“All right—pass on,” said he at last. And then he added: “I had better go with you, young man.” And Tom had no objection, for such company was both respectable and safe; so the truncheon coiled its thong neatly round its handle, to prevent tripping itself up—for the thong had got loose in running—and marched on by Tom’s side.
“Why have you no policeman to carry you?” asked Tom, after a while.
“Because we are not like those clumsy-made truncheons in the land-world, which cannot go without having a whole man to carry them about. We do our own work for ourselves; and do it very well, though I say it who should not.”
“Then why have you a thong to your handle?” asked Tom.
“To hang ourselves up by, of course, when we are off duty.”
Tom had got his answer, and had no more to say, till they came up to the great iron door of the prison. And there the truncheon knocked twice, with its own head.
A wicket in the door opened, and out looked a tremendous old brass blunderbuss charged up to the muzzle with slugs, who was the porter; and Tom started back a little at the sight of him.
“What case is this?” he asked in a deep voice, out of his broad bell mouth.
“If you please, sir, it is no case; only a young gentleman from her ladyship, who wants to see Grimes, the master-sweep.”
“Grimes?” said the blunderbuss. And he pulled in his muzzle, perhaps to look over his prison-lists.
“Grimes is up chimney No. 345,” he said from inside. “So the young gentleman had better go on to the roof.”
Tom looked up at the enormous wall, which seemed at least ninety miles high, and wondered how he should ever get up: but, when he hinted that to the truncheon, it settled the matter in a moment. For it whisked round, and gave him such a shove behind as sent him up to the roof in no time, with his little dog under his arm.
And there he walked along the leads, till he met another truncheon, and told him his errand.
“Very good,” it said. “Come along: but it will be of no use. He is the most unremorseful, hard-hearted, foul-mouthed fellow I have in charge; and thinks about nothing but beer and pipes, which are not allowed here, of course.”
So they walked along over the leads, and very sooty they were, and Tom thought the chimneys must want sweeping very much. But he was surprised to see that the soot did not stick to his feet, or dirty them in the least. Neither did the live coals, which were lying about in plenty, burn him; for, being a water-baby, his radical humours were of a moist and cold nature, as you may read at large in Lemnius, Cardan, Van Helmont, and other gentlemen, who knew as much as they could, and no man can know more.
And at last they came to chimney No. 345. Out of the top of it, his head and shoulders just showing, stuck poor Mr. Grimes, so sooty, and bleared, and ugly, that Tom could hardly bear to look at him. And in his mouth was a pipe; but it was not alight; though he was pulling at it with all his might.
“Attention, Mr. Grimes,” said the truncheon; “here is a gentleman come to see you.”
But Mr. Grimes only said bad words; and kept grumbling, “My pipe won’t draw. My pipe won’t draw.”
“Keep a civil tongue, and attend!” said the truncheon; and popped up just like Punch, hitting Grimes such a crack over the head with itself, that his brains rattled inside like a dried walnut in its shell. He tried to get his hands out, and rub the place: but he could not, for they were stuck fast in the chimney. Now he was forced to attend.
“Hey!” he said, “why, it’s Tom! I suppose you have come here to laugh at me, you spiteful little atomy?”
Tom assured him he had not, but only wanted to help him.
“I don’t want anything except beer, and that I can’t get; and a light to this bothering pipe, and that I can’t get either.”
“I’ll get you one,” said Tom; and he took up a live coal (there were plenty lying about) and put it to Grimes’ pipe: but it went out instantly.
“It’s no use,” said the truncheon, leaning itself up against the chimney and looking on. “I tell you, it is no use. His heart is so cold that it freezes everything that comes near him. You will see that presently, plain enough.”
“Oh, of course, it’s my fault. Everything’s always my fault,” said Grimes. “Now don’t go to hit me again” (for the truncheon started upright, and looked very wicked); “you know, if my arms were only free, you daren’t hit me then.”
The truncheon leant back against the chimney, and took no notice of the personal insult, like a well-trained policeman as it was, though he was ready enough to avenge any transgression against morality or order.
“But can’t I help you in any other way? Can’t I help you to get out of this chimney?” said Tom.
“No,” interposed the truncheon; “he has come to the place where everybody must help themselves; and he will find it out, I hope, before he has done with me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Grimes, “of course it’s me. Did I ask to be brought here into the prison? Did I ask to be set to sweep your foul chimneys? Did I ask to have lighted straw put under me to make me go up? Did I ask to stick fast in the very first chimney of all, because it was so shamefully clogged up with soot? Did I ask to stay here—I don’t know how long—a hundred years, I do believe, and never get my pipe, nor my beer, nor nothing fit for a beast, let alone a man?”
“No,” answered a solemn voice behind. “No more did
