'Pincher'

T was five minutes to eight, and I don't get up till eight o'clock in the winter. So I was very cross when Jane knocked, and told her to go away.

"It's somethink pertickler," she insisted through the keyhole. So I jumped out of bed.

I am Molly Marchant. I was thirteen last July. I keep house for father and the boys. Jane is our "general." She is a good girl to work, but she has no idea of managing.

"Tell me quickly," I said. The cold seemed to come in with a rush when I opened the door.

"I jest got down in an 'urry, an'"

"Your time is seven!" She does not get up as she should.

"There wasn't no coal in the scuttle," she went on, "wot I meant to fill las' night, as you tole me, an' didn't—seein' as 'ow you 'urried me off to bed an' never 'oldin' with late hours myself, wot I wasn't brought up to, an'"

"Never mind about late hours. What is it?"

"I went to the out-'ouse to git some coal. An' wen I opened the door an' got inside you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather!"

"What!" I cried. "You don't mean to say you've used a whole quarter of a ton since last Wednesday!" We have half-tons generally, only father's tales hadn't been selling very well. That is the worst of being an author.

"No fear—I 'aven't." She wagged her head mysteriously.

"For goodness' sake tell me what it is." I was shivering.

"You know there's some old sackin' in the corner?"

"Yes, yes!"

"I jest began breakin' a lump of coal with the 'ammer, an' up it jumps!"

"The coal?"

"No; the sackin'." I shut the door.

"Really, Jane, you are worse than a baby. Of course it was a cat."

"It wasn't no sich thing. It was a kid."

"A what?" I opened the door again.

"A little gal. 'Bout the size of Bob" I glared at her. "Master Robert, I mean. An' wot I want to know is, wot am I to do with 'er?"

"Send her home, of course."

"Sez she ain't got none."

I saw how warm the bed looked, and thought how cold the coal house must be.

"We might give her something to eat, perhaps," I said. "I'll be down in a minute. Do look sharp with father's breakfast. He wants to catch the nine-five this morning to go to the British Museum." It was to find some local colour, he said.

I got up as quickly as I could, started the boys dressing, and went downstairs. A very small, very sharp-faced and very dirty child was sitting on the kitchen fender, shining one of the boys' boots. Jane ought to have done them over-night, but she will leave things.

"What were you doing in my coal-house?" I asked severely.

She looked at Jane. "I didn't nick none of it. She knows I didn't."

"What's your name?"

"Pincher."

"Is that your surname or Christian name?"

"It's wot they call me."

"Haven't you any proper name?"

She considered. "Farver sez as it might be Sairer Ann, 'e shouldn't wonder, seein' as mother's was; but 'e don't know for sure."

"He ought to know."

"It ain't 'is fault," she explained. "Doin' time wen I come, 'e was."

"Does she mean he was in prison?" I whispered to Jane.

"That's the size of it, miss." I cannot cure Jane of using vulgar expressions.

"Where is your mother?" I began to think that "Pincher" was not a very desirable visitor.

"Died w'en I was a kid."

"How old are you now?"

"Ten, farver sez 'e expecks."

"Is your father still in—doing time?"

She nodded.

"Only six months, this lot. Jest for a purse wot 'adn't only 'levenpence 'apenny in it. Crule 'ard ev'rybody called it. An' doesn't come out till three days 'fore Chris'mas."

She commenced scraping the mud off another boot.

"Who looks after you?"

She grinned. "I looks arter myself."

"You ought to be in the workhouse."

She flushed through the dirt.

"S'pose your far'er got took," she inquired: "like anybody might. An' s'pose 'e sez to yer, 'There's four tannera an' a few coppers under the mattress; an' mind yer keep respecketble till my 'olidays over'? You wouldnt go to no work'us, would yer?"

"No-o," I said slowly. "You are fond of your father?"

She drew a deep breath. "Ain't yer fond o' yourn?"

"Of course; but my father" I did not want to hurt her feelings, so I changed the subject. "I'll give you some breakfast, but I can't keep you here."

She breathed upon the boot she was polishing.

"I wouldn't take nothink o' yourn, strike me if I would."

She looked such a poor, thin, miserable child.

"She's 'andy," Jane suggested. "I dunno but we might do without the charwoman on Fridays, if I 'ad 'er to 'elp me."

Father rang the bell, as a warning that he would be down in a few minutes. I finished off the bacon, while Jane made the coffee.

I might ask him," I said doubtfully. It is not good to ask father things in the morning, because he has a liver. People who have livers do not want to do what any one asks them then.

"What letters did he have?"

"Two big 'uns."

They are generally tales that editors have not the sense to accept. Editors have no literary discrimination, father says. Of course, if they had, they would take all his stories!

"If we could keep her till the evening," I began. Then I heard father coming down, and ran up with his breakfast. He was putting the returned MSS. in a drawer, and muttering something under his breath.

"Some one else will take them, daddy," I said, when I kissed him.

He sighed. "Meanwhile, there are five of us to keep, including Jane." He rested his head on his hand, and didn't begin his breakfast.

"The bacon's done just how you like it," I coaxed him; and he was very nice, and said that I did everything right. I thought what hard work it must be for him to keep so many of us, and made up my mind that "Pincher" must go.

She was cleaning some knives when I went down to tell her.

"I wouldn't take nothink o' yourn," she began, before I was in the door. "An' I'd work gooder 'n  'er." Jane had gone up with the boys' breakfasts.

I shook my head, and she rubbed her eyes with her black knuckles.

"You shall stop and have some dinner here," I promised; "so don't cry."

"Who's cryin'?" she asked indignantly, and set to work again on the knives.

When the boys had gone to school, Jane and I held a consultation. She made out that it would be quite cheap to keep "Pincher." I knew it would not; but I agreed to let her stop till father came home if Jane would wash her.

"Pincher" took up the remains of a hat and made for the door when we told her she was to be washed.

"No fear yer don't!" she said. "I don't 'old with it, an' no more don't farver."

But Jane tucked her under one arm, and took a big flannel and marched off to the bath-room.

"I'll make a Christian of 'er," she promised.

While Jane was struggling with "Pincher" in the bath-room, I found some old clothes that I had not given away. Mother made them, and I could not bear to think of any one else wearing them. … But I knew she would have given them to "Pincher."

She looked quite a nice little girl when she was dressed. We called her Florry, so that she should have a proper name; and I look her to look at herself in the long glass. It was funny to watch her turning round and grinning over her shoulder.

"My!" she said. "Ain't I a lady! I look nearly as pritty as you, miss."

"You should not say such things," I told her. "I know some people say I am good-looking; but, of course, I don't think so."

Jane does not either. I heard them talking in the afternoon.

"Too dark an' pale for my taste," Jane said. "Give me a bit of colour." Jane has red hair, and her nose … but I always remember that she did not make herself.

"I call 'er a pictur," said "Pincher"—I mean Florry. "Like them coloured advertisements."

"Go on with yer nonsinse!"

"An' speaks to yer so pleasant."

"Wait till yer git up a bit late, an' don't 'ave the master's breakfus' ready! She's got a temper, I tell yer!" Jane is enough to make anybody cross! "Yer bad, spiteful child!" There was a scuffle.

"I'd like to kill yer, sayin' things of 'er, jes' becos yer don't like 'er."

"Me not like er!" cried Jane. "W'ere d'yer expeck to go to if yer tell stories like that 'ere? Wy, there ain't nothink I wouldn't do for that 'ere child!"

Jane has an absurd idea that I am quite little. But you have to put up with things from servants. So I took no notice, only called to tell her that she had taken three-quarters of an hour to dress, and ought to be downstairs.

Father was very tired when he came home, so I would not bother him till the boys had gone to bed. Then I went and sat on his knee and told him. He was very kind; but he shook his head.

"She'd be sure to steal; and when her father comes out!"

"Perhaps he will reform."

"They never do."

"In one of your tales—that one about the kind robber"

He laughed. "Fact and fiction are different." I suppose they are.

"She looks quite nice and respectable. If you would see her?"

He still shook his head, but I told Jane to bring Florry. He talked to her for some time. Then he said it was too late to send her away that night. When they had gone he stood by the mantelshelf, with his head on his hand.

"That dress was the last thing your mother made, Molly," he said. "She was always fond of children." So I knew that Florry was to stay.

I went in to look at her on my way to bed. She had tied knots in a towel to make a doll, and was hugging it in her sleep and smiling. I couldn't believe that she would ever steal.

She never did steal anything from us; but she had an unfortunate habit of taking things from the tradespeople's baskets when they called. Some of them were rather disagreeable about it, and the butcher's man was quite nasty.

"Nex' time I catch 'er with one of my j'ints," he said, "I send for a p'liceman, and orf she goes!"

So I had to talk to her seriously, till she promised not to do it any more.

She made herself very useful, and Jane liked her, though they quarrelled every day. She got on pretty well, also, with the boys. She almost worshipped father, and took a perfect delight in shining his boots.

"How'll they do this mornin', sir?" she always asked, if she could catch a glimpse of him. He could hardly bear to look at them, he used to tell her, they glittered so. Then she would run down to the kitchen, grinning like a little monkey, and peep round the blind till he went.

"'E do look a treat," she used to say. "Jest see 'is feet!"

I tried to make her speak better, but she did not seem as if she could. She blew herself out, like a frog, trying to sound her h's; but if she succeeded it was generally in the wrong word. However, I taught her to spell and write a little. It was funny to hear her teaching my old doll, that I had given her, that it must wash its face regularly, and "never nick nothink!" and not answer Jane back, if she was ever so disagreeable!

"You'd better see what Florry would like for a Christmas present," father said a few evenings before Christmas. He had sold several tales unexpectedly, so we were to have nice presents this year.

I promised to ask her the next morning; but when I went downstairs, I found Jane rocking herself and crying as she made the toast.

"Florry's gone!" she wailed. "I 'adn't the 'eart to come an' tell yer before."

"Gone! Oh, Jane! she hasn't taken anything?"

"She wouldn't never take nothink from 'ere, don't you think it. It's 'er father comes out this mornin', wot ain't no manner of good. She's gone off to meet 'im, pore child." Jane wiped her eyes. "Yer won't never see 'er no more." Jane has a good heart, but she has not a good head; so I knew she was sure to be wrong.

Florry came to our house that very afternoon. A great rough man had hold of her arm. He looked very savage, and Jane was afraid to answer the door; so I went myself. He did not do anything to me; only stood twiddling his cap and shifting from one leg to the other.

"Are you Florry's father?" I asked.

"Meanin'  'er?"

"Yes. We couldn't call her 'Pincher,' don't you see?"

He nodded, and pointed to the doll in her arms. "Sez yer give it 'er."

"Of course I did."

He looked surprised. "Blessed if I didn't think she'd lifted it. An' promised 'er a proper 'idin', I tell yer."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself! The idea of a great man like you hitting a little girl!"

"'E don't orfen, miss," she assured me. "Not never, 'ardly."

"In course," he said, "I got to do my dooty by 'er, an' if she nicked anythink of yourn it 'ud  'ave to be done."

She nodded emphatic agreement.

"I am glad you disapprove of—taking things," I told him.

He shuffled about again. "Depends," he said hoarsely. "Some things is meant to be took, an' some people is meant to 'ave 'em took from. Else 'ow's a bloke to git a livin'?"

"You should work, like my father does."

"Wot's 'e do?"

"He writes tales and poetry."

The man rubbed his chin. "Now, do I look the sort of bloke wot would write potery?" he demanded.

"No," I admitted, "you do not."

He nodded.

"Exac'ly. Yer father does wot 'e's cut out for; I does wot I'm cut out for—not meanin' no offence, miss—an' much obliged for wot yer done. Come on, nipper."

"Don't you think she'd be better with us?" I asked.

He turned to her. "That's wot I tole yer. If yer'd stop with the young lady"

She clung to him suddenly. "'E's my farver," she cried: "same as yourn's yourn!"

So I gave her a bun, an orange, and two pennies, and made Jane bring some beer for him. Then they went off together.

"Be sure you come and see us at Christmas, Florry," I said.

She said she would; so we bought a set of doll's furniture and kept it ready.

On Christmas morning the boys woke at three. Tommy's presents included a bagpipes, so we woke too. Father had just been upstairs to borrow them till breakfast time, when he heard a peculiar noise in the basement. He picked up a poker, and went to see what it was. I took a stair-rod and followed him. He kept making signs to me to stop; but of course I could not let him go alone.

The kitchen gas was alight and the door ajar. We peeped through the crack, and there I saw—"Pincher!" I felt sorry that her father had not beaten her; which shows that my temper is not really good.

"Ain't yer done yet?" he asked in a deep whisper. He seemed to be waiting just outside the window.

"In a minute."

She was grinning at something on the kitchen table. "'Urry up!"

She turned round and looked at father's boots, that Jane was supposed to have cleaned ready for the morning.

"She don't shine 'is boots like I done em," she said. "Wouldn't I jest love to give 'em a polish!"

"I'll give yer a polish if yer ain't quick," growled the man.

She put up her hand to turn out the gas. Then father suddenly stepped in.

"Wait a bit, Florry," he said. "We've got a present for you."

She ran to the window, and the man began to pull her through. To my surprise, father did not try to catch her, but just held up the whiskey bottle and invited the man to come in and have a drink. I was still more surprised when the man cocked his leg over the window-sill and came in.

"Merry Christmas to yer, guv'nor!" he said. "An' meanin' no offence."

"None whatever," said father. "The same to you."

He began pouring out some whiskey. I took Jane's big cloak from the peg and put it on and went in. When I saw the kitchen table it nearly took my breath away. They had not come to steal, but to leave some presents for us.

The presents were all silver. There were some fish knives and forks labelled For Marstir; a lovely serviette ring and cake-stand on a paper that said Dere Mis Moly; two little mugs, For the boyse; and a pickle fork, For Jain!

"Oh, Florry!" I cried. "How could you?"

She hung her head and didn't say anything.

"One good turn deserves another, don't it, miss?" suggested the man affably.

"Ye-es," I said; "but how did you get them?" Of course I knew they were stolen!

"Don't you worrit about that," said he. "No one won't never look for 'em 'ere." He winked at us all in turn.

I did not know what to say. So I looked at father. Father did not seem to know what to say either, so he gave the man another glass of whiskey while he considered.

"It is very kind of you," he said at last, "and of Florry, to wish to give us presents. My daughter and I appreciate it very much."

"'Tain't nothink, guv'nor," said the man. "They was come by easy, an'"

"I am sorry we can't keep them."

"They'd never trace 'em 'ere," said the man positively.

"That isn't quite what I mean," said father. "You see different people have different ideas. We have a prejudice—a strong prejudice—against taking anything that belongs to any one else."

"They don't 'old with it," Florry explained. "I tole yer so. That's w'y I wanted to leave 'em unbeknown."

The man shook his head slowly. "Wot's it matter w'ere they come from, w'en nobody don't know?"

"It's just a prejudice of ours," father apologised. "We all have our little peculiarities. For example, you would not like to take anything from us."

"Wouldn't do it," said the man decidedly.

"Not 'im," Florry assured us.

"Well, we have the same feeling about other people. That is all the difference."

The man finished his whiskey slowly and scratched his head.

"Then I got to take 'em away?"

"Not at all. We shall be very pleased to have them"—Florry clapped her hands—"on one condition: that you will tell us the address where they belong."

Florry's face fell. "They're goin' to send 'em back," she whispered.

The man sighed. "So long as yer'll take 'em," he said, "yer do me proud; an' wot yer does with 'em, yer does accordin' to yer own ideas."

So father took the address, and the man took some more whiskey. Then I gave Florry the doll's furniture, and they went. Just at the door the man turned round.

"There's somethink in them ideas of yourn, guv'nor," he said. "Blowed if I don't give 'em a trial!"

When last we heard of them he was doing very well as a costermonger. "Yer should see me and 'im an' the donkey," Florry said. "It's a fair treat!"