'Them what give me the letter said I must ask first.'
Ikey's eyebrows arched in surprise. 'A letter! You 'as a letter for Ikey Solomon? I don't recall as I've 'ad a letter recently. Would you 'ave it in mind to tell me who gave you this precious letter?'
'Why?' the boy asked. Ikey immediately marked him as intelligent, a rare enough occurrence among the dull- brained urchins who roamed the streets of New Norfolk throwing stones at dogs and chickens.
'A very good question, my dear! An excellent and most perspicacious question! You see, my dear, there are some letters you will receive in life what are not to your advantage, a letter, for instance, what might contain a summons or a warrant. A letter is not always best opened or even received, if you takes my meaning.'
'I've never 'ad a letter,' the boy replied, unimpressed by this first cautionary lesson in life.
'That's a bloomin' shame, boy!'
'Not if you can't read, it ain't,' the urchin shot back.
What a waste of a boy! Ikey thought. How well this one would have done at the Academy of Light Fingers.
'Who? Who was it gave you the letter what I might take, or I might not? Being as I might be Mr Isaac Solomon, and yet I might decide not to be!'
'It come off a boat from 'Obart. The cap'n. 'E asks if I knows you and when I does 'e give me an 'apenny and…' the boy dug into the interior of his shirt and produced an envelope, '… 'e give me this 'ere letter.'
'What does it say on the envelope?' Ikey asked.
The boy shrugged. 'I already told you, I don't do no readin'.' He took two steps closer to the seated Ikey and proffered the envelope.
'Well that be another shame, boy, a bright lad like you what can't read? Tut, tut, must learn to read, boy. There are no prospects for a lad what can't read, no prospects whatsoever, and never to be 'eard of!' He glanced up at the urchin. 'Do you hear me, boy?'
'Don't you want your letter?' the urchin said and then added, 'I ain't no toff what needs to learn to read.'
Ikey still refrained from taking the letter. 'Can you count, boy?' It had been several days since he had sustained any sort of conversation, and the bright morning sun had ironed out some of his aches and pains, and it was like old times talking to the urchin standing beside him.
'Yessir, I can count real good.'
'Pennies in a shilling?'
'Twelve!' the boy snapped back.
'Shillings in a pound?'
'Twenty,' the boy said with alacrity, then added spontaneously, 'Four farving in a penny and two 'a'pennies, a guinea be a pound and one shillin' and I can count good to one 'undred and poss'bly even a thousand, but I ain't tried yet!'
'Bravo!' Ikey exclaimed and clapped in applause. 'Bravo! Methinks you should still learn to read, but you've got the right idea.' Ikey smiled at the boy. 'I'm sorry, lad, but I 'aven't got a ha'penny nor even a farthing to give you for this splendid delivery of yours.' Ikey now finally took the letter from the boy's hand.
'That's orright, sir,' the boy replied. Then he cocked his head to one side and squinted down at Ikey. 'You ain't got even a farving, eh?' he asked somewhat incredulously.
Ikey shook his head, ashamed. 'Nothing, lad… I'm sorry. Next time I sees you I might 'ave one, or even a penny and you shall 'ave it!'
The boy dug into his trouser pocket and produced a sixpence which he rested on his thumb and forefinger and then flipped high into the air. The sunlight caught the bright silver coin as it spun, arched and descended and the boy slapped it onto the back of his hand and glanced down at it.
'It's 'eads! You lose!' he proclaimed happily. Then pocketing the coin he squinted at Ikey again. 'I suppose you is now gunna tell me you earned your present fortune 'cos you was so good at readin'?'
'Cheeky bugger!' Ikey shouted and made as if to rise. But the boy had already turned on his heels and was running up the steep bank of the river, his bare feet sending small pebbles and clods of red earth rolling into the water below. 'You'll go far, lad, that I'll vouch!' Ikey called after him, laughing.
'Cheer'o, mister,' the boy shouted back. 'See you in the library, then!'
Ikey looked down at the envelope in his hand. Mr. Isaac Solomon Esq., was all it said, in an annoyingly familiar copperplate script. Ikey opened it very slowly, as though it might explode in his hands, and carefully unfolded the note. To his surprise it contained two one pound notes. He held each note in turn up to the sunlight to ascertain that they were genuine, then he began to read.
Hobart Town.
25th October 1837
Dear Mr Solomon,
I have need of a good clerk who can keep an accurate ledger. If such a position should interest you, I urge you to come to Hobart and to make yourself known to the undersigned. I enclose the sum of two pounds to defray any expenses involved.
I remain, yours sincerely,
Mary Abacus. (Miss).
Chapter Thirty
Mary's first triumph in the brewing of beer did not come from the amber liquid itself, although it was conceded by most to be an excellent ale, crisp and clean to the taste and light on the stomach, but came instead from the label she placed on each bottle. As labels go it lacked any sign of the artistic but made up for this with words that caused the Temperance Society to recommend her product to all who had taken 'The Pledge'. Those of her customers who could read took great pleasure in the story on the label, and those who could not would soak the label off and have someone read it aloud so that they might share the exquisite feeling of righteousness it gave them.
Sold into Slavery
'Tom Jones is sold into slavery!' said a man to me the other day.
'Sold into slavery!' I cried. 'Is there anything like that now-a-days?'
'Indeed there is,' was the answer.
'Who bought him, pray?'
'Oh, it's a firm, and they own a good many slaves, and more shocking bad masters.'
'Can it be in these days? Who are they?' I asked.
'Well they have agents everywhere, who tell a pretty good story, and get hold of folk; but the name of the firm is Messrs. Rum, Gin amp; Spirits.'
I had heard of them, it is a firm of bad reputation, and yet how extensive are their dealings! What town has not felt their influence? Once in their clutches, it is about the hardest thing in the world to break away from them. You are sold and that is the end of it; sold to ruin sooner or later. I have seen people try to escape from them. Some, it is true, if they should take 'The Pledge', do escape to find the heavenly delights of Mary Abacus' most excellent and unadulterated Temperance Ale, sold at threepence half-penny a bottle, or threepence if the previous bottle be returned empty.
The Potato Factory.
Mary's Temperance Ale became such a success that the large Hobart breweries decided at once to bring out a version of their own. But here again Mary was not caught napping. With the help of Mr Emmett she had registered
