire,” when out from the side of the house popped the carpenter in his slippers. We scattered. I accidently fell off the kerb and rolled into the gutter. I heard the carpenter run past me, chasing the others. I got up and went another way home, thinking I was lucky. My father and mother and all went to bed early, as they had to get up early. My supper was always left covered up with the table cloth, also the back door was left unlocked for me. I locked the door and crept up to bed. My mother called out from the next room, “Is that you, Eric?” I replied, “Yes.” She asked, “Have you had your supper?” I said, “I was not hungry.” I thought I had got out of that job all right, when, “Bang, bang,” someone was at our front door. My father said, “Who is that?” and told me to answer the door. I said I was in bed and did not want to go down. He asked, “What mischief have you been up to now?” He got out of bed and opened the window, and said, “Yes, what do you want?” The carpenter said, “Your boy has been throwing stones at my door. I shall take a summons out against him in the morning!” I said, “I was about to throw, but you came out too quick, so I didn’t throw the stone.” “Oh, but George Coles (another choir boy) said it was you.”

After a great deal of jaw my father shut the window and said to me, “I have done with it; now you must take the consequences.” I laid in bed and thought to myself, “Well, you have put your foot into it at last, my lad.” But I felt sorry for George Coles—the first chance—though he was a bigger boy than me. When I woke up the next morning it dawned on me what had happened. I expected every minute to hear the policeman knock at the door with the summons.

At dinner time nothing had happened. My mother tried to perswade me to go to the carpenter’s house, and catch him at home in his dinner hour, and beg his pardon. But I said, “I did not throw a stone, he came out too quick for us. Why should I beg his pardon for what I did not do?” Mother said, “He firmly believes you did, be advised by me and go: it will be best.” Reluctantly I went round to his back door and stood in a little stone yard, thinking how I should begin. I could hear the knives and forks clattering inside. He must have heard and seen me. Presently he came out and said, “What do you want?” I said, “I have come to beg your pardon for throwing stones at your door last night; but I didn’t throw, you came out too quick, but I won’t do it again.” I suppose the absurdity of my speech tickled his imagination, for he said, “All right, don’t.”

He had two boys—they both attended the same school as myself—they came out, and their father went off to work. The boys said, “Have you seen our young chickens? Come up the garden and look at them.” They were only a day or two old, there were about a dozen of them. I said I should like to have one of them, a little yellow and black one; so I gave the oldest boy a penny, which I had got from my mother by way of a bribe to beg the father’s pardon. Having bought the chicken we all went towards the school together. The “all-in” bell rang. I rushed indoors, put the chicken in a basket with a lid, down by the side of the fire, and off to school. When I came out I fed the chicken. My mother could not make out what it was “Chirp, chirp,” all the afternoon. She thought it was a cricket on the hearth. Then came explanations. Before I had finished explaining, “Bang, bang,” came on the front door. It was the carpenter. He said, “Your boy is a dam nusiance, first he throws stones at my door, now he gives one of my boys a penny for one of my chicken; the eggs cost more than that.” I had to give the chicken up, and lost my penny, but had the consolation of knowing the boy got a thrashing for selling me the chicken.

Just one more, then I have finished with school tales.

About half a mile from the school there were some clay pits, where the clay had been dug out for making bricks. It having been a wet season these pits were full of water. On the side was a wide plank, about eighteen inches across, and of great length. One day, after dinner, eight or ten of the oldest boys thought it would be a fine game to launch this plank, all standing on it, pushing it along with poles. The end of the plank was on land. When all was ready someone gave the order to push off: we did. Some boys wobbled one way, some the other, the end of it was the plank capsized, we were all struggling in the water. After all had swam ashore, clambering up the bank, we found ourselves in a fine pickle, wet through and our clothes covered with yellow clay.

At this time about a dozen of the oldest boys, who were nearly ready to leave school for good, had to attend an advanced class, held in the committee room, by the headmaster, on subjects as dry as dust, mathematics, ancient history, Latin, grammer, etc. On this occasion one of the boys said, “There goes the first bell.” Away we scuttled as fast as we could run. Got there just in time. Most of us went to the committee room and sat down at our desks. The headmaster came in. He told us to form a half circle round his desk; then the trouble began. He asked, “What is that on your clothes?” On closer inspection he saw we were wet through. He went out of the room; in a few minutes he returned with a cane in his hand; called each by name, as he stood by the door, gave us three or four of his hardest strokes, told us to go home to change our clothes, and come back. We got a few hundred lines to write out over that escapade.

The examination time was drawing near, but I did not fear it. The inspectors came down. I passed out the best boy of the school, on all subjects, and got the first prize for that year.