Rivers of Ice | Page 2

there bein' no light,
and a step close to the door which inwariably trips 'em up. Most
wisiters to that old 'ooman begins their acquaintance with her by
knocking at her door with their noses instead of their knuckles. We
calls her place the cabin, 'cause the windows is raither small, and

over'angs the river."
"Well then, my lad," said the seaman, "clap a stopper on your tongue, if
you can, and heave ahead."
"All right, capp'n," returned the small boy, "foller me, an' don't be
frightened. Port your helm a bit here, there's a quicksand in the middle
o' the track--so, steady!"
Avoiding a large pool of mud with which the head of the lane was
garnished, and which might have been styled the bathing, not to say
wallowing, quarters of the Grubb's Court juveniles, the small boy led
the bluff seaman towards the river without further remark, diverging
only once from the straight road for a few seconds, for the purpose of
making a furious rush at a sleeping cat with a yell worthy of a
Cherokee savage, or a locomotive whistle; a slight pleasantry which
had the double effect of shooting the cat through space in glaring
convulsions, and filling the small boy's mind with the placidity which
naturally follows a great success.
The lane presented this peculiarity, that the warehouses on its left side
became more and more solid and vast and tall as they neared the river,
while the shops and dwellings on its right became poorer, meaner, and
more diminutive in the same direction, as if there were some
mysterious connection between them, which involved the adversity of
the one in exact proportion to the prosperity of the other. Children and
cats appeared to be the chief day-population of the place, and these
disported themselves among the wheels of enormous waggons, and the
legs of elephantine horses with an impunity which could only have
been the result of life-long experience.
The seaman was evidently unaccustomed to such scenes, for more than
once during the short period of his progress down the lane, he uttered
an exclamation of alarm, and sprang to the rescue of those large babies
which are supposed to have grown sufficiently old to become nursing
mothers to smaller babies--acts which were viewed with a look of pity
by the small boy, and called from him the encouraging observations,
"Keep your mind easy, capp'n; they're all right, bless you; the hosses

knows 'em, and wouldn't 'urt 'em on no account."
"This is Grubb's Court," said the boy, turning sharply to the right and
passing through a low archway.
"Thank 'ee, lad," said the seaman, giving him a sixpence.
The small boy opened his eyes very wide indeed, exclaiming, "Hallo! I
say, capp'n, wot's this?" at the same time, however, putting the coin in
his pocket with an air which plainly said, "Whether you've made a
mistake or not, you needn't expect to get it back again."
Evidently the seaman entertained no such expectations, for he turned
away and became absorbed in the scene around him.
It was not cheering. Though the summer sun was high and powerful, it
failed to touch the broken pavement of Grubb's Court, or to dry up the
moisture which oozed from it and crept up the walls of the surrounding
houses. Everything was very old, very rotten, very crooked, and very
dirty. The doorways round the court were wide open--always open--in
some cases, because of there being no doors; in other cases, because the
tenements to which they led belonged to a variety of families, largely
composed of children who could not, even on tiptoe, reach or
manipulate door-handles. Nursing mothers of two feet high were
numerous, staggering about with nurslings of a foot and a half long. A
few of the nurslings, temporarily abandoned by the premature mothers,
lay sprawling--in some cases squalling--on the moist pavement, getting
over the ground like large snails, and leaving slimy tracks behind them.
Little boys, of the "City Arab" type, were sprinkled here and there, and
one or two old women sat on door-steps contemplating the scene, or
conversing with one or two younger women. Some of the latter were
busy washing garments so dirty, that the dirty water of old Father
Thames seemed quite a suitable purifier.
"Gillie," cried one of the younger women referred to, wiping the
soap-suds from her red arms, "come here, you bad, naughty boy. W'ere
'ave you bin? I want you to mind baby."

"W'y, mother," cried the small boy--who answered to the name of
Gillie--"don't you see I'm engaged? I'm a-showin' this 'ere sea-capp'n
the course he's got to steer for port. He wants to make the cabin of old
mother Roby."
"W'y don't you do it quickly, then?" demanded Gillie's mother, "you
bad, naughty, wicked