The Mill on the Floss

unt Glegg Learns the Breadth of Bob’s Thumb

While Maggie’s life-struggles had lain almost entirely within her own
soul, one shadowy army fighting another, and the slain shadows forever
rising again, Tom was engaged in a dustier, noisier warfare, grappling
with more substantial obstacles, and gaining more definite conquests.
So it has been since the days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of
horses; inside the gates, the women with streaming hair and uplifted
hands offering prayers, watching the world’s combat from afar, filling
their long, empty days with memories and fears; outside, the men, in
fierce struggle with things divine and human, quenching memory in the
stronger light of purpose, losing the sense of dread and even of wounds
in the hurrying ardor of action.

From what you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth of whom you
would prophesy failure in anything he had thoroughly wished; the wagers
are likely to be on his side, notwithstanding his small success in the
classics. For Tom had never desired success in this field of
enterprise; and for getting a fine flourishing growth of stupidity
there is nothing like pouring out on a mind a good amount of subjects
in which it feels no interest. But now Tom’s strong will bound together
his integrity, his pride, his family regrets, and his personal
ambition, and made them one force, concentrating his efforts and
surmounting discouragements. His uncle Deane, who watched him closely,
soon began to conceive hopes of him, and to be rather proud that he had
brought into the employment of the firm a nephew who appeared to be
made of such good commercial stuff. The real kindness of placing him in
the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in the hints his uncle
began to throw out, that after a time he might perhaps be trusted to
travel at certain seasons, and buy in for the firm various vulgar
commodities with which I need not shock refined ears in this place; and
it was doubtless with a view to this result that Mr Deane, when he
expected to take his wine alone, would tell Tom to step in and sit with
him an hour, and would pass that hour in much lecturing and catechising
concerning articles of export and import, with an occasional excursus
of more indirect utility on the relative advantages to the merchants of
St Ogg’s of having goods brought in their own and in foreign bottoms,—a
subject on which Mr Deane, as a ship-owner, naturally threw off a few
sparks when he got warmed with talk and wine.

Already, in the second year, Tom’s salary was raised; but all, except
the price of his dinner and clothes, went home into the tin box; and he
shunned comradeship, lest it should lead him into expenses in spite of
himself. Not that Tom was moulded on the spoony type of the Industrious
Apprentice; he had a very strong appetite for pleasure,—would have
liked to be a Tamer of horses and to make a distinguished figure in all
neighbouring eyes, dispensing treats and benefits to others with
well-judged liberality, and being pronounced one of the finest young
fellows of those parts; nay, he determined to achieve these things
sooner or later; but his practical shrewdness told him that the means
to such achievements could only lie for him in present abstinence and
self-denial; there were certain milestones to be passed, and one of the
first was the payment of his father’s debts. Having made up his mind on
that point, he strode along without swerving, contracting some rather
saturnine sternness, as a young man is likely to do who has a premature
call upon him for self-reliance. Tom felt intensely that common cause
with his father which springs from family pride, and was bent on being
irreproachable as a son; but his growing experience caused him to pass
much silent criticism on the rashness and imprudence of his father’s
past conduct; their dispositions were not in sympathy, and Tom’s face
showed little radiance during his few home hours. Maggie had an awe of
him, against which she struggled as something unfair to her
consciousness of wider thoughts and deeper motives; but it was of no
use to struggle. A character at unity with itself—that performs what it
intends, subdues every counteracting impulse, and has no visions beyond
the distinctly possible—is strong by its very negations.

You may imagine that Tom’s more and more obvious unlikeness to his
father was well fitted to conciliate the maternal aunts and uncles; and
Mr Deane’s favourable reports and predictions to Mr Glegg concerning
Tom’s qualifications for business began to be discussed amongst them
with various acceptance. He was likely, it appeared, to do the family
credit without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs Pullet had
always thought it strange if Tom’s excellent complexion, so entirely
that of the Dodsons, did not argue a certainty that he would turn out
well; his juvenile errors of running down the peacock, and general
disrespect to his aunts, only indicating a tinge of Tulliver blood
which he had doubtless outgrown. Mr Glegg, who had contracted a
cautious liking for Tom ever since his spirited and sensible behaviour
when the execution was in the house, was now warming into a resolution
to further his prospects actively,—some time, when an opportunity
offered of doing so in a prudent manner, without ultimate loss; but Mrs
Glegg observed that she was not given to speak without book, as some
people were; that those who said least were most likely to find their
words made good; and that when the right moment came, it would be seen
who could do something better than talk. Uncle Pullet, after silent
meditation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly to the
conclusion, that when a young man was likely to do well, it was better
not to meddle with him.

Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any one but
himself, though, with a natural sensitiveness toward all indications of
favourable opinion, he was glad to see his uncle Glegg look in on him
sometimes in a friendly way during business hours, and glad to be
invited to dine at his house, though he usually preferred declining on
the ground that he was not sure of being punctual. But about a year
ago, something had occurred which induced Tom to test his uncle Glegg’s
friendly disposition.

Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds without seeing
Tom and Maggie, awaited him on the bridge as he was coming home from St
Ogg’s one evening, that they might have a little private talk. He took
the liberty of asking if Mr Tom had ever thought of making money by
trading a bit on his own account. Trading, how? Tom wished to know.
Why, by sending out a bit of a cargo to foreign ports; because Bob had
a particular friend who had offered to do a little business for him in
that way in Laceham goods, and would be glad to serve Mr Tom on the
same footing. Tom was interested at once, and begged for full
explanation, wondering he had not thought of this plan before.

He was so well pleased with the prospect of a speculation that might
change the slow process of addition into multiplication, that he at
once determined to mention the matter to his father, and get his
consent to appropriate some of the savings in the tin box to the
purchase of a small cargo. He would rather not have consulted his
father, but he had just paid his last quarter’s money into the tin box,
and there was no other resource. All the savings were there; for Mr
Tulliver would not consent to put the money out at interest lest he
should lose it. Since he had speculated in the purchase of some corn,
and had lost by it, he could not be easy without keeping the money
under his eye.

Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on the hearth
with his father that evening, and Mr Tulliver listened, leaning forward
in his arm-chair and looking up in Tom’s face with a sceptical glance.
His first impulse was to give a positive refusal, but he was in some
awe of Tom’s wishes, and since he had the sense of being an “unlucky”
father, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness and determination to
be master. He took the key of the bureau from his pocket, got out the
key of the large chest, and fetched down the tin box,—slowly, as if he
were trying to defer the moment of a painful parting. Then he seated
himself against the table, and opened the box with that little
padlock-key which he fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all vacant
moments. There they were, the dingy bank-notes and the bright
sovereigns, and he counted them out on the table—only a hundred and
sixteen pounds in two years, after all the pinching.

“How much do you want, then?” he said, speaking as if the words burnt
his lips.

“Suppose I begin with the thirty-six pounds, father?” said Tom.

Mr Tulliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping his hand over
it, said:

“It’s as much as I can save out o’ my pay in a year.”

“Yes, father; it is such slow work, saving out of the little money we
get. And in this way we might double our savings.”

“Ay, my lad,” said the father, keeping his hand on the money, “but you
might lose it,—you might lose a year o’ my life,—and I haven’t got
many.”

Tom was silent.

“And you know I wouldn’t pay a dividend with the first hundred, because
I wanted to see it all in a lump,—and when I see it, I’m sure on’t. If
you trust to luck, it’s sure to be against me. It’s Old Harry’s got the
luck in his hands; and if I lose one year, I shall never pick it up
again; death ’ull o’ertake me.”

Mr Tulliver’s voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few minutes
before he said:

“I’ll give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly.”

But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he determined to ask
his uncle Glegg to venture twenty pounds, on condition of receiving
five per cent. of the profits. That was really a very small thing to
ask. So when Bob called the next day at the wharf to know the decision,
Tom proposed that they should go together to his uncle Glegg’s to open
the business; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made him feel
that Bobs’ tongue would relieve him from some embarrassment.

Mr Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon of a hot August
day, was naturally counting his wall-fruit to assure himself that the
sum total had not varied since yesterday. To him entered Tom, in what
appeared to Mr Glegg very questionable companionship,—that of a man
with a pack on his back,—for Bob was equipped for a new journey,—and of
a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow, swaying movement
from side to side, and glanced from under his eye-lids with a surly
indifference which might after all be a cover to the most offensive
designs.

Mr Glegg’s spectacles, which had been assisting him in counting the
fruit, made these suspicious details alarmingly evident to him.

“Heigh! heigh! keep that dog back, will you?” he shouted, snatching up
a stake and holding it before him as a shield when the visitors were
within three yards of him.

“Get out wi’ you, Mumps,” said Bob, with a kick. “He’s as quiet as a
lamb, sir,”—an observation which Mumps corroborated by a low growl as
he retreated behind his master’s legs.

“Why, what ever does this mean, Tom?” said Mr Glegg. “Have you brought
information about the scoundrels as cut my trees?” If Bob came in the
character of “information,” Mr Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some
irregularity.

“No, sir,” said Tom; “I came to speak to you about a little matter of
business of my own.”

“Ay—well; but what has this dog got to do with it?” said the old
gentleman, getting mild again.

“It’s my dog, sir,” said the ready Bob. “An’ it’s me as put Mr Tom up
to the bit o’ business; for Mr Tom’s been a friend o’ mine iver since I
was a little chap; fust thing iver I did was frightenin’ the birds for
th’ old master. An’ if a bit o’ luck turns up, I’m allays thinkin’ if I
can let Mr Tom have a pull at it. An’ it’s a downright roarin’ shame,
as when he’s got the chance o’ making a bit o’ money wi’ sending goods
out,—ten or twelve per zent clear, when freight an’ commission’s
paid,—as he shouldn’t lay hold o’ the chance for want o’ money. An’
when there’s the Laceham goods,—lors! they’re made o’ purpose for folks
as want to send out a little carguy; light, an’ take up no room,—you
may pack twenty pound so as you can’t see the passill; an’ they’re
manifacturs as please fools, so I reckon they aren’t like to want a
market. An’ I’d go to Laceham an’ buy in the goods for Mr Tom along wi’
my own. An’ there’s the shupercargo o’ the bit of a vessel as is goin’
to take ’em out. I know him partic’lar; he’s a solid man, an’ got a
family i’ the town here. Salt, his name is,—an’ a briny chap he is
too,—an’ if you don’t believe me, I can take you to him.”

Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassed
loquacity, with which his understanding could hardly keep pace. He
looked at Bob, first over his spectacles, then through them, then over
them again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncle’s impression, began to
wish he had not brought this singular Aaron, or mouthpiece. Bob’s talk
appeared less seemly, now some one besides himself was listening to it.

“You seem to be a knowing fellow,” said Mr Glegg, at last.

“Ay, sir, you say true,” returned Bob, nodding his head aside; “I think
my head’s all alive inside like an old cheese, for I’m so full o’
plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn’t Mumps to talk to, I should
get top-heavy an’ tumble in a fit. I suppose it’s because I niver went
to school much. That’s what I jaw my old mother for. I says, ‘You
should ha’ sent me to school a bit more,’ I says, ‘an’ then I could ha’
read i’ the books like fun, an’ kep’ my head cool an’ empty.’ Lors,
she’s fine an’ comfor’ble now, my old mother is; she ates her baked
meat an’ taters as often as she likes. For I’m gettin’ so full o’
money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But it’s botherin,’ a wife
is,—and Mumps mightn’t like her.”

Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retired
from business, was beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still a
disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.

“Ah,” he said, “I should think you’re at a loss for ways o’ spending
your money, else you wouldn’t keep that big dog, to eat as much as two
Christians. It’s shameful—shameful!” But he spoke more in sorrow than
in anger, and quickly added:

“But, come now, let’s hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you
want a little sum to make a venture with. But where’s all your own
money? You don’t spend it all—eh?”

“No, sir,” said Tom, colouring; “but my father is unwilling to risk it,
and I don’t like to press him. If I could get twenty or thirty pounds
to begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, and then I could
gradually make a little capital of my own, and do without a loan.”

“Ay—ay,” said Mr Glegg, in an approving tone; “that’s not a bad notion,
and I won’t say as I wouldn’t be your man. But it ’ull be as well for
me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then—here’s this friend o’
yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you’ve got somebody to
stand surety for you if the money’s put into your hands?” added the
cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, uncle,” said Tom. “At least, I mean it
would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhaps it
would be right for you to have some security.”

“You get your percentage out o’ the purchase, I suppose?” said Mr
Glegg, looking at Bob.

“No, sir,” said Bob, rather indignantly; “I didn’t offer to get a apple
for Mr Tom, o’ purpose to hev a bite out of it myself. When I play
folks tricks, there’ll be more fun in ’em nor that.”

“Well, but it’s nothing but right you should have a small percentage,”
said Mr Glegg. “I’ve no opinion o’ transactions where folks do things
for nothing. It allays looks bad.”

“Well, then,” said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what was implied,
“I’ll tell you what I get by’t, an’ it’s money in my pocket in the
end,—I make myself look big, wi’ makin’ a bigger purchase. That’s what
I’m thinking on. Lors! I’m a ’cute chap,—I am.”

“Mr Glegg, Mr Glegg!” said a severe voice from the open parlour window,
“pray are you coming in to tea, or are you going to stand talking with
packmen till you get murdered in the open daylight?”

“Murdered?” said Mr Glegg; “what’s the woman talking of? Here’s your
nephey Tom come about a bit o’ business.”

“Murdered,—yes,—it isn’t many ’sizes ago since a packman murdered a
young woman in a lone place, and stole her thimble, and threw her body
into a ditch.”

“Nay, nay,” said Mr Glegg, soothingly, “you’re thinking o’ the man wi’
no legs, as drove a dog-cart.”

“Well, it’s the same thing, Mr Glegg, only you’re fond o’ contradicting
what I say; and if my nephey’s come about business, it ’ud be more
fitting if you’d bring him into the house, and let his aunt know about
it, instead o’ whispering in corners, in that plotting, underminding
way.”

“Well, well,” said Mr Glegg, “we’ll come in now.”

“You needn’t stay here,” said the lady to Bob, in a loud voice, adapted
to the moral, not the physical, distance between them. “We don’t want
anything. I don’t deal wi’ packmen. Mind you shut the gate after you.”

“Stop a bit; not so fast,” said Mr Glegg; “I haven’t done with this
young man yet. Come in, Tom; come in,” he added, stepping in at the
French window.

“Mr Glegg,” said Mrs G., in a fatal tone, “if you’re going to let that
man and his dog in on my carpet, before my very face, be so good as to
let me know. A wife’s got a right to ask that, I hope.”

“Don’t you be uneasy, mum,” said Bob, touching his cap. He saw at once
that Mrs Glegg was a bit of game worth running down, and longed to be
at the sport; “we’ll stay out upo’ the gravel here,—Mumps and me will.
Mumps knows his company,—he does. I might hish at him by th’ hour
together, before he’d fly at a real gentlewoman like you. It’s
wonderful how he knows which is the good-looking ladies; and’s
partic’lar fond of ’em when they’ve good shapes. Lors!” added Bob,
laying down his pack on the gravel, “it’s a thousand pities such a lady
as you shouldn’t deal with a packman, i’ stead o’ goin’ into these
newfangled shops, where there’s half-a-dozen fine gents wi’ their chins
propped up wi’ a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi’ ornamental
stoppers, an’ all got to get their dinner out of a bit o’ calico; it
stan’s to reason you must pay three times the price you pay a packman,
as is the nat’ral way o’ gettin’ goods,—an’ pays no rent, an’ isn’t
forced to throttle himself till the lies are squeezed out on him,
whether he will or no. But lors! mum, you know what it is better nor I
do,—you can see through them shopmen, I’ll be bound.”

“Yes, I reckon I can, and through the packmen too,” observed Mrs Glegg,
intending to imply that Bob’s flattery had produced no effect on her;
while her husband, standing behind her with his hands in his pockets
and legs apart, winked and smiled with conjugal delight at the
probability of his wife’s being circumvented.

“Ay, to be sure, mum,” said Bob. “Why, you must ha’ dealt wi’ no end o’
packmen when you war a young lass—before the master here had the luck
to set eyes on you. I know where you lived, I do,—seen th’ house many a
time,—close upon Squire Darleigh’s,—a stone house wi’ steps——”

“Ah, that it had,” said Mrs Glegg, pouring out the tea. “You know
something o’ my family, then? Are you akin to that packman with a
squint in his eye, as used to bring th’ Irish linen?”

“Look you there now!” said Bob, evasively. “Didn’t I know as you’d
remember the best bargains you’ve made in your life was made wi’
packmen? Why, you see even a squintin’ packman’s better nor a shopman
as can see straight. Lors! if I’d had the luck to call at the stone
house wi’ my pack, as lies here,”—stooping and thumping the bundle
emphatically with his fist,—“an’ th’ handsome young lasses all stannin’
out on the stone steps, it ud’ ha’ been summat like openin’ a pack,
that would. It’s on’y the poor houses now as a packman calls on, if it
isn’t for the sake o’ the sarvant-maids. They’re paltry times, these
are. Why, mum, look at the printed cottons now, an’ what they was when
you wore ’em,—why, you wouldn’t put such a thing on now, I can see. It
must be first-rate quality, the manifactur as you’d buy,—summat as ’ud
wear as well as your own faitures.”

“Yes, better quality nor any you’re like to carry; you’ve got nothing
first-rate but brazenness, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs Glegg, with a
triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. “Mr Glegg, are you
going ever to sit down to your tea? Tom, there’s a cup for you.”

“You speak true there, mum,” said Bob. “My pack isn’t for ladies like
you. The time’s gone by for that. Bargains picked up dirt cheap! A bit
o’ damage here an’ there, as can be cut out, or else niver seen i’ the
wearin’, but not fit to offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o’
things as nobody sees. I’m not the man as ’ud offer t’ open my pack to
you, mum; no, no; I’m a imperent chap, as you say,—these times makes
folks imperent,—but I’m not up to the mark o’ that.”

“Why, what goods do you carry in your pack?” said Mrs Glegg.
“Fine-coloured things, I suppose,—shawls an’ that?”

“All sorts, mum, all sorts,” said Bob,—thumping his bundle; “but let us
say no more about that, if you please. I’m here upo’ Mr Tom’s
business, an’ I’m not the man to take up the time wi’ my own.”

“And pray, what is this business as is to be kept from me?” said Mrs
Glegg, who, solicited by a double curiosity, was obliged to let the
one-half wait.

“A little plan o’ nephey Tom’s here,” said good-natured Mr Glegg; “and
not altogether a bad ’un, I think. A little plan for making money;
that’s the right sort o’ plan for young folks as have got their fortin
to make, eh, Jane?”

“But I hope it isn’t a plan where he expects iverything to be done for
him by his friends; that’s what the young folks think of mostly
nowadays. And pray, what has this packman got to do wi’ what goes on in
our family? Can’t you speak for yourself, Tom, and let your aunt know
things, as a nephey should?”

“This is Bob Jakin, aunt,” said Tom, bridling the irritation that aunt
Glegg’s voice always produced. “I’ve known him ever since we were
little boys. He’s a very good fellow, and always ready to do me a
kindness. And he has had some experience in sending goods out,—a small
part of a cargo as a private speculation; and he thinks if I could
begin to do a little in the same way, I might make some money. A large
interest is got in that way.”

“Large int’rest?” said aunt Glegg, with eagerness; “and what do you
call large int’rest?”

“Ten or twelve per cent, Bob says, after expenses are paid.”

“Then why wasn’t I let to know o’ such things before, Mr Glegg?” said
Mrs Glegg, turning to her husband, with a deep grating tone of
reproach. “Haven’t you allays told me as there was no getting more nor
five per cent?”

“Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman,” said Mr Glegg. “You couldn’t go
into trade, could you? You can’t get more than five per cent with
security.”

“But I can turn a bit o’ money for you, an’ welcome, mum,” said Bob,
“if you’d like to risk it,—not as there’s any risk to speak on. But if
you’d a mind to lend a bit o’ money to Mr Tom, he’d pay you six or
seven per zent, an’ get a trifle for himself as well; an’ a
good-natur’d lady like you ’ud like the feel o’ the money better if
your nephey took part on it.”

“What do you say, Mrs G.?” said Mr Glegg. “I’ve a notion, when I’ve
made a bit more inquiry, as I shall perhaps start Tom here with a bit
of a nest-egg,—he’ll pay me int’rest, you know,—an’ if you’ve got some
little sums lyin’ idle twisted up in a stockin’ toe, or that——”

“Mr Glegg, it’s beyond iverything! You’ll go and give information to
the tramps next, as they may come and rob me.”

“Well, well, as I was sayin’, if you like to join me wi’ twenty pounds,
you can—I’ll make it fifty. That’ll be a pretty good nest-egg, eh,
Tom?”

“You’re not counting on me, Mr Glegg, I hope,” said his wife. “You
could do fine things wi’ my money, I don’t doubt.”

“Very well,” said Mr Glegg, rather snappishly, “then we’ll do without
you. I shall go with you to see this Salt,” he added, turning to Bob.

“And now, I suppose, you’ll go all the other way, Mr Glegg,” said Mrs
G., “and want to shut me out o’ my own nephey’s business. I never said
I wouldn’t put money into it,—I don’t say as it shall be twenty pounds,
though you’re so ready to say it for me,—but he’ll see some day as his
aunt’s in the right not to risk the money she’s saved for him till it’s
proved as it won’t be lost.”

“Ay, that’s a pleasant sort o’risk, that is,” said Mr Glegg,
indiscreetly winking at Tom, who couldn’t avoid smiling. But Bob
stemmed the injured lady’s outburst.

“Ay, mum,” he said admiringly, “you know what’s what—you do. An’ it’s
nothing but fair. You see how the first bit of a job answers, an’
then you’ll come down handsome. Lors, it’s a fine thing to hev good
kin. I got my bit of a nest-egg, as the master calls it, all by my own
sharpness,—ten suvreigns it was,—wi’ dousing the fire at Torry’s mill,
an’ it’s growed an’ growed by a bit an’ a bit, till I’n got a matter o’
thirty pound to lay out, besides makin’ my mother comfor’ble. I should
get more, on’y I’m such a soft wi’ the women,—I can’t help lettin’ ’em
hev such good bargains. There’s this bundle, now,” thumping it lustily,
“any other chap ’ud make a pretty penny out on it. But me!—lors, I
shall sell ’em for pretty near what I paid for ’em.”

“Have you got a bit of good net, now?” said Mrs Glegg, in a patronizing
tone, moving from the tea-table, and folding her napkin.

“Eh, mum, not what you’d think it worth your while to look at. I’d
scorn to show it you. It ’ud be an insult to you.”

“But let me see,” said Mrs Glegg, still patronizing. “If they’re
damaged goods, they’re like enough to be a bit the better quality.”

“No, mum, I know my place,” said Bob, lifting up his pack and
shouldering it. “I’m not going t’ expose the lowness o’ my trade to a
lady like you. Packs is come down i’ the world; it ’ud cut you to th’
heart to see the difference. I’m at your sarvice, sir, when you’ve a
mind to go and see Salt.”

“All in good time,” said Mr Glegg, really unwilling to cut short the
dialogue. “Are you wanted at the wharf, Tom?”

“No, sir; I left Stowe in my place.”

“Come, put down your pack, and let me see,” said Mrs Glegg, drawing a
chair to the window and seating herself with much dignity.

“Don’t you ask it, mum,” said Bob, entreatingly.

“Make no more words,” said Mrs Glegg, severely, “but do as I tell you.”

“Eh mum, I’m loth, that I am,” said Bob, slowly depositing his pack on
the step, and beginning to untie it with unwilling fingers. “But what
you order shall be done” (much fumbling in pauses between the
sentences). “It’s not as you’ll buy a single thing on me,—I’d be sorry
for you to do it,—for think o’ them poor women up i’ the villages
there, as niver stir a hundred yards from home,—it ’ud be a pity for
anybody to buy up their bargains. Lors, it’s as good as a junketing to
’em when they see me wi’ my pack, an’ I shall niver pick up such
bargains for ’em again. Least ways, I’ve no time now, for I’m off to
Laceham. See here now,” Bob went on, becoming rapid again, and holding
up a scarlet woollen Kerchief with an embroidered wreath in the corner;
“here’s a thing to make a lass’s mouth water, an’ on’y two shillin’—an’
why? Why, ’cause there’s a bit of a moth-hole ’i this plain end. Lors,
I think the moths an’ the mildew was sent by Providence o’ purpose to
cheapen the goods a bit for the good-lookin’ women as han’t got much
money. If it hadn’t been for the moths, now, every hankicher on ’em ’ud
ha’ gone to the rich, handsome ladies, like you, mum, at five shillin’
apiece,—not a farthin’ less; but what does the moth do? Why, it nibbles
off three shillin’ o’ the price i’ no time; an’ then a packman like me
can carry ’t to the poor lasses as live under the dark thack, to make a
bit of a blaze for ’em. Lors, it’s as good as a fire, to look at such a
hankicher!”

Bob held it at a distance for admiration, but Mrs Glegg said sharply:

“Yes, but nobody wants a fire this time o’ year. Put these coloured
things by; let me look at your nets, if you’ve got ’em.”

“Eh, mum, I told you how it ’ud be,” said Bob, flinging aside the
coloured things with an air of desperation. “I knowed it ud’ turn
again’ you to look at such paltry articles as I carry. Here’s a piece
o’ figured muslin now, what’s the use o’ you lookin’ at it? You might
as well look at poor folks’s victual, mum; it ’ud on’y take away your
appetite. There’s a yard i’ the middle on’t as the pattern’s all
missed,—lors, why, it’s a muslin as the Princess Victoree might ha’
wore; but,” added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the turf, as if to
save Mrs Glegg’s eyes, “it’ll be bought up by the huckster’s wife at
Fibb’s End,—that’s where it’ll go—ten shillin’ for the whole lot—ten
yards, countin’ the damaged un—five-an’-twenty shillin’ ’ud ha’ been
the price, not a penny less. But I’ll say no more, mum; it’s nothing to
you, a piece o’ muslin like that; you can afford to pay three times the
money for a thing as isn’t half so good. It’s nets you talked on;
well, I’ve got a piece as ’ull serve you to make fun on——”

“Bring me that muslin,” said Mrs Glegg. “It’s a buff; I’m partial to
buff.”

“Eh, but a damaged thing,” said Bob, in a tone of deprecating
disgust. “You’d do nothing with it, mum, you’d give it to the cook, I
know you would, an’ it ’ud be a pity,—she’d look too much like a lady
in it; it’s unbecoming for servants.”

“Fetch it, and let me see you measure it,” said Mrs Glegg,
authoritatively.

Bob obeyed with ostentatious reluctance.

“See what there is over measure!” he said, holding forth the extra
half-yard, while Mrs Glegg was busy examining the damaged yard, and
throwing her head back to see how far the fault would be lost on a
distant view.

“I’ll give you six shilling for it,” she said, throwing it down with
the air of a person who mentions an ultimatum.

“Didn’t I tell you now, mum, as it ’ud hurt your feelings to look at my
pack? That damaged bit’s turned your stomach now; I see it has,” said
Bob, wrapping the muslin up with the utmost quickness, and apparently
about to fasten up his pack. “You’re used to seein’ a different sort o’
article carried by packmen, when you lived at the stone house. Packs is
come down i’ the world; I told you that; my goods are for common
folks. Mrs Pepper ’ull give me ten shillin’ for that muslin, an’ be
sorry as I didn’t ask her more. Such articles answer i’ the
wearin’,—they keep their colour till the threads melt away i’ the
wash-tub, an’ that won’t be while I’m a young un.”

“Well, seven shilling,” said Mrs Glegg.

“Put it out o’ your mind, mum, now do,” said Bob. “Here’s a bit o’ net,
then, for you to look at before I tie up my pack, just for you to see
what my trade’s come to,—spotted and sprigged, you see, beautiful but
yallow,—’s been lyin’ by an’ got the wrong colour. I could niver ha’
bought such net, if it hadn’t been yallow. Lors, it’s took me a deal o’
study to know the vally o’ such articles; when I begun to carry a pack,
I was as ignirant as a pig; net or calico was all the same to me. I
thought them things the most vally as was the thickest. I was took in
dreadful, for I’m a straightforrard chap,—up to no tricks, mum. I can
only say my nose is my own, for if I went beyond, I should lose myself
pretty quick. An’ I gev five-an’-eightpence for that piece o’ net,—if I
was to tell y’ anything else I should be tellin’ you fibs,—an’
five-an’-eightpence I shall ask of it, not a penny more, for it’s a
woman’s article, an’ I like to ’commodate the women.
Five-an’-eightpence for six yards,—as cheap as if it was only the dirt
on it as was paid for.’”

“I don’t mind having three yards of it,’” said Mrs Glegg.

“Why, there’s but six altogether,” said Bob. “No, mum, it isn’t worth
your while; you can go to the shop to-morrow an’ get the same pattern
ready whitened. It’s on’y three times the money; what’s that to a lady
like you?” He gave an emphatic tie to his bundle.

“Come, lay me out that muslin,” said Mrs Glegg. “Here’s eight shilling
for it.”

“You will be jokin’,” said Bob, looking up with a laughing face; “I
see’d you was a pleasant lady when I fust come to the winder.”

“Well, put it me out,” said Mrs Glegg, peremptorily.

“But if I let you have it for ten shillin’, mum, you’ll be so good as
not tell nobody. I should be a laughin’-stock; the trade ’ud hoot me,
if they knowed it. I’m obliged to make believe as I ask more nor I do
for my goods, else they’d find out I was a flat. I’m glad you don’t
insist upo’ buyin’ the net, for then I should ha’ lost my two best
bargains for Mrs Pepper o’ Fibb’s End, an’ she’s a rare customer.”

“Let me look at the net again,” said Mrs Glegg, yearning after the
cheap spots and sprigs, now they were vanishing.

“Well, I can’t deny you, mum,” said Bob handing it out.

“Eh!, see what a pattern now! Real Laceham goods. Now, this is the sort
o’ article I’m recommendin’ Mr Tom to send out. Lors, it’s a fine thing
for anybody as has got a bit o’ money; these Laceham goods ’ud make it
breed like maggits. If I was a lady wi’ a bit o’ money!—why, I know one
as put thirty pounds into them goods,—a lady wi’ a cork leg, but as
sharp,—you wouldn’t catch her runnin’ her head into a sack; she’d
see her way clear out o’ anything afore she’d be in a hurry to start.
Well, she let out thirty pound to a young man in the drapering line,
and he laid it out i’ Laceham goods, an’ a shupercargo o’ my
acquinetance (not Salt) took ’em out, an’ she got her eight per zent
fust go off; an’ now you can’t hold her but she must be sendin’ out
carguies wi’ every ship, till she’s gettin’ as rich as a Jew. Bucks her
name is, she doesn’t live i’ this town. Now then, mum, if you’ll please
to give me the net——”

“Here’s fifteen shilling, then, for the two,” said Mrs Glegg. “But it’s
a shameful price.”

“Nay, mum, you’ll niver say that when you’re upo’ your knees i’ church
i’ five years’ time. I’m makin’ you a present o’ th’ articles; I am,
indeed. That eightpence shaves off my profits as clean as a razor. Now
then, sir,” continued Bob, shouldering his pack, “if you please, I’ll
be glad to go and see about makin’ Mr Tom’s fortin. Eh, I wish I’d got
another twenty pound to lay out mysen; I shouldn’t stay to say my
Catechism afore I knowed what to do wi’t.”

“Stop a bit, Mr Glegg,” said the lady, as her husband took his hat,
“you never will give me the chance o’ speaking. You’ll go away now,
and finish everything about this business, and come back and tell me
it’s too late for me to speak. As if I wasn’t my nephey’s own aunt, and
the head o’ the family on his mother’s side! and laid by guineas, all
full weight, for him, as he’ll know who to respect when I’m laid in my
coffin.”

“Well, Mrs G., say what you mean,” said Mr G., hastily.

“Well, then, I desire as nothing may be done without my knowing. I
don’t say as I sha’n’t venture twenty pounds, if you make out as
everything’s right and safe. And if I do, Tom,” concluded Mrs Glegg,
turning impressively to her nephew, “I hope you’ll allays bear it in
mind and be grateful for such an aunt. I mean you to pay me interest,
you know; I don’t approve o’ giving; we niver looked for that in my
family.”

“Thank you, aunt,” said Tom, rather proudly. “I prefer having the money
only lent to me.”

“Very well; that’s the Dodson sperrit,” said Mrs Glegg, rising to get
her knitting with the sense that any further remark after this would be
bathos.

Salt—that eminently “briny chap”—having been discovered in a cloud of
tobacco-smoke at the Anchor Tavern, Mr Glegg commenced inquiries which
turned out satisfactorily enough to warrant the advance of the
“nest-egg,” to which aunt Glegg contributed twenty pounds; and in this
modest beginning you see the ground of a fact which might otherwise
surprise you; namely, Tom’s accumulation of a fund, unknown to his
father, that promised in no very long time to meet the more tardy
process of saving, and quite cover the deficit. When once his attention
had been turned to this source of gain, Tom determined to make the most
of it, and lost no opportunity of obtaining information and extending
his small enterprises. In not telling his father, he was influenced by
that strange mixture of opposite feelings which often gives equal truth
to those who blame an action and those who admire it,—partly, it was
that disinclination to confidence which is seen between near kindred,
that family repulsion which spoils the most sacred relations of our
lives; partly, it was the desire to surprise his father with a great
joy. He did not see that it would have been better to soothe the
interval with a new hope, and prevent the delirium of a too sudden
elation.

At the time of Maggie’s first meeting with Philip, Tom had already
nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his own capital; and while they
were walking by the evening light in the Red Deeps, he, by the same
evening light, was riding into Laceham, proud of being on his first
journey on behalf of Guest & Co., and revolving in his mind all the
chances that by the end of another year he should have doubled his
gains, lifted off the obloquy of debt from his father’s name, and
perhaps—for he should be twenty-one—have got a new start for himself,
on a higher platform of employment. Did he not desire it? He was quite
sure that he did.