Chapter IV: Honesty Was Not the Best Policy

One day in the bitter month of January, after lying under an archway all night, he got up, feeling very stiff, sore, and hungry--oh! he was awfully hungry. The night before he had spent the only penny he possessed in buying a few of those celebrated "Cough-no-more" lozenges, and now, here he was without his breakfast, and no means of buying any. It was by no means a pleasant day for a thinly-clad boy with a racking cough to step out breakfastless; there had been snow the night before, and now the snow was half-melted under foot, and overhead the air was very keen and frosty. Robin started off at a brisk run for Covent Garden; he had no money to lay in any little stock there, but he might be fortunate enough to "nab" a few oranges or nuts.

When he arrived, the place was full of eager buyers and sellers, and Robin recognised several little brother thieves. Never did it seem to him that the owners of the fruit and vegetables were more on the alert, and never had he been more starvingly anxious to steal. While he was standing about, watching his chance, a large burly-faced man called out to him:

"Look here, my lad; you seems like an honest chap; will you help me to carry these 'ere big baskets of wegetables to my stall? I'll give yer sixpence for the job."

"Yes, zir; yes, zir," said Robin joyfully. Pleasanter words had never fallen on his ears; he had never liked any man so much in his life.

Not for worlds, not to save his existence, would he have stolen so much as a farthing's worth from that man's stall. Why? no one had ever told him it was wrong to steal. Why? he never had a better chance, for the burly-faced man hardly watched him at all. Ah! but he said he looked like an honest fellow, and no sweeter words had ever fallen on the little thief's ears. He worked happily for an hour, then walked away with his well-earned sixpence, and a glow he had never experienced before in his breast.

_He_, Robin, looked like an honest fellow; he had learned ere this what the word "honest" meant; and though he had laughed at the word, and pretended to deride it, yet in his heart of hearts he had admired honest fellows, he had envied honest fellows. Those boys and girls who could look every man fearlessly in the face, who earned their bread, instead of stealing their bread, in his heart of hearts he had more than once longed to resemble them. This was an instinct, more than an active feeling, with him; the instinctive longing of every one of God's creation after the right. Out of twopence he bought a hunch of bread and basin of coffee. Never had he enjoyed a more delicious breakfast. With his remaining fourpence he laid in a stock of morning papers. He had not dealt in this style of merchandise before, but the newspaper vendors seemed to him to do a very thriving business, and he had a kind of dim desire to spend this day, at least, as an honest fellow. He went down to the Bank, and began to advertise his property.

"Daily News--Tele--_graph_--Morning pay--_par-s_--pay--_pars_" sang Robin, imitating the cries of the other boys. He had a sweet voice, and notwithstanding his troublesome cough, which the celebrated "Cough-no-more" lozenges had quite failed to take away, he cried his goods right lustily.

But though he cried himself hoarse and almost sick, he did not cry away a single one of his store of papers; no one seemed to care for politics that morning. In vain great public questions, which were then exciting attention, filled the columns; in vain fresh accounts of foreign wars, and fresh demands to help our starving countrymen abroad, stared from the pages; the City men wanted none of these things to-day, at least they wanted none of them from Robin. The streets were too dirty, the cold too intense, for these individuals, already rather late for business, to put their hands into their pockets for the purpose of drawing out pence, to supply themselves with foreign news. They neither wanted foreign nor home news just then. The cold was making them selfish, even more selfish than most of them were every day. They neither cared for the foreigners' joys or sorrows, nor for the neighbour's wants. No one stopped to listen to Robin's cough, nor allowed his heart to look out of his eyes into Robin's thin, eager face.

So it happened that Robin sold none of his papers; the more fortunate boys pushed him aside, and jeered at him, and he had no heart to knock them down, as under other circumstances he would have done. "Sneak" some of these fellows called him, for they knew, by his way even of handling his papers, that newspaper vending was not his usual employment. "Serve him right," cried others, "as if _he_ could call papers proper!"

So passed by, by those whom he had hoped would have been his customers, and unkindly treated by his companions, at twelve o'clock, he tucked his rejected goods under his arm and trudged slowly westward. As he walked he saw a crowd of eager little children all pushing against a shut door. The children were dressed very little, if at all, better than himself. He stopped and demanded what they were doing there.

"Oh! this 'ere's h'our school," said one little girl. "This 'ere's the ragged school, and we're goin' to 'ave a feast--buns and oranges, and tea and coffee--ain't it prime?"

"Don't yo wish yo were comin'?" laughed a big boy, to Robin.

Robin suddenly remembered the card the gentleman had given him a year and a half ago, and his accompanying remark that the ragged school was made for little boys like him. His face brightened; he did not know that school possessed tea, and coffee, and cake, and oranges. Long ago, had he been aware of this fact, would it have had the benefit of his society. Squaring his shoulders, and pushing his way to right and left, he planted himself firmly, one of the nearest to the door. He had a right to go in there, and he would go.

"What's that for?" said the lad who had spoken before.

"Nothink," said Robin, "on'y that I'm a goin' in."

"Well, that's a good un," laughed all the children in a breath.

"My stars!" continued Robin, unheeding them, "I never knowed as this 'ere wor the fashion of ragged schools--buns and h'oranges. I say, young uns, ain't we in luck?"

"But you ain't a schollard," said a little girl; "the school feast is on'y fur the reg'lar schollards, yer know."

"No, I don't," said Robin; "this 'ere's a ragged school, and I'm a ragged chap. A gent wot understands, telled me h'all about it, and I'm agoin' in; see ef I ain't."

Here the big boy gave Robin a blow in the face, which Robin returned with interest; but just then the doors were opened, and Robin, with about ninety other children, found himself inside the building. How warm, and pleasant, and beautiful it all looked to the tired and hungry child; that ceaseless tickle in his throat and chest, which the Cough-no-more lozenges had failed to relieve, became soothed, and almost ceased to trouble him.

Yes, his lucky star was decidedly in the ascendant to-day. What a feed he promised himself by-and-by from those vast piles of cakes, and what a quantity of tea and coffee he would consume! He was making up his mind to this, and also to another thing--as honesty was the best policy, or at least had proved so to-day--he would abstain from stealing a single crumb from the ragged-school feast; the sense of honour among thieves prevented his taking from the stores provided for children as ragged as himself. In the midst of these meditations, a hand was laid on his shoulder. On his entrance into the school he had been so much occupied looking round him that he had never noticed how, one by one, the children, answering to their names, had filed off into seats; he was the only ragged child now standing up in the school. The superintendent, a good man, but a strict disciplinarian, noticed the strange little face, and shook the lad out of his reverie somewhat roughly.

"Come, come, my boy, you can't stay here; rules must be obeyed; you are not belonging to the school."

"Yes, I be," said Robin stoutly. "This 'ere's a ragged school, and I be h'all rags and tatters--see yere," and he held up a thin leg, naked from the knee down, for inspection.

A titter ran through the ranks of the children; the superintendent did not know whether the mirth was directed against himself or Robin. He began to grow angry.

"None of your impertinence, lad--turn out! I have no objection to your applying for admission to-morrow, as a pupil; but you can't come to the school feast;" and taking Robin by the shoulders, he pushed him towards the door. The big boy who had twitted Robin here laughed aloud. At this the angry blood of the little street Arab flew into his face, and breaking away from the superintendent's grasp, he flew at this lad, and had the satisfaction of giving him at least a black eye, before he was himself expelled from the school.

No one here can blame the superintendent; it would have been impossible for him to break through the rule which prevented all but regular and diligent scholars attending the school feast; nevertheless the little heap of rags and tatters, seated on the doorstep, felt very bitter, and very sore at heart. Honesty was not the best policy; he would never be honest again.

He regretted bitterly, standing as he had done so close to those well-filled tables, that he had not helped himself to some of their stores.

After a time, with his ceaseless cough, empty stomach, and unsold papers, he moved listlessly on farther west. Once again he raised his cry--

"Mornin' pay--_par-s_--pay--_par-s_," but his voice was tired and feeble, and he soon ceased to trouble himself to do anything but watch his opportunity for theft.

It had been fine and bright in the morning, but now the sky was overcast, and fresh snow began to fall. This added much to Robin's discomfort; it lay white on his jacket, and melted into his ragged trousers. He crept slowly and painfully down the Strand, pressing his face against the window-pane of each restaurant as he passed. How delicious looked the hot and fragrant food! How exasperating the smell that came out to greet his hungry nostrils! He eagerly watched the groups of fur-clad women and top-coated men partaking of rich soups and luscious wines. So hungry was he, that he would have gone down on his knees for the crumbs they left behind them. He felt very bitter against these well-dressed people, who were all too busy, too happy, too rich, to give him a thought; but his bitterest and sorest feelings were directed against the children, ragged like himself, who at the school feast were having enough and to spare. The very fact of their being dressed as badly as himself, and yet be shut out from their privileges, raised the sorest feelings in his little breast. He did not know what a "schollard" meant, but he did know what rags meant, and he and they were alike in rags and tatters.

After a time he left the restaurants, feeling that if he viewed what was going on within much longer, he should certainly be tempted to do some desperate deed.

He left the restaurants, and wandered through Trafalgar Square into Piccadilly. From the Circus he walked on until he found himself in that part where his path lay between the Park at one side, and the houses of the great and wealthy on the other. The winter night, the long, long winter night, was falling now, and so also was the snow. His neighbours, his brothers, were in those houses, adding comfort to comfort, luxury to luxury; but adding also in their neglect of him, and such as him, sin to sin. He was so hungry by this time that he was almost in despair. Should he run up one of those great flights of steps, and ring boldly at one of those ponderous bells, and demand food, just even a piece, a morsel of bread, to keep soul and body together? No, he could not venture; he was too weak to stand the angry repulse from the liveried footman who would answer his summons. He wandered on. Suddenly a cry, a baby cry, smote on his ear, and peering through the darkness--the street lamps were not lit yet--he saw a little girl dressed in a white fur jacket and fur cap standing and sobbing on the pavement.

"Ma-_ma_--Ma-_ma_!" sobbed the baby.

Robin bent over her.

"Wot's h'up, little 'un?" he said in his gentlest tone.

The child stopped crying, surveyed her questioner gravely from head to foot, hesitated, but finally, after a long gaze into his face, stretched up her arms, saying coaxingly--

"Take me 'ome, wagged boy."