Contributions to All The Year Round | Page 7

brought his young
daughter with him to see life, and who always modestly hid his face in
his beer-mug after he had thus assisted the business.
"John Nightingale, William Thrush, Joseph Blackbird, Cecil Robin, and
Thomas Linnet!" cried Friar Bacon.
"Here, sir!" and "Here, sir!" And Linnet, Robin, Blackbird, Thrush, and
Nightingale, stood confessed.
We, the undersigned, declare, in effect, by this written paper, that each
of us is responsible for the repayment of this pig-money by each of the
other. "Sure you understand, Nightingale?"
"Ees, sur."
"Can you write your name, Nightingale?"
"Na, sur."
Nightingale's eye upon his name, as Friar Bacon wrote it, was a sight to
consider in after years. Rather incredulous was Nightingale, with a
hand at the corner of his mouth, and his head on one side, as to those
drawings really meaning him. Doubtful was Nightingale whether any
virtue had gone out of him in that committal to paper. Meditative was
Nightingale as to what would come of young Nightingale's growing up
to the acquisition of that art. Suspended was the interest of Nightingale,
when his name was done--as if he thought the letters were only sown,
to come up presently in some other form. Prodigious, and
wrong-handed was the cross made by Nightingale on much
encouragement--the strokes directed from him instead of towards him;
and most patient and sweet-humoured was the smile of Nightingale as

he stepped back into a general laugh.
"Order!" cried the little man. Immediately disappearing into his mug.
"Ralph Mangel, Roger Wurzel, Edward Vetches, Matthew Carrot, and
Charles Taters!" said Friar Bacon.
"All here, sir."
"You understand it, Mangel?"
"Iss, sir, I unnerstaans it."
"Can you write your name, Mangel?"
"Iss, sir."
Breathless interest. A dense background of smock-frocks accumulated
behind Mangel, and many eyes in it looked doubtfully at Friar Bacon,
as who should say, "Can he really though?" Mangel put down his hat,
retired a little to get a good look at the paper, wetted his right hand
thoroughly by drawing it slowly across his mouth, approached the
paper with great determination, flattened it, sat down at it, and got well
to his work. Circuitous and sea-serpent-like, were the movements of the
tongue of Mangel while he formed the letters; elevated were the
eyebrows of Mangel and sidelong the eyes, as, with his left whisker
reposing on his left arm, they followed his performance; many were the
misgivings of Mangel, and slow was his retrospective meditation
touching the junction of the letter p with h; something too active was
the big forefinger of Mangel in its propensity to rub out without proved
cause. At last, long and deep was the breath drawn by Mangel when he
laid down the pen; long and deep the wondering breath drawn by the
background--as if they had watched his walking across the rapids of
Niagara, on stilts, and now cried, "He has done it!"
But, Mangel was an honest man, if ever honest man lived. "T'owt to be
a hell, sir," said he, contemplating his work, "and I ha' made a t on 't."
The over-fraught bosoms of the background found relief in a roar of
laughter.
"OR-DER!" cried the little man. "CHEER!" And after that second word,
came forth from his mug no more.
Several other clubs signed, and received their money. Very few could
write their names; all who could not, pleaded that they could not, more
or less sorrowfully, and always with a shake of the head, and in a lower
voice than their natural speaking voice. Crosses could be made
standing; signatures must be sat down to. There was no exception to

this rule. Meantime, the various club-members smoked, drank their
beer, and talked together quite unrestrained. They all wore their hats,
except when they went up to Friar Bacon's table. The merry-faced little
man offered his beer, with a natural good-fellowship, both to the
Dreary one and Philosewers. Both partook of it with thanks.
"Seven o'clock!" said Friar Bacon. "And now we better get across to
the concert, men, for the music will be beginning."
The concert was in Friar Bacon's laboratory; a large building near at
hand, in an open field. The bettermost people of the village and
neighbourhood were in a gallery on one side, and, in a gallery opposite
the orchestra. The whole space below was filled with the labouring
people and their families, to the number of five or six hundred. We had
been obliged to turn away two hundred to-night, Friar Bacon said, for
want of room--and that, not counting the boys, of whom we had taken
in only a few picked ones, by reason of the boys, as a class, being given
to too fervent a custom of applauding with their boot-heels.
The performers were the ladies of Friar Bacon's family, and