Tommy and Co.(托米和科)

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Tommy and Co.

by Jerome K. Jerome

Tommy and Co.

STORY THE FIRST--Peter Hope

plans his Prospectus

"Come in!" said Peter Hope.

Peter Hope was tall and thin, clean-shaven but for a pair of side

whiskers close-cropped and terminating just below the ear, with hair of

the kind referred to by sympathetic barbers as "getting a little thin on the

top, sir," but arranged with economy, that everywhere is poverty's true

helpmate. About Mr. Peter Hope's linen, which was white though

somewhat frayed, there was a self- assertiveness that invariably arrested

the attention of even the most casual observer. Decidedly there was too

much of it--its ostentation aided and abetted by the retiring nature of the

cut- away coat, whose chief aim clearly was to slip off and disappear

behind its owner's back. "I'm a poor old thing," it seemed to say. "I

don't shine--or, rather, I shine too much among these up-to-date young

modes. I only hamper you. You would be much more comfortable

without me." To persuade it to accompany him, its proprietor had to

employ force, keeping fastened the lowest of its three buttons. At

every step, it struggled for its liberty. Another characteristic of Peter's,

linking him to the past, was his black silk cravat, secured by a couple of

gold pins chained together. Watching him as he now sat writing, his

long legs encased in tightly strapped grey trousering, crossed beneath the

table, the lamplight falling on his fresh-complexioned face, upon the

shapely hand that steadied the half-written sheet, a stranger might have

rubbed his eyes, wondering by what hallucination he thus found himself

in presence seemingly of some young beau belonging to the early 'forties;

but looking closer, would have seen the many wrinkles.

"Come in!" repeated Mr. Peter Hope, raising his voice, but not his

eyes.

The door opened, and a small, white face, out of which gleamed a

pair of bright, black eyes, was thrust sideways into the room.

"Come in!" repeated Mr. Peter Hope for the third time. "Who is

Tommy and Co.

it?"

A hand not over clean, grasping a greasy cloth cap, appeared below

the face.

"Not ready yet," said Mr. Hope. "Sit down and wait."

The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in and,

closing the door behind it, sat itself down upon the extreme edge of the

chair nearest.

"Which are you--Central News or Courier?" demanded Mr. Peter Hope,

but without looking up from his work.

The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of

the room by a careful scrutiny of the smoke-grimed ceiling, descended

and fixed themselves upon the one clearly defined bald patch upon his

head that, had he been aware of it, would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope.

But the full, red lips beneath the turned-up nose remained motionless.

That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have

escaped the attention of Mr. Peter Hope. The thin, white hand moved

steadily to and fro across the paper. Three more sheets were added to

those upon the floor. Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and

turned his gaze for the first time upon his visitor.

To Peter Hope, hack journalist, long familiar with the genus Printer's

Devil, small white faces, tangled hair, dirty hands, and greasy caps were

common objects in the neighbourhood of that buried rivulet, the Fleet.

But this was a new species. Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found

them after some trouble under a heap of newspapers, adjusted them upon

his high, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and down.

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Peter Hope. "What is it?"

The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came forward

slowly.

Over a tight-fitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively decollete, it

wore what once had been a boy's pepper-and-salt jacket. A worsted

comforter wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of throat

showing above the garibaldi. Below the jacket fell a long, black skirt,

the train of which had been looped up about the waist and fastened with

a cricket-belt.

Tommy and Co.

"Who are you? What do you want?" asked Mr. Peter Hope.

For answer, the figure, passing the greasy cap into its other hand,

stooped down and, seizing the front of the long skirt, began to haul it up.

"Don't do that!" said Mr. Peter Hope. "I say, you know, you--"

But by this time the skirt had practically disappeared, leaving to

view a pair of much-patched trousers, diving into the right-hand pocket

of which the dirty hand drew forth a folded paper, which, having opened

and smoothed out, it laid upon the desk.

Mr. Peter Hope pushed up his spectacles till they rested on his

eyebrows, and read aloud--"'Steak and Kidney Pie, 4d.; Do. (large size),

6d.; Boiled Mutton--'"

"That's where I've been for the last two weeks," said the figure,--

"Hammond's Eating House!"

The listener noted with surprise that the voice--though it told him as

plainly as if he had risen and drawn aside the red rep curtains, that

outside in Gough Square the yellow fog lay like the ghost of a dead sea--

betrayed no Cockney accent, found no difficulty with its aitches.

"You ask for Emma. She'll say a good word for me. She told me

so."

"But, my good--" Mr. Peter Hope, checking himself, sought again the

assistance of his glasses. The glasses being unable to decide the point,

their owner had to put the question bluntly:

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

"I dunno."

"You don't know!"

"What's the difference?"

Mr. Peter Hope stood up, and taking the strange figure by the

shoulders, turned it round slowly twice, apparently under the impression

that the process might afford to him some clue. But it did not.

"What is your name?"

"Tommy."

"Tommy what?"

"Anything you like. I dunno. I've had so many of 'em."

"What do you want? What have you come for?"

Tommy and Co.

"You're Mr. Hope, ain't you, second floor, 16, Gough Square?"

"That is my name."

"You want somebody to do for you?"

"You mean a housekeeper!"

"Didn't say anything about housekeeper. Said you wanted somebody

to do for you--cook and clean the place up. Heard 'em talking about it

in the shop this afternoon. Old lady in green bonnet was asking Mother

Hammond if she knew of anyone."

"Mrs. Postwhistle--yes, I did ask her to look out for someone for me.

Why, do you know of anyone? Have you been sent by anybody?"

"You don't want anything too 'laborate in the way o' cooking? You

was a simple old chap, so they said; not much trouble."

"No--no. I don't want much--someone clean and respectable. But

why couldn't she come herself? Who is it?"

"Well, what's wrong about me?"

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Peter Hope.

"Why won't I do? I can make beds and clean rooms--all that sort o'

thing. As for cooking, I've got a natural aptitude for it. You ask

Emma; she'll tell you. You don't want nothing 'laborate?"

"Elizabeth," said Mr. Peter Hope, as he crossed and, taking up the

poker, proceeded to stir the fire, "are we awake or asleep?"

Elizabeth thus appealed to, raised herself on her hind legs and dug

her claws into her master's thigh. Mr. Hope's trousers being thin, it was

the most practical answer she could have given him.

"Done a lot of looking after other people for their benefit," continued

Tommy. "Don't see why I shouldn't do it for my own."

"My dear--I do wish I knew whether you were a boy or a girl. Do

you seriously suggest that I should engage you as my housekeeper?"

asked Mr. Peter Hope, now upright with his back to the fire.

"I'd do for you all right," persisted Tommy. "You give me my grub

and a shake-down and, say, sixpence a week, and I'll grumble less than

most of 'em."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Mr. Peter Hope.

"You won't try me?"

Tommy and Co.

"Of course not; you must be mad."

"All right. No harm done." The dirty hand reached out towards the

desk, and possessing itself again of Hammond's Bill of Fare,

commenced the operations necessary for bearing it away in safety.

"Here's a shilling for you," said Mr. Peter Hope.

"Rather not," said Tommy. "Thanks all the same."

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Peter Hope.

"Rather not," repeated Tommy. "Never know where that sort of thing

may lead you to."

"All right," said Mr. Peter Hope, replacing the coin in his pocket.

"Don't!"

The figure moved towards the door.

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute," said Mr. Peter Hope irritably.

The figure, with its hand upon the door, stood still.

"Are you going back to Hammond's?"

"No. I've finished there. Only took me on for a couple o' weeks,

while one of the gals was ill. She came back this morning."

"Who are your people?"

Tommy seemed puzzled. "What d'ye mean?"

"Well, whom do you live with?"

"Nobody."

"You've got nobody to look after you--to take care of you?"

"Take care of me! D'ye think I'm a bloomin' kid?"

"Then where are you going to now?"

"Going? Out."

Peter Hope's irritation was growing.

"I mean, where are you going to sleep? Got any money for a

lodging?"

"Yes, I've got some money," answered Tommy. "But I don't think

much o' lodgings. Not a particular nice class as you meet there. I shall

sleep out to-night. 'Tain't raining."

Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry.

"Serves you right!" growled Peter savagely. "How can anyone help

treading on you when you will get just between one's legs. Told you of

Tommy and Co.

it a hundred times."

The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry with

himself. For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory would

persist in wandering to Ilford Cemetery, in a certain desolate corner of

which lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted to

breathing London fogs; with, on the top of her, a still smaller and still

more fragile mite of humanity that, in compliment to its only relative

worth a penny-piece, had been christened Thomas--a name common

enough in all conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than once.

In the name of common sense, what had dead and buried Tommy Hope

to do with this affair? The whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and

sentiment was Mr. Peter Hope's abomination. Had he not penned

articles innumerable pointing out its baneful influence upon the age?

Had he not always condemned it, wherever he had come across it in play

or book? Now and then the suspicion had crossed Peter's mind that, in

spite of all this, he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himself--things had

suggested this to him. The fear had always made him savage.

"You wait here till I come back," he growled, seizing the astonished

Tommy by the worsted comforter and spinning it into the centre of the

room. "Sit down, and don't you dare to move." And Peter went out

and slammed the door behind him.

"Bit off his chump, ain't he?" remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the

sound of Peter's descending footsteps died away. People had a way of

addressing remarks to Elizabeth. Something in her manner invited this.

"Oh, well, it's all in the day's work," commented Tommy cheerfully,

and sat down as bid.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied

by a large, restful lady, to whom surprise--one felt it instinctively--had

always been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity.

Tommy rose.

"That's the--the article," explained Peter.

Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head.

It was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded

most human affairs.

Tommy and Co.

"That's right," said Mrs. Postwhistle; "I remember seeing 'er there--

leastways, it was an 'er right enough then. What 'ave you done with

your clothes?"

"They weren't mine," explained Tommy. "They were things what

Mrs. Hammond had lent me."

"Is that your own?" asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silk

garibaldi.

"Yes."

"What went with it?"

"Tights. They were too far gone."

"What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs.

'Ammond's?"

"It gave me up. Hurt myself."

"Who were you with last?"

"Martini troupe."

"And before that?"

"Oh! heaps of 'em."

"Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?"

"Nobody as I'd care to believe. Some of them called me the one,

some of them the other. It depended upon what was wanted."

"How old are you?"

"I dunno."

Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was jingling keys.

"Well, there's the bed upstairs. It's for you to decide."

"What I don't want to do," explained Peter, sinking his voice to a

confidential whisper, "is to make a fool of myself."

"That's always a good rule," agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, "for those to

whom it's possible."

"Anyhow," said Peter, "one night can't do any harm. To-morrow we

can think what's to be done."

"To-morrow"had always been Peter's lucky day. At the mere mention

of the magic date his spirits invariably rose. He now turned upon

Tommy a countenance from which all hesitation was banished.

"Very well, Tommy," said Mr. Peter Hope, "you can sleep here to-

Tommy and Co.

night. Go with Mrs. Postwhistle, and she'll show you your room."

The black eyes shone.

"You're going to give me a trial?"

"We'll talk about all that to-morrow." The black eyes clouded.

"Look here. I tell you straight, it ain't no good."

"What do you mean? What isn't any good?" demanded Peter.

"You'll want to send me to prison."

"To prison!"

"Oh, yes. You'll call it a school, I know. You ain't the first that's

tried that on. It won't work." The bright, black eyes were flashing

passionately. "I ain't done any harm. I'm willing to work. I can

keep myself. I always have. What's it got to do with anybody else?"

Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of passionate

defiance, Peter Hope might have retained his common sense. Only

Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears.

And at sight of them Peter's common sense went out of the room

disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.

"Don't be silly," said Peter. "You didn't understand. Of course I'm

going to give you a trial. You're going to 'do' for me. I merely meant

that we'd leave the details till to-morrow. Come, housekeepers don't

cry."

The little wet face looked up.

"You mean it? Honour bright?"

"Honour bright. Now go and wash yourself. Then you shall get me

my supper."

The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of sobs, stood up.

"And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?"

"Yes, yes; I think that's a fair arrangement," agreed Mr. Peter Hope,

considering. "Don't you, Mrs. Postwhistle?"

"With a frock--or a suit of trousers--thrown in," suggested Mrs.

Postwhistle. "It's generally done."

"If it's the custom, certainly," agreed Mr. Peter Hope. "Sixpence a

week and clothes."

And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat

Tommy and Co.

waiting the return of Tommy.

"I rather hope," said Peter, "it's a boy. It was the fogs, you know.

If only I could have afforded to send him away!"

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. The door opened.

"Ah! that's better, much better," said Mr. Peter Hope. "'Pon my

word, you look quite respectable."

By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, benefiting

both parties, had been arrived at with the long-trained skirt; while an

ample shawl arranged with judgment disguised the nakedness that lay

below. Peter, a fastidious gentleman, observed with satisfaction that

the hands, now clean, had been well cared for.

"Give me that cap," said Peter. He threw it in the glowing fire. It

burned brightly, diffusing strange odours.

"There's a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage. You

can wear that for the present. Take this half-sovereign and get me some

cold meat and beer for supper. You'll find everything else you want in

that sideboard or else in the kitchen. Don't ask me a hundred questions,

and don't make a noise," and Peter went back to his work.

"Good idea, that half-sovereign," said Peter. "Shan't be bothered

with 'Master Tommy' any more, don't expect. Starting a nursery at our

time of life. Madness." Peter's pen scratched and spluttered.

Elizabeth kept an eye upon the door.

"Quarter of an hour," said Peter, looking at his watch. "Told you

so." The article on which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a

worrying nature.

"Then why," said Peter, "why did he refuse that shilling?

Artfulness," concluded Peter, "pure artfulness. Elizabeth, old girl,

we've got out of this business cheaply. Good idea, that half-sovereign."

Peter gave vent to a chuckle that had the effect of alarming Elizabeth.

But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.

"Pingle's was sold out," explained Tommy, entering with parcels;

"had to go to Bow's in Farringdon Street."

"Oh!" said Peter, without looking up.

Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind. Peter wrote

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TommyandCo.1TommyandCo.byJeromeK.JeromeTommyandCo.2STORYTHEFIRST--PeterHopeplanshisProspectus"Comein!"saidPeterHope.PeterHopewastallandthin,clean-shavenbutforapairofsidewhiskersclose-croppedandterminatingjustbelowtheear,withhairofthekindreferredtobysympatheticbarbersas"gettingalittlethinonthetop,sir...

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