Part 3 (2/2)
Thimbles and thread!
b.u.t.tons and braid!
Oh, who would be bound to this rascally trade?
”If money I had, I'd be free from all care, And what _master_ must _make_, _I_ should have but to _wear!_ Needles and pins!
Shears and cloth ends!
When the work's ended then pleasure begins!”
”What's that you're singing about riches?” cried his master, sharply; ”Riches, forsooth! you will die in the poor house, I can tell you, if you don't st.i.tch more diligently! Come, sew away! sew away!” So saying, he gave him a good thwack with his yard stick, to make him continue working.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
All the beatings in the world, however, could not thump out of Bartlemy Bowbell a belief that had got into his head that he should one day become rich and famous, through the agency of a wonderful jewel called the Gold Stone. As I said, people, in those days, were by no means so wise as they are at present, and so it fell out that the most learned philosophers of that olden time believed as firmly as did the tailor's apprentice in the existence of this Gold Stone, the peculiar property of which was, that if it came in contact with any common metal, it changed it, on that instant, into gold. Now, this story had come to the ears of Bartlemy Bowbell, and by one of those odd cranks that not overwise people sometimes take in their heads, he was perfectly persuaded that, sooner or later, he was fated to find the miraculous gem.
Matters soon rose to such a pitch, as may easily be seen, that his master finally turned him out of doors, saying ”that he ate more than he would ever earn.”
”Very well, master,” quoth Bartlemy, ”I don't regret your goose and cabbage!” and having said this, he ran away as hard as he could, dropping one of his slipshod shoes as he went along, with his master pursuing after, yard stick in hand, whom, however, he soon contrived to outstrip.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
As he had not earned a penny during the week, he was entirely without money, and n.o.body would lodge a shabby apprentice with only one shoe, for nothing. He wandered on until he was clear of London and in the open fields, begging of those he met on the road, but who always replied to his solicitation, ”Why don't you go to work, you lazy 'prentice?” for they knew what he was, because he wore a 'prentice's flat cap. Worst of all, night now came on, and Bartlemy was at last compelled to lie down beneath a tree, where he soon fell asleep. The moon rose high, and still Bartlemy snored, when, all of a sudden, he was roused by a smart blow on the shoulder from what he could have sworn was a yard stick.
”Needles and pins!” cried Bartlemy, sitting up in haste; ”what's that?”
”Bartlemy Bowbell,” croaked a strange voice, ”look at me.”
Bartlemy looked round, and to his extreme terror, saw standing beside him a being whom he could only suppose to be a goblin. He was not more than four feet high, with very bow legs, as though from a constant habit of tucking them up on a tailor's shop board; his clothes, fas.h.i.+oned from odd bits of velvet and cloth such as tailors call ”cabbage,” or, as we should say, the pieces of the customers' stuff left from their coats--were trimmed with thimbles for bell b.u.t.tons; on his head was a tailor's cotton nightcap, with a long ta.s.sel, and hanging at his waist were an immense pair of shears, and a pincus.h.i.+on bristling with needles and pins. In one hand he carried the yard stick with which he had struck the luckless 'prentice, and in the other a tailor's goose, or flat iron.
His face was expressive of the most jovial good humor, though it could not be called handsome, for his nose was flattened as though he were in the habit of trying his iron against the end; his hair seemed composed of long and short threads mingled together, and he had an abominable squint, as though he were always endeavoring to see how a coat set at the front and back, the collar and tail at the same time.
”Bartlemy,” said the goblin again, ”what's the matter with you?”
”Matter, your wors.h.i.+p?” gasped Bartlemy.
”Come to the point,” said the goblin, severely, accidentally swinging his pincus.h.i.+on against Bartlemy's legs at the same time, and p.r.i.c.king him most atrociously. ”You are everlastingly growling and grumbling, instead of working at your trade like an honest tailor, and richly deserve to be thwacked with the yardstick every morning by way of breakfast; but never mind, I choose to help you; so say what you want, quick.”
”A-and who might your wors.h.i.+p be?” asked Bartlemy, with a cold shudder; for he felt desperately afraid that he had got hold of Old Boguey or Old Nick--it was not much matter which.
”That's none of your business,” said the being; ”but if you must know, I am Snippinbitz, the patron of the tailors.”
”O lord, your wors.h.i.+p, you don't say so!” stammered Bartlemy.
”That's a fact!” returned the goblin. ”Come, out with it; what can I do for you?”
Bartlemy scratched his head and took off his cap, looked into it, found no words there, and put it on again; and finally, with a bow that nearly toppled him head over heels, and a kick up of his foot that sent his remaining slipper flying into the nearest mud-puddle, he managed to say:
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