Dodger by James Benmore Page B

I said. ‘Because an Englishman must have his standards.’
    I began to dress as Warrigal looked out of the small window through which the light was shining in. It overlooked the crooked lanes of the vicinity and I could hear the church bells chiming eight times. I could tell that Warrigal was troubled about something even before he turned to me as I was belting up my trousers. ‘Animal screams,’ he said.
    It took me some seconds to catch on to his meaning. The wild screams I had heard in my dream was still carrying on now and they was dreadful upon the ears. ‘Smithfield meat market,’ I told him as I buttoned my shirt. ‘Must be slaughtering day. Those poor beasts are having an ’orrible time.’ I searched around for my shoes and then looked to him. ‘Can you remember where I left my hat?’ I asked him.
    I had put it downstairs with our trunk in Fagin’s old kitchen with these Froggat people. When we got down there we found the man and his mother at breakfast. There was two pots bubbling over the fireplace, one what smelt of oats and another what they was using to boil up some more watery tea. Mother Froggat was spreading mouldy butter over a hard bread roll for blind Uncle Huffam, who was still in his rocking chair and lost in his own little world. He seemed put out when she offered him a plate of almost nothing, and the cat was nowhere to be seen. He must have been off getting his own breakfast if he had any wits.
    It had been weighing upon my mind that the night before I had given this family the wrong impression of myself. They could have been forgiven for thinking, on account of all the fuss I had been making, that I was some sad creature deserving of their pity. I wished to correct this impression as I strutted into their kitchen.
    â€˜What a dreary old dump you poor beggars are living in,’ I said.‘These are dismal surroundings, I do say!’ I ran my finger along the dresser and pulled a face like I had never before been in such a filthy hovel. My hat was hanging from a chair and I picked it up and started blowing upon it as though it was covered in dust. John Froggat looked up from his bowl of stodge and asked if I could ever find it in my heart to forgive his humble family.
    â€˜Because if we’d ’a known Your Lordship was going to grace us with your presence, we’d ’a tidied up a bit.’ He looked to his mother, who laughed her hacking laugh, although I found the joke to be weaker than her tea. Uncle Huffam joined in too, though it was doubtful he knew what he was supposed to be chuckling about. Then John turned his head round to Warrigal all slow and serious. ‘Mr Whatever-your-name-is,’ he said, ‘if you have a tongue in your head perhaps you can remind this young prig that we know he grew up in this very house and by what class of people he was raised.’
    â€˜Thieves!’ cried Mother Froggat, making poor old Huffam jump and ask where. ‘And murderers! The criminal class!’ She held up her head as if posing as a figurehead for some ship called the
Grumpy Trout
and went on. ‘We may not have much,’ she told me, ‘but we’re not to be looked down upon by the likes of you.’
    John took another swig from his pot and looked at me steady. ‘Make another flash remark,’ he said, ‘and my next answer will not be so jolly.’ I saw that his hands was covered in these little cut marks and that on the table next to him was his tray of metal objects. I decided not to enter into a quarrel with him as this would have been lowering behaviour for a quality gent such as myself, especially considering he was within reaching distance of several sharp knives.
    â€˜Don’t go misunderstanding me.’ I smiled at Mother Froggat while avoiding her son’s steely looks. ‘I wouldn’t look down mynose on a nice old bird such as yourself, honest I wouldn’t.’ I