The Lifeboat | Page 2

might have been learned
by those who have a tendency to "consider the poor."
But although the neighbourhood was dirty and noisy, our modest street,
which was at that time known by the name of Redwharf Lane, was
comparatively clean and quiet. True, the smell of tallow and tar could
not be altogether excluded, neither could the noises; but these scents
and sounds reached it in a mitigated degree, and as the street was not a

thoroughfare, few people entered it, except those who had business
there, or those who had lost their way, or an occasional street boy of an
explorative tendency; which last, on finding that it was a quiet spot,
invariably entered a protest against such an outrageous idea as quietude
in "the City" by sending up a series of hideous yells, and retiring
thereafter precipitately.
Here, in Redwharf Lane, was the office of the firm of Denham, Crumps,
and Company.
Mr Denham stood with his back to the fire, for it was a coldish autumn
day, with his coat-tails under his arms. He was a big bald man of
five-and-forty, with self-importance enough for a man of
five-hundred-and-forty. Mr Crumps sat in a small back-office, working
so diligently that one might have supposed he was endeavouring to
bring up the arrears of forty years' neglect, and had pledged himself to
have it done before dinner. He was particularly small, excessively thin,
very humble, rather deaf, and upwards of sixty. Company had died of
lockjaw two years previous to the period of which we write, and is
therefore unworthy of farther notice. A confidential clerk had taken,
and still retained, his place.
Messrs. Denham, Crumps, and Company, were shipowners. Report
said that they were rich, but report frequently said what was not true in
those days. Whether it has become more truthful in the present days,
remains an open question. There can be no question, however, that
much business was done at the office in Redwharf Lane, and that, while
Denham lived in a handsome mansion in Russell Square, and Crumbs
dwelt in a sweet cottage in Kensington, Company had kept a pony
phaeton, and had died in a snug little villa on Hampstead Heath.
The office of Denham, Crumps, and Company was small and
unpretending, as was the street in which it stood. There was a small
green door with a small brass plate and a small brass knocker, all of
which, when opened by their attendant, a small tiger in blue, with
buttons, gave admittance to a small passage that terminated in a small
room. This was the outer office, and here sat the four clerks of the
establishment on four tall stools, writing in four monstrous volumes, as

furiously as if they were decayed authors whose lives depended on the
result. Their salaries did, poor fellows, and that was much the same
thing!
A glass door, with scratches here and there, through which the head of
the firm could gaze unseen, separated "the office" from Denham's room,
and a wooden door separated that from Crumps' room, beyond which
there was a small closet or cell which had been Company's room before
that gentleman died. It was now used as a repository for ancient books
and papers.
"Very odd," said Mr Denham, and as he said so he touched a small
silver bell that stood on his writing-table.
The tiger in blue and buttons instantly appeared.
"Here, Peekins, post these letters. Has no one called this afternoon; I
mean, no one resembling a sailor?"
The boy in blue started, and his face became very red.
"Why, what's the matter, boy? What do you mean by staring at me,
instead of answering my question?"
"Please, sir," stammered Peekins meekly, "I didn't mean no 'arm, sir,
but you see, sir, his face was so drefful fierce, and he looked sich a
wild--"
"Boy, are you mad?" interrupted Mr Denham, advancing and seizing
the tiger by his blue collar; "what are you talking about? Now, answer
my question at once, else I'll shake the little life you have out of your
body. Did any sailor-like man call at the office this afternoon?"
"Oh, sir, yes, sir,--I--I--thought he was drunk and wouldn't let 'im in, sir;
he's bin a standin' stampin' at the door for more than--"
The end of the sentence was cut short by Mr Denham suddenly ejecting
the boy from the room and shouting, "Let him in!"

In a few seconds a heavy tread was heard in the outer office, and the
boy ushered in a tall young man, of unusually large proportions, with
extremely broad shoulders, and apparently about twenty-three years of
age, whose rough pilot-coat, wide pantaloons, and glazed hat bespoke
him a sailor. His countenance was flushed, and an angry frown
contracted his brow as he