It was at the very latter end of the quarter when this legal ukase was placed in Mr. Pringle's hands, and that gentleman, examining his capital, found it consist of thirty-seven shillings, a silver threepence, and a penny,--which sums were to provide his dinners, cigars, and general pleasures for a fortnight. Clearly, then, out of this no compromise could be effected; he could not even go through that performance so dear to the hard-pressed debtor, which is temporarily so soothing and in the end so futile, known as paying "something on account." A five-pound note has the same effect on a tradesman to whom twenty pounds are owing as a wet brush on a very bad hat,--it creates a temporary gleam of comfort, but nothing more. Mr. Pringle had not even this resource: if he were summoned to the County Court, and if the investigation were reported, as it was sure to be, in The Dalston Dreadnought and De Beauvoir Town Looker-on, he should get horribly chaffed by his comrades, perhaps pitched into by the Board, and it would bring all his other creditors down on him. So something must be done, and cash must be raised at once. Mr. Pringle did not know where to turn: he had never been a borrower, and hated the idea of asking money favours from his friends; moreover, in real truth, he would not have known whom to turn to, had he been so minded. Prescott, his Pylades, was by no means overburdened with money--indeed, Kinchenton's income only sufficed for the keeping up of his modest establishment and for the schooling of Percy; while Dibb, Crump, Boppy, or any of the other office men, were utterly impracticable in such a case. Finally, he determined that he must "do a bill;" an act of which he had hitherto been innocent, and towards the proper accomplishment of which he thought it best to take the advice of Mr. Rittman.
In nearly every Government office there is one impecunious black sheep,--one clerk who is always hovering on the edge of the precipice of insolvency, over which he finally tumbles, to creep out with life indeed, but with scars and bruises which last him during the remainder of his official existence. This character was in the Tin-Tax Office played by Mr. Rittman, who for years had been "in difficulties," and was thoroughly versed in every species of money-borrowing, were it the loan-simple from a friend, the loan-complex on a bill with a friend's name, the life-insurance facile, the loan-office ruinous, the bill of sale advertised, or the pawnbroker low. As yet no learned Commissioner had sat in judgment on Mr. Rittman's pecuniary transactions, but he had been in sponging-houses, in Whitecross Street, and in the Queen's Bench; and though his end was rapidly approaching (for he had a couple of sons verging on manhood, and apparently inheriting all their father's frailties), he was never despondent, but maintained a creditable appearance and a cheerful manner. To him Mr. Pringle had gone, on the day before that on which we first made his acquaintance; and Mr. Rittman, from the young man's manner on entering the room, at once guessed the object of his visit.
"How do, Rittman?" commenced Mr. Pringle.
"Good morning, my dear sir--good morning!" said the gentleman addressed, laying down his pen and bowing pleasantly. He had on a voluminous white waistcoat, a great show of shirt-wristband, and before him, in a tumbler, stood some choice flowers. "Seldom you come down to this part of the building; keep to the more aristocratic end--eh?" and Mr. Rittman smiled, and showed a good set of teeth.
"No! I don't know--the truth is--I want some advice, and I think you're the man to give it to me."
"My dear sir, I shall be delighted. What is it?" (this thrown off at a tangent to a messenger who appeared in the doorway, saying, "Ere's Brown's man agen, Mr. Rittman"). "Ah! Brown's man; well, you'd better say I've not yet returned from Jersey, but you expect me on Tuesday.--And now, my dear sir; you were saying--some advice?"
"Well, the fact is, Rittman, I'm hard up, and I want to borrow some money; and I thought you could--"
"Not lend you any? that would be almost too delicious, my dear sir. You didn't think I could lend you any?" and Mr. Rittman screamed with laughter at the absurdity of the idea.
"No, no, of course not; but I thought you might tell me where I could get it."
"Oh, that's a totally different thing; of course I can. I rather pique myself upon knowing more about such matters than most men. Of course I can. Now, let me see--what security can you give?"
"Eh?" asked Mr. Pringle.
"Security for the repayment? If you borrow from the Rainy. Day or Amicable Nest-Eggs Insurance Office, you must give two sureties, householders, and insure for double the amount of the loan. If you go to the Helping Hand or the Leg-up Loan Office, you must give three sureties, householders, and pay a lot for office-fees and inquiries, which are made by a dirty-faced man at a pound a week. If you give a bill of sale on your furniture--"
"My good sir," said Pringle testily, "I've got no furniture. And surely all this bother can't be necessary for the sum I want--only twenty pounds."
"Twenty pounds! twenty pounds! a fleabite, a mere fleabite!" said Mr. Rittman (he had three and sevenpence in his pocket at the moment, and did not know in the least where to turn for more). "I hoped you were going to call my generalship into play; for I may say, without boasting, that when it's not for myself, I am fertile in resources. But--twenty pounds--I'll give you the address of a man who'll let you have it at once."
"There won't be any names wanted, or any thing of that sort, will there?" asked Pringle, rather doubtful of this promptitude.
"Nothing of the kind; merely your acknowledgment. Here's the address--Scadgers, Newman Street. You'll find Mr. Scadgers a curious man, but very pleasant; and when you say you come from me, he'll be very polite. And, Mr. Pringle, let me give you one word of advice--Be firm in the matter of Madeira."
"In the matter of Madeira?"
"Yes, awful; you can't stand it. Ostades are bad enough, or a Stradivarius fiddle; and perhaps, as you're a single man in apartments, a key-bugle mightn't do, as likely to be objected to by the other lodgers--but any of them rather than the Madeira."
In the middle of Newman Street stands a paintless door, in the centre of which gleams a brass-plate, bearing the word "Scadgers," in fat Roman capitals. Nothing else. No "Mr.;" no description of Scadgers' profession; nothing to break the charm. "Scadgers" stands an oasis of shining brass in a desert of lustreless deal, and winks knowingly at the double-faced portrait, one half dirty, the other half clean, at the picture-restorer's over the way. Scadgers' door differed from its fellows in having but one bell-handle; for Scadgers had quite enough business to occupy the whole house, and to demand ramifications in the neighbourhood. All we have to do, in the course of this story, is to deal with Scadgers as Scadgers; but my private belief is that Scadgers was the Universal Philanthropic Man's a Man for a' that Loan Office, held at the Blue Pig and Toothache in Wells Street; that he was "Cash promptly advanced on furniture without removal, freehold and leasehold property, legacies, reversions, warrants, and all other securities. Sheriffs' executions and rent-distraint immediately paid out" (vide advertisement);--that he was "Methuselah's Muffin-Powder, or Never say Die" patent medicine, and proprietor-in-chief of "The Hob," a domestic Miscellany, which commenced with weak romance, and failed, but has since achieved an enormous success for itself, and a fortune for its spirited proprietor, by the publication of "Baby Clarence; or, My Life at Brompton." Certainly you could not have guessed Scadgers' occupation from the outside of his residence, which looked like a dirty lodging-house, like a third-rate boarding-house, like those melancholy houses occupied by those most melancholy people on earth, third-rate piano-sellers; like a house let in rooms to people who lithograph fashion-plates; like any thing but what it was--a house where more money was made than in nine-tenths of the houses in London.
When Mr. Pringle arrived on the Scadgerian steps, he looked for a knocker, and finding none, he pulled the Scadgerian bell. A responsive click and the partial unlatching of the door invited him to push; the door yielded, and he found himself in a large and empty hall, on one side of which was a glass door, with the word "Office" in faded gilt letters on a white ground. This glass-door being open, Mr. Pringle walked straight through, and found himself in the "office." He had seen a good many offices in his time, but never one like this. He had never seen an office with musical instruments in it before; and here were four or five pianos standing ranged against the wall, to say nothing of harps in leather cases leaning drunkenly in corners, and a few cornets-à-piston in green boxes, and a guitar or two with blue ribbons to hang them round your neck by, just as if they had come fresh from the necks of Spanish donnas. And there were slack-baked-looking old pictures in heavy Dutch-metal frames--fine specimens of old masters--saints with skulls and Bibles in front of them, and very ascetic cheek-bones and great phrenological development of talent and courage; Dutch boors standing on one leg and drinking glasses of ale, and yawning youths with an effect of shaded candlelight on their faces. There were modern pictures, too, of lakes and Thames scenery, and girls with fair hair, which, when compared with the old ones, looked as if they had been painted in milk-and-water; and there were three driving-whips in one corner, a set of harness across a chair, and the leather cushions of a brougham under it. There was a bronze umbrella-stand, formed by a dog holding a whip in his mouth, a big French clock, and a couple of chemist's bottles, red and green; and in the midst of all this confusion stood a little shrivelled old man, with very white hair and a very red face--a dirty little old man dressed in a rusty suit of black, who addressed Mr. Pringle in a rusty creaking voice, and wanted to know "his pleasure."
"I--I wish to speak to Mr. Scadgers," said Mr. Pringle, with a modesty and hesitation altogether strange to him.
"Ah!" said the little old man; "deary me! yes!" and then he seated himself on the edge of a wine-hamper, and began to count his fingers with great interest, as though not quite sure of the number he really possessed.
"Mr. Scadgers!" said Pringle, after a minute or two.
"Ah, yes! I'll call him," said the little old man, and rang a bell which lurked in the corner of the chimney-piece.
A great creaking of uncarpeted stairs under heavy boots followed this bell-ringing, and presently Mr. Scadgers entered the room. Mr. Scadgers' appearance partook of the charming amenities of the prize-fighter and the undertaker: his hair was black and close-cropped, his face white, his nose red, one eye was considerably larger than the other, and one corner of his mouth had a peculiar upward twist. He was dressed in black, with a pair of dull leather boots reaching half-way up his thighs; and as he came through the door, he took a red silk pocket-handkerchief from the crown of his hat, and mopped his head.
"Servant, sir!" said Mr. Scadgers, surveying Mr. Pringle with his gleaming black eyes, and reckoning him up in a moment. "What may you want?"
"Well," said Mr. Pringle, "I wanted a few minutes' conversation; but private, if you please--"
"Oh!" interrupted Mr. Scadgers, "don't mind Jinks; he's safe enough--knows all my affairs--thoroughly to be trusted."
"Well, then," said Mr. Pringle, hesitating; then, with a desperate rush, "look here!--fact is--want money!"
"Ah!" said Mr. Scadgers, with something like admiration in his tone, "got it out with a rush, didn't you? That's the only way! Who told you to come to me?"
"Mr. Rittman, of the--"
"I know--Tin-tax Office. Do you belong to it? Thought so. Wretched office; lost a mint of money in that office. What salary do you get?"
Mr. Pringle mentioned that he was in the receipt of ninety pounds a-year.
"Ah! twenty-one eighteen and nine on the 5th of every third month--I know all about it! Now" mopping his head, "how much do you want?"
"Twenty pounds."
"Lor' bless me! and when do you want it?"
"At once!"
"Can't be done, sir! can't be done!" Violent mopping. "Haven't got any money in the house. Can't you look in next week, and I might let you have ten?"
Mr. Pringle roundly asserted that this would not do at all, and turned round towards the door.
"Stop, sir!" shouted Mr. Scadgers, making tremendous play with the red-silk handkerchief. "What a hasty young man you are! Look here,"--taking out his purse,--"here's a ten-pound note that I promised to young Stephens of the Wafer Office; he was to have been here by two; now its getting on for three, and he's not come. I might let you have that!"
"But that's only ten!" said Mr. Pringle.
"Only ten! what a way to speak of money! Wait, sir, wait; let us see what we can do. Any one likely to look in this afternoon to pay any interest, Jinks?"
"Too late now!" said Jinks, with brevity.
"Ah! too late--I dessay! Just look in the cash-box, Jinks, and see what's there; though I'm afraid it's not much. I should say there wasn't more than three pounds, Jinks!"
Mr. Jinks peered into a little cash-box on the desk before him, and answered, "Just three pound!"
"Ah! bring 'em out, Jinks; give 'em here. Let's see--ten and three's thirteen; and that only leaves me seven-and-six to go on with till Monday! Never mind: you could have thirteen, Mr.--"
"But I want twenty!"
"Ah, so you do! Pity you don't want some wine! I've got some Madeiry as would--but wine ain't money, is it? There's a splendid picture, now--a Murillo: you might take that."
"Pictures are not more money than wine; are they?"
"Ain't they? That Murillo's worth ten pound, and any one would give you that for it. Ain't there no one you could sell it to? You see you're in such a hurry for the money, or you might offer it to the National Gallery, or some swell collecting of pictures might buy it, but you're so pressed. Tell you what you might do, though," said Mr. Scadgers, as though struck by a sudden inspiration: "you might pawn it."
"How the deuce could I go lugging that picture about the streets to pawn it?" said Pringle testily.
"No, to be sure! Stay, look here! I dare say Jinks wouldn't mind pawning it for you. Jinks, look here; just run with this round the corner, will you? Get as much as you can, you know." And without more ado, Mr. Jinks put on a reddish-black napless hat, tucked the picture under his arm, and started off.
While he was gone, Mr. Scadgers asked Mr. Pringle what his name was, how long he had been in the office, where he lodged, and other home-thrusting questions; and presently Mr. Jinks returned without the picture, but with three sovereigns and a printed ticket, which he delivered to his master, saying, "Wouldn't do no more than three."
"Three!" said Mr. Scadgers. "Well, that's nearer to twenty than we was, isn't it? Now, Mr. Pringle,"--taking a slip of stamped paper from his pocketbook--"just you sign your name at the bottom here. All correct, you see. Fifth of next month,--promise to pay,--value received,--and all the rest of it; and I'll hand you over sixteen pounds and the ticket; and when you get that picture out, you'll have a treasure."
"Oh, curse the picture!" said Pringle ruefully.
"Ah," said Mr. Scadgers, grinning, "that's what they all says. Cuss the picture! Well, if that ticket ain't any use to you, I don't mind giving you half a pound for it."
"I thought you had only seven-and-sixpence left?"
"No more I have, myself; but I might borrow half a pound from Jinks. What do you say? Ah, I thought so. Here, Jinks, put this little dockyment along with your other valuables. Here's the half pound, sir. Now let's look at your signature. George Townshend Pringle! Very nice. No relation to Mr. Townshend, of Austin Friars--the great Townshend?"
"He's my uncle," said Pringle. "I'm named after him."
"Indeed! named after him A very capital connexion. Good morning, sir! good morning! I'll look in upon you on the fifth."
But after Mr. Pringle had gone, Mr. Scadgers still stood with the bill fluttering between his fingers, muttering to himself: "Sing'ler that! very sing'ler! For years I hadn't seen the Runner until yesterday, when I came across him in Cheapside; and now to-day I hear of him again. I wonder," added Mr. Scadgers, with a very sinister smile, "whether that little account between me and the Runner will ever be wound up? I've owed him one this many a year."