Under the Dragon Flag | Page 2

was coming up in person to investigate the why and

wherefore. Having a week or two before come off a voyage at
Liverpool, he had at that port drawn £75 in pay, which he had spent in
two days and nights of revelry, an assertion to which his personal
appearance bore strong corroborative testimony. He appeared, on the
whole, to consider himself an exceedingly ill-used person. "I'm a
houtcast," he repeatedly said. I asked him in what capacity he served on
shipboard. "A.B.," he replied, "always A.B.;" and certainly, in speech
and appearance, he seemed nothing better than a foremast man,
although, shaking hands with me again and again, he each time
asseverated that it was the hand of a gentleman. At length he went on
his way, and I stood watching his receding figure as he reeled down the
street. I was just turning away, when I heard a loud outcry; the
"houtcast," about a hundred yards distant, was hailing me. On what
trifles does destiny depend! My first impulse was to walk off without
taking any notice of his shouts, and on the simple decision to stay and
see what he wanted, turned the whole future. It appeared that whilst
talking with me his obfuscated mind had lost the directions I had given
him as to the locality of Victoria Park. Having nothing in particular to
do, I volunteered to walk along with him, and keep him in the right
direction, and accordingly we entered the park together. With
considerable difficulty, he found out the road and house he was in
search of; I doubt if, without my aid, he would have found it at all in
his then condition. He had not, he informed me, been in Manchester for
years, and those he was looking up had changed their residence. The
exterior of the place, when found, seemed to bear out his statement as
to the social position of his relatives. I asked him what sort of reception
he thought he would get from them.
"He did not," he replied, "care a d----n what it might be, but he was
going to see why they had stopped his quid, and no mistake about it."
He extended to me an invitation to come in with him "and have a
drink," a courtesy which, needless to say, I declined. He then left me,
after another vehement handshaking, and proceeded up the drive in
front of the house. A feeling of curiosity to see what kind of greeting
the drunken, wastrel "houtcast" would command from his folk, all
unconscious of his disagreeable proximity to their eminently

respectable residence, induced me to follow him. I paused at a point
where, concealed by some shrubbery, I had a view of the hall door,
which, upon my friend's ringing, was opened by a smart maid-servant.
Swaying up and down on the steps in a most ludicrous manner, the
"houtcast" addressed her, although I was too far off to make out the
words, but to judge by her looks she felt no prepossession in his favour.
After a while she went away, leaving the door open and him standing
on the steps. In about a minute a stout, middle-aged gentleman
appeared from the brightly-lighted hall, his whole aspect presenting the
strongest possible contrast to that of the seedy mariner. The conference
between them was brief and angry, and terminated with the gentleman's
returning within and slamming the door in the other's face, who, with
his hands in his pockets, stood for some time planted where he was,
staring at the visage de bois as if dumfounded. Then he applied himself
vigorously to the bell, and pulled with might and main. This course of
treatment having no effect, he commenced shouting a series of
objurgations much too vigorous to be here set down. No response, of
course, was forthcoming, and at length the discomfited visitor turned
slowly away from the inhospitable mansion. I rejoined him as he
staggered past me. He showed no surprise at seeing me again, but
contented himself with simply asking me where the ---- I had been.
From what he said in answer to my questions, it appeared that they had
had the brutality to tell him to call when he was sober,--"as if," said he,
with a good many curses, "I wasn't sober enough for them. Wouldn't
even give me a night's shelter. But it's always how they've treated me--a
houtcast, that's what I am--a houtcast."
Apparently hard hit, the "houtcast," who for the time being certainly
had some grounds for so styling himself, leaned with his back against
the gate, as if the effort to stand upright was too much for him on the
top of his recent disappointment. His plight was undoubtedly pitiable.
He had no money, it was well