Rensselaer Union and Jasper Republican, Volume 8, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 May 1876 — THE CONDUCTOR. [ARTICLE]

THE CONDUCTOR.

When I was a school boy and used to go to London for the holidays, ampng my most pleasing recollections on my return to Mr. Tawse’s academy were the cries oi the omnibus conductor. With two forms piled one on the other, a sympathizing school-fellow perched at one end as driver, it was my delight to hang on to the extreme end and act the “cad,” with greater fluency than accuracy, and ignoring strict topographical unities. I would rattle out a long list of destinations in the most approved sing-song. 1 would “run in” imaginary old ladies, and defraud equally unsubstantial stout old gentlemen out of their change. I would exchange gay chaff with rivals, and hurl satirical remarks at visionary policemen. It was not, however, my early inclinations that led me into the path ot life I at present follow, but rather a hard necessity —the inability to earn my living in any other way. lam an unfortunate person. I am sober and industrious, and possessed of some little ability; but everything has gone wrong with me, and I can’t help thinking that I have been the victim ot some little persecution. I made an enemy in early life, and I can trace the effects ot his sinister influence at every step of my career My boyhood’s home was comfortable and genteel. My mother was a widow with a sufficient income. I was an only son, with but one sister who was five or six years older tnan myself. I was the spoilt child of the establishment. At fourteen I was a merry nuschief-lovlng boy, somewhat of a nuisance, 1 daresay, to my elders, but thoroughly happy and self-satisfied. Then an evil influence appeared upon the scene—a stout, ponderous man, dressed in black, with flabby pendulous cheeks, and eyes sunken but bright like a pig’s. I hated him from die first, and he returned mv aversion with interest. He concealed Lis sentiments, however, tillshe had fairly established his footing in our family. When I neard that he was to marry my sister Caroline, my rage and indignation knew no bounds. 1 abused him frightfully. I disgraced myself, I daresay; but still, although the manner might be objectionable, the matter was true enough. He was a beast, and his name was Balker. He was in the drug trade, I believe, and a struggling man at that time. He had a family, too, being a widower. My sister Caroline’s portion set him up in business for himself, in which he afterwards

est boy came to see us ouce, and I thrashed him one day soundly. He was a spiteful sneak, and I got into nice trouble through him, whilst he never forgave pie that thrashing—neither he nor his father. Everybody, however, cried shame upon me for my conduct in respect to Carry’s engagement; for people hadn’t found him out as I had. When he nearly broke his neck over a cord I had slyly stretched across the garden path, and I avowed and §loried in the deed, it was generally said rnt I ought to have been sent to prison. Instead of that, however, my mother consented that he should give me a good horsewhipping. Ho tied me up with cords and thrashed me awfully; but I have the satisfaction of thinking that I managed to get hold of his leg with my teeth, and leu a mark upon him for his life. When the wedding-day came, although I was forced to go to church, yet 1 resolutely turned my back on the proceedings, and made faces expressive of scorn and contempt at the little boys up in the gallery. After the marriage Balker ruled our house in everything. My mother was a gentle, weak woman, and Caroline worshipped him. One of his first improvements was to send me to a warehouse in the city of London, where I had to sweep out the floors and make myself generally useftil. I was not likely to do much at this, and - after putting up with it as long as I could I ran away mid went back to mother’s house. There, as luck wopld have it, mv sister Caroline—he always made use or our house as a hospital—was stopping during an illness. She'went into hysterics about me, and I was hauled off and taken back to London like a criminal. Then, of course, owing to Balker’s suggestions, my employers gave a very bad account of me ana refused to take me back, so that Balker, to get rid of me, placed me on board an emigrant ship bound for Australia that belonged to a friend of his. Here I was treated like a dog, and as soon as we reached Melbourne I ran away to the diggings. And now I was in a line that just suited me. I had no great luck, but was making my living and enjoyed myself first rate. So pleased was I with myself thaf I must needs write

home to mother with a packet of gold dust and a lot of stories about the digfngs. I was even so much mollified that sent my love to Carry and kind regards to Balker. Well, it sb happened that my letter reached home just after Carry and mother had fallen out, and mother had mustered up spirit to send ’em out of the house and get rid of them. And she wrote to me, poor woman, such a kind letter. I was her own dear,darling boy,and she saw now how that wily-Baiker had set her against me. But if I’d come home now and close her eyes all that she had would be mine, and I should take my proper place in the world. Added to that she sent me a bank post-bill for £IOO to pay my expenses. After that I felt I was bound to go, and yet things kept turning up that hindered me from starting. I had to finish out a piece with my mates, and then I waited lor a chum of mine who drove a ’bus in Melbourne, who was going home too; so that it was a year ormore before I found myself anchored in the Downs, with the white cliffs of Old England shining in the distance. I landed mere and made my way without troubling myself about my baggage, just as I was, half sailor, half digger, across the country to Blddlesden, where mother lived.

I fancy I see the place now—a redbrick house, with bow-windows kept wonderfully bright, wire blinds, and green Venetians; the High street with tuft by the sides, and nice treesgrowing here ana there. It looked so quiet and cheerful, with the sun shining brightly on everything, that I said to myself, quite in the poetic vein, “If there’s peace to be found in the world the.heart that is humble may hope for it here ” There were beautiful white steps up to mother’s door, and I walked up them with a strange, uneasy feeling, half joy and half foreboding. It was just four o’clock. Mother would be sitting by the fire. She always had a bit of fire, except in the very hottest weather. Dinner had just been taken away. There would be two decanters on the table in little round stands, a few biscuits, two or three apples and some walnuts, in dishes of old china. Mother would have ner feet on the fender, with her dress tucked over her knees and her black quilted satin petticoat warming in the blaze. I would just pop in quietly. “ Hallo, mother!” I should say, just as if I’d come home from school, and slip behind her chair and give her a kiss before the old lady knew where she was. Lord, how my heart did beat as I softlv opened the door! This was what I paw—the decanters were there all right, and the dessert, and the smell df dinner and wine, just as of old, but there was no mother sitting there. Carry in black on one aide of the Are; Balker in black on the other; little Timmings, the lawyer, in the middle, smocking his lips over a glass of port. My voice died away in my throat, 1 shut to the door gently and went off into the kitchen. There was Patty, mother’s old servant, putting away the silver. She was in black, too, and crying over the things. She gave such a scream when she saw me. I was arough-lookingchap, bear in mind, and she didn’t know me at the moment. “ I’m Dick,’’ I said, “ Patty. Where’s mother?” “O,” she cried, putting her hands on my shoulder, and looking into my face to make sure I was speaking truth; “O dear, Master Dick, wliy didn’t you come home before ?” So it was. Mother had been dead and buried a son night ago. Balker had smoothed her over long before her death, and he and Carry between them had made it right about the property. I don’t know what lies Balker had told about me, but I saw her will afterward in Doctors’ Commons for a shilling, and there was nothing for me except a hundred pounds. And I didn’t even get that, for they made out that I had been advanced the money beforehand—that hundred pounds mother sent me, you remember —and I knew it was no good fighting Baiker about it, me that hadn’t a halfpenny. All the knocking about hadn’t knocked the pride out of me. Before I’d be beholden to Ca r r '> or Balker tor a penny I’d starve; and- 'ame very near starving toe. I walked up to London hungry ana footsore. I slept under trees in the park, and earned a few shillings at the Docks, just enough to keep body and soul together, till one day I liad carried a ship captain’s bag from Victoria Docks to Charing Cross for a shilling, and I stood at the corner by St. Martin’s Church, looking at the fountains and the big lions, and wishing one of them was alive and would make an end of me, when a yellow 'bus drove up and a chap sings out: “Hallo, Dick!” It was the chum I’d come home with who was sitting up there driving. “Jump up,” he said; and I got upon the box-seat and we had a long talk, and finding I was doing no good, he offered to get me a job to look after the horses of the ’bus.

But he did better than that for me; for, seeing that I had got some education about me, the manager made a conductor of me. * It wasn’t that gay agreeable job I once thought it. To be sure the line I was in wasn’t one that admits of much elocution. “ ’Toria, ’toria,” and “’Tannia,” meaning Victoria Station and the Britannia Tavern, you can’t make much of a patter of. And as for jokes, why, ever aioce. *tliey-introduced those «way-bills,” as they call them, that- you stick upon the doors and mark the lares on, you’ve got your pencil in your mouth all day long, apd can’t make ’em. Still I was pleased enough at my job, and it so happened that one day I was waiting my turn in the bar of the Mother Shipton and took up the Daily Telegraph, and casting my eyes over the deaths I saw announced Mr. Balker’s—on the very day, too, that I had got my situation. There’s no use mincing the matter, I was downright glad. “ That man,’’ I said to myself, “ didn’t enjoy his ill-gotten very long; and what’s more, I believe that he was my evil spirit, and that now he’s gone I shall make a start in the world.’’ But I hadn’t reckoned upon his having a son. I had been at my new work for about a iortuight when one evening on our downward journey, alter we had passed Redcap, I began to collect the fares. There were only three passengers In the ’bus. One of them was a pretty fresh-looking country girl, who, as soon as I called “Fares, please,” began to search her pockets. Then she flushed up quite crimson all of a sudden. “Dear me,” she cried, “I’ve, lost my purse!” Well, there was a man 'sitting opposite her very respectably dressed, with a sallow waxy face and little pig’s eyes, and he looked at her quite angrily. “ Lost your purse?” said he. "You. mean you’ve left it at home on the drawing-room chimneypiece,’’ he said, with a sneer. Well, I could see the poor girl was almost in tears about it, so I spoke to her and told her that as far as the loss of the purse went it was a bad job for her, but that she needn’t be troubled about not paying the fare, because she could let me have it next time she saw me. With that she began to tell me that there was one pound fifteen shillings in the purse, and that she was going to a place as nurse-maid at Haver stock-hill, and that the purse con tained all the money she was worth. She had been standing waiting for the ’bus some time at Channg-croes, and supposed somebody had taken it out of her pocket. 1 was very sorry for her, and said what I could to comfort her, and when we came to the Shiptoh I showed her the way to the place she was going to—l 7 Judkin place, I noticed that the sallow-faced man started when she told me the ad-

dreea, and seemed to look rattier hard at her, and looked hard at me too when she asked me who she should inquire for to pay the money back, and I told her my real name, Dick Maylam. I began now to take notion of the regular customers, and found that the sallowfaced man traveled by us pretty regularly. A spiteful chap he was, too. He'd hit wildly out with his umbrella-handle when he wanted to get out, as if conductors had no feelings In their ellmw-joints. He always offered me twopence, too, T6ra threepenny fare on the chance that I’d take It by mistake. One night, when I went to the office on my last journey, the bookkeeper said to me: “Maylam, you’re ninepence short in your cash to day.” “ I think not,” I said; for I was always very careftil of the cash and to keep the way-bills right, and 1 was so ’cute that I always put a private mark against the last sere on each line, so that nobody should stick down any figures after me. Such of you as travel in your own carriages and don’t use the omnibuses mayn’t know what these way-bills are. They are a Manchester invention, I believe, and are slips of thin paper ruled with cross lines twelve spaces in a row, and as many rows as there are different fares. Mine had three rows for twopenny, threepenny and tourpenny fares. You put them in a little frame that opens with a hinge and is screwed on to the door .of the ’bus, and every fare you draw you mark on the bill. Well, as soon as the bookkeeper told me I was short in my cash, 1 saiu: “ Well, let us look at the way-bills,” feeling sure he’d either made a mistake or wanted to plunder me, but I reckoned them all up carefully and found that the man was right. I must have lost the money. I made it up out of my own pocket, and resolved to be more careful another time. But next day it was the same ninepence short again. Then for two days I was right ; after that another ninepence to the bad. “You must be careftil, Maylam,” said the man, “and don’t let it happen again; for if it does I shall report you as always being short.” But it did nappen again and again, sometimes sixpence, sometimes ninepence, sometimes, a shilling, and I couldn’t find out how it went. I was well-nigh driven mad by it, for I knew 1 should lose my place happened much oltener, and brood over it as I might I could fatbom it in no way. I was always particular in giving change, and nobody could get at my money, which I kept in the leather wallet provided by the company. At last word came down one day that I was to have the sack at the week’s end, and then I can tell you I felt downright bad. There wasn’t much chance of my getting another place, as private owners are few, and besides the company most likely would refuse to give me a character. ,1 didn’t know what to turn to, and couldn’t see anything before me but starvation. Those sort of feelings don’t help a man to get through his work smartly, and I got worse and worse muddled as the day went on. t People abused me for not setting them down where they told me, and altogether I was well-nigh distracted.

It was a damp, dismal afternoon, and when we stopped at the corner of Oxford street and Tottenham Court road there was a great rush of people to get into the omnibus. Among them was a widow lady in deep black, and with her was our sallow-faceu friend. It was dusk and I couldn’t see the faces inside, but os I lighted my lamp and the gleam shone into the ’bus I started back and turned my head away from the door. The widow lady was my sister Carry. After that first touch of shame, however, I didn’t care any more. You get hardened to such things when you come to downright want. 1 took no more notice of her, and whether she’d recognized me I did not know. She did sure enough when she got out at the Shipton; she in her black silk and handsome crapes, all rustling and crackling, with a sealskin purse in her hand almost bursting out with gold and bank-notes, and me with my tottered, greasy coat, patched trousers and broken boots. She flushed up to her eyes, and I think she’d have spoken to me, but I turned my back upon her, and the sallow man hurried her away. As my old chum got off the box I told him about my getting the sack, and he said it was a bad job, but there was no use fretting, and he proposed to go into the bar ana have a drink. As we were standing there taking our whisky a young woman popped her head in quite shamefaced. “Can you tell me,” she said, “ whether a Mr. Maylam, a ’bus conductor, comes here?” “I’m he, miss," I said; and then I recollected that she was the girl who had lost her purse. “Oh, I’ve brought you the money for the fare,” she said, “Mr, Maylam, and if you wouldn’t mind accepting a shilling ” “Oh, no, thank you, miss,” I said. And then we began talking; but she said that she couldn’t stop, because her mistress didn’t know she had run out. “And what do you think!” she said. “ That was my new master who came up in the ’bus with me, that sodden-complexioned gent!” “And what’s his name?” I asked. “ Why, Balker," she said. Then I saw who he must be. He must be Balker’s eldest son by his first wife —the one I had thrashed so badly a good many years ago. Wei?, I thought it all over and over again that night as I lay awake, and I couldn’t help fancying that these Balkers, who had been the ruin of me all along, had some hand in this last misfortune. They hated me badly enough to do anything to bring me to destruction, although one would have thought being an omnibus conductor was low enough for them. Then I seemed to recollect that every time I had been short of cash young Balker had taken the journey with me. Still I didn’t see bow he could have robbed me, and even if he had it would never be found out now. I was done for, andthat wasanendcf it.

Next day Balker traveled back with us, getting in at Oxford street. It was early, about four o’clock in the afternoon, before the regular stream of business men set in; consequently, after we passed the Kedcap, there was no one else inside. It had often happened so before. He always came home early, not having much to do, I daresay, livingcomfortable, no doubt, on my mother’s money. “ Well, we crossed the canal bridge and passed under the railway arch, and just beyond we pulled up, of course, to change horses. I always made a practice of giving a helping band during this operation, ana I was going to jump off my perch as usual to go and help, when I saw a sort of wicked sparkle in Mr. Balker’s eye that put me on ray guard. “Jack,” I whispered to the driver, running to the front, “just look over the side and nee what the man inside is doing.” Well, Jack looked over for a second, and then he jumped off his perch and ran behind. I rail too, and we got there just in time to see our sodden-looking friend with a pencil in his hand, jotting down a few extra figures on the way-bill. Well, he went home ip his friends afterwards, looking a deal more disreputable than me, and I don’t think he’ll very soon forget bis trip that day. He had to give me £SO, too, to hush the matter up, and that will paymy passage over to-Mel-boufne, and leave me with a few pounds in pocket. , So I fancy, although the company are quite willing to keep me on, that you won’t hear any more from me as an ill-conducted conductor. P. B.—l think it highly probable that nice fresh-lookingyoung woman will join the expedition.— Belgravia.