The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and penthouses; and the occasional heavy tread of a carthorse, or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.
A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades—
“Sam!”
“Hallo,” replied the man with the white hat.
“Number twenty-two wants his boots.”
“Ask number twenty-two, vether he’ll have ’em now, or vait till he gets ’em,” was the reply.
“Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,” said the girl coaxingly, “the gentleman wants his boots directly.”
“Well, you are a nice young ’ooman for a musical party, you are,” said the boot-cleaner. “Look at these here boots—eleven pair o’ boots; and one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin’, Sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.”
Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
“Sam,” cried the landlady, “where’s that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?”
“Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,” replied Sam gruffly.
“Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ’em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor.”
The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away.
“Number five,” said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles—“Lady’s shoes and private sittin’-room! I suppose she didn’t come in the vagin.”
“She came in early this morning,” cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, “with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ’em, that’s all about it.”
“Vy didn’t you say so before,” said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. “For all I know’d he was one o’ the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady too! If he’s anything of a gen’l’m’n, he’s vurth a shillin’ a day, let alone the arrands.”
Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty goodwill, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.
“Come in,” said a man’s voice, in reply to Sam’s rap at the door. Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman’s boots right and left at his feet, and the lady’s shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door.
“Boots,” said the gentleman.
“Sir,” said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock.
“Do you know—what’s a-name—Doctors’ Commons?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Where is it?”
“Paul’s Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller’s at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.”
“Touts for licences!” said the gentleman.
“Touts for licences,” replied Sam. “Two coves in vhite aprons—touches their hats ven you walk in—‘Licence, Sir, licence?’ Queer sort, them, and their mas’rs, too, sir—Old Bailey Proctors—and no mistake.”
“What do they do?” inquired the gentleman.
“Do! You, Sir! That ain’t the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything—uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt—very smart—top boots on—nosegay in his buttonhole—broad-brimmed tile—green shawl—quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money—up comes the touter, touches his hat—‘Licence, Sir, licence?’—‘What’s that?’ says my father.—‘Licence, Sir,’ says he.—‘What licence?’ says my father.—‘Marriage licence,’ says the touter.—‘Dash my veskit,’ says my father, ‘I never thought o’ that.’—‘I think you wants one, Sir,’ says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit—‘No,’ says he, ‘damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,’ says he.—‘Not a
