# The Young Stagers/Bobball Again, and a Study in Contrasts
### VIII. BOBBALL AGAIN, AND A STUDY IN CONTRASTS.

Hurrah! There was beloved Bobball, sitting pensive on the sand and gazing upon the mighty ocean, his short clay pipe protruding from the red burning bush of his huge moustache. The children ran towards him.
"Gorblessmysoul!" he ejaculated, as his saturnine face lit up with real pleasure, "I was ajust thinkin' abaht you two."
This was untrue. Bobball had been considering the chaplain's phrase, "a waste of waters," as he regarded the separating sea, and thinking of how much he personally would do to remedy the waste, were it only beer.
"That's a nice lill' whip, Missy," he remarked, taking the rhinoceros-hide switch that Boodle had surreptitiously borrowed (in Daddy's absence) the better to correct Jock's besetting sin of lazi​ness. "I usedter used one like that fer to encouridge Bill—that knowin' lill' oss I tole you abaht."
"Yes," replied Boodle, "the one that won the great race by a short tongue. . . . This is Daddy's polo whip. He's out visiting the Districts, so he doesn't want it just now."
"Districk-visitin', is he?" said Bobball.
"He's visiting the Districts," admitted Boodle.
"My muvver went Districk-visitin' onct," mused Bobball. "She took me wiv' 'er, she did, too. . . . It were a lark."
"Was your mother in India then, Bobball?" inquired the puzzled Boodle.
"No, Missy. She were not. She went Districk-visitin' in the East, she did, but it were the East End, an' that ain't no mofussil neether. That's in Lunnon, that is."
"I have been to London, Bobball," was the cold reply, "and there are no 'districts' in England. You don't take tents and go out into the 'districts' there, nor go 'up country'; and you don't have 'head-quarter stations' either. . . . Perhaps you are talking Tosh, though. . . ."
​It was Bobball's turn to be puzzled. He gathered that doubt was being cast upon his statements. He licked a grimy stubby black-nailed finger and held his hand up solemnly before him.
"See my finger wet! See my finger dry!
Gord cut my froat
If I tell a lie,"
quoted he.
"It's your fumb," remarked the Vice, observant and accurate. Bobball had used the term finger in a liberal and comprehensive sense.
"Streuth!" murmured the astonished Bobball. "Ain't you pertickler, Mister Sharp-Heyes? Wot I means fer to say is, that I'm a speakin' the Troof, an' when I do speak the Troof, it 'urts my feelin's, it do, to be doubted. . . . It's caused more'n a lill' onpleasantness between me an' the Colonel, it hev. . . ."
"If you're telling the truth, Bobball, we believe you, of course, said Boodle. "We thought perhaps you were talking Tosh, that's all. Now tell us all about it."
​"I never talks tosh, Missy," replied the British soldier, in an injured tone.
"It isn't every one who can," agreed Boodle. "Tell us what really happened when your mother took you visiting in the 'districts'."
"Wot I said, Missy, was that my ole muvver took me Districk-visitin' onct, an' so she did. Tracks an' all. All proper an' reggler. She Districk-visited the bloomin' clergy an' is 'oly missus—you know, sorter civvy's chapling, 'e wos. It were like this 'ere. My farver was a snob. . . ."
"Cocky? Stuck-up?" inquired the puzzled young lady.
"Naow, Missy—you know, a mochi, a cobbler. That's wot 'e was when 'e was sober, but as 'e was only sober a Sundays, trade weren't brisk so ter speak. . . . Love us! 'E were a terror, an' 'e lived 'appy fer years on meffylated sperrits, 'e did—flavioured, when luck was in, by beer, gin, rum an' other sech condimensions. Real sportin' Henglishman 'e were, an' 'ad 'is bob each way on hevery race as was run in the year. . . ."
"This is rather a putrid sort of story, Bobball," ​yawned the President of the Junior Curlton Club, who had a cultivated taste in such matters. "I wanted to hear about what you did visiting the 'districts' in England."
"Well, I was a comin' to that, Missy—but you're so 'asty—like all wimming. . . . Well, ole gaffer, 'e wants me to set-down-to-last wiv' im. . . .
"Didn't he think you'd last?" inquired Boodle.
"It's a manner o' speakin' among snobs, Missy," replied Bobball. "’E wanted to set me dahn to the cobbler's last. Sorter happrentice me to 'imself like—an' 'im pinch wot I earnt. But muvver says, 'No' She calls 'im just abaht wot 'e wos, an' says I gotter stop in our room wiv 'er a makin' matches. . . . When she got too ill to go out a charin', she set all day an' made matches—to fill our 'ungry bellies. . . ."
"Matches is bad for bellies," interrupted the Vice.
"Mummy says her mother was a regular match-maker," said Boodle.
Bobball guffawed.
"Quite right, me lord an' me lady," said he, ​"but she made match-boxes I should a said, and she gotter bob a day, she did, for the work o' the lot of us—me an' the uvver two kids. . . . An' she wouldn't let farver take me away from it neiver—she knowed wot 'e was—and I was worf a good tuppence 'apenny a day, I was, when I wasn't more'n abaht eight years old. We wos terrors at matches, when it wasn't too cold to feel nothink wiv' yer 'ands. . . .
"And then the Revering 'Oly 'Ennery 'Opper's bloomin' well Missus from the tin chapel took to Districk-visitin' us, she did. . . . There we wos, all of us eggsep' the two bibies, workin' away like devils to make seven bob a week for rent, coals, and food—the pore ain't go no right to nothink else—when there comes a knock at our door an' in walks the 'oly female.
"‘Don' git up, my good woman,' she says gracious-like.
"‘I ain't got time to,' says Muvver, practical-like. 'My time's took up wiv' work—to get food an' fuel, when I paid me rent,' she says.
"‘How many hours a day do you work?' says the 'oly lady, a sniffin' the balmy atmosfeer of our ​little 'ome—(five of us always in the room, there wos, countin' the youngest biby, an' our clo'es an' beddin' wasn't wilets nor yet hotter o' roses, an' that bloomin' biby was allus ill, the aggerawatin' brat)—an' lookin' rahnd most disapprovin' like.
"‘Abaht twenty, as a rule,' says Muvver. "‘Ow many does your She-reverence do?'
"'The kind lidy put this question aside. She was out to hask, an' it shall be answered unto you.
"‘What's your husband, my good woman?' was the nex'.
"‘A waster. A drunken, idle, wife-beatin', spongin' swine, your She-reverence. Wot's yours?’ ses Muvver.
"Again the kind lidy took no notice o' the question.
"‘This room's very untidy,' says she.
"‘I 'ad a hidea it were,' replies Muvver. 'I'm afraid all the maids 'ave got their day out, to-day. Would your 'oliness like to tidy it up?'
"‘Can you not take a pride in your home?' says the good lidy.
​"‘No, I can not," says Muvver. 'Will you come an' 'ave five kids an' a drunken 'usband 'ere, an' live on seven bob a week, an' show me 'ow to take a pride in it? Talk sense or go an' 'inder some one else.'
"Then the 'oly an' virtuous female talked to Muvver for the good of 'er soul, she did, an' likewise she lef' a track, a proper 'un—'’Ow will you like 'Ell?’ it were called. . . . Muvver said she'd prob'ly enjoy it fine after wot she'd 'ad in Christian England, she did.
"Goin' dahn-stairs the kind lidy met Ole Muvver Skin-the-Goat. She weren't so perlite as my ole gal.
"‘Good afternoon, my good woman,' says the lidy to the abandoned slum-dweller, in 'er gracious way. Ole Muvver Skin-the-Goat she eyes 'er, cold an' steady, fer a bit. Then—
"‘You be grycious to me, an' I'll 'ave yer back 'air dahn in 'arf once,' says she. '’Op it, will yer,' an' she p'ints wiv 'er fumb. She wos a wulgar ole lot.
"Well, this noble-'earted lady came agin nex' week.
​"‘This room and these children are no cleaner than they were a week ago,' says she, as though the least she eggspected was that we'd all got noo clo'es an' 'ad the room pipered an' white-woshed.
"‘No—there's a week's more dirt on 'em, natrally, yore 'oliness,' says Muvver. 'You yoreself ain't no younger than you wos a week ago—but I got more sense 'n to say so!'
"‘That baby's nose is simply filthy,' says the lidy, ap'intin' to pore young 'Meliar alyin' on a sack o' rags, bein' ill as usual.
"‘Then fer Gord's sike blow it for 'er, Mum,' says Muvver, 'an do somethink useful terday, if yer niver did before.'
"The kind lidy sniffs as though 'er own nose could do with a treat o' that sort.
"‘Cleanliness comes next to Godliness,' ses she.
"‘Yus—an' 'ungriness come before eiver of 'em,' says Muvver. 'If you'd bin man enough to 'ave five kids yerself, an' they wos astarvin' before yer bloomin' eyes, would yer bung 'em up wiv Gordliness or cleanliness fust? Or would yer work yer fingers to the bone to git 'em food ​an' a pinch o' fire an' a roof over their 'eads—their Farver bein' a drunken brute, an' 'im expectin' to be fed an' all?' she says."
Bobball paused to knock the ashes gingerly from his clay, upon his horny palm. Contrary to what one might have expected, the children were now deeply interested. Bobball's earnestness and dramatic manner held them spell-bound as they endeavoured to visualise a new idea, the tragedy of starving children.
"‘They ain't any on 'em 'ad nothing more nor a cup o' weak tea since yestiddy,' says she, 'an' they won't neether, till I got these boxes finished an' took to the factr'y. Would yer run along wiv 'em yerself, while I tidies up?' she says. But the good lidy 'ad nobler work in 'and, o' course.
"Then come the day when Farver done the best night's work e' ever done in 'is life. 'E got 'ittin' Muvver when 'e was too drunk to look arter 'isself, an' she shoved 'im dahn-stairs proper, an' 'e broke 'is bloomin' neck. Wasn't we all just 'appy neether! An' to fair put the lid on it, Muvver got a fi'-pun-note out of it, some'ow. ​I dunno' ’ow—some Serciety or Beryl Club or somethink. Anyways we 'as a blow-out and a 'oliday, and she took us Districk-visitin'."
"‘At latht!" breathed the Vice, who had been waiting for such dénouement with patience.
"Yus. We returned the kind call of the good lidy, as was on'y right an' proper manners. The idea come to Muvver while ole Muvver Skin-the-Goat was asettin' congratlatin' 'er on 'er sudden and un'oped-for bereavement.
"‘If that stuck-up grycious 'ussy of a Missis 'Enery 'Opper comes insultin' of you agin, you serve 'er the same,' says she.
"‘No—I wouldn't like to go fer to sling 'er dahn-stairs. It wouldn' seem 'ospitable like,' says Muvver—a sippin' at the first cup o' gin she'd 'ad fer years. ‘I know what I'll do—I'll spend me 'ollerdy avisitin' of ’er! I'll leave a bloomin' Track too,' she says.
"Ole Muvver Skin-the-Goat she stares as if she thought the gin 'ad got to Muvver's 'ead a'ready. Then she fair 'owls wiv' larfin'.
"‘I'll come too,' says she, when she could speak, ‘'swelp me, if I don't! We'll be torfs ​fer a chinge an' go Districk-visitin'—an' see 'ow they like it.'
"Also they done it, an' took me an' 'Erry an' 'Erb an' Horgustus an' 'Meliar. When we gits to the 'ouse, ol' Muvver Skin-the-Goat gives a fair rat-tat, while I plays a toon on the bell which was cut short by a femmle a openin' of the door. Like a 'igh class barmaid, she wos, wiv white bonnet-strings 'angin' dahn 'er back.
"‘We've come to the Private Bar, Muvver,' says I, an' we all shoves inside, an' through a hopen door we sees 'er 'oliness and a kid 'avin' tea orf a little table, an' in we goes.
"‘Don't get hup,' says Muvver, grycious like, in the same sorter way 'er 'oliness did when she Districk-wisited hus. There they sets wiv their mouth open.
"‘'Ow many howers a day do you heat?' inquires Muvver, a sniffin' the hatmosphere like the good lidy always done in our lil' 'ome, an' lookin' rahn most disapprovin' like. 'This room's 'orrible untidy. Can't yer tike a pride in yer 'ome? Why don't yer put hall these chairs straight—I 'ates ter see chairs hall of a ​muddle. Why don't yer 'range 'em along the wall?'
"‘Wot's the meaning of this?' ses the good lidy at last, finding her voice and risin' to her feet.
"Then ol' Muvver Skin-the-Goat chips in. 'Wot's yore 'usband, my pore woman,' ses she. 'I 'ope 'e's in reg'lar work, an' brings 'is wages 'ome a Saturday nights? You know, if you wishes ter keep 'im houter the pubs, you must make 'is 'ome hattractive like for 'im, an' I means ter say yer must spruce yerself up a bit like, fer when 'e comes 'ome. 'Ave a bit o' pease-pudden an' a bloater ready for 'im, an' encourage 'im ter wash 'is faice afore 'e eats it. If 'e comes 'ome 'ere an' finds the fire aht, an' you likewise, stands ter reason 'e's agoin' ter foller yer ter the gin-shop and . . .'
"‘This is a houtraige,' ses the lidy, an' the kid begins ter snivvle.
"‘Some there are as calls it Districk-visitin',' ses Muvver, 'but praps yer right. You oughter know, any'ow. . . . That child's nose is simply filthy'—apintin' to the kid as was snivvlin'—'an' wot's it 'owlin' for? Is it 'ungry or wot? ​Can't yer tike a pride in yer children? Yer know this room an' these children ain't no cleaner than wot they wos a week ago. . . . An' look at that 'ole in 'er stockin'. Shorely you can 'ave self-respeck if you are pore. Ain't there sich a thing as a needle an' thread in the 'ol 'ouse? I expecks yer pore 'usbin' 'as to fasten 'is cloves to 'isself wiv nails. . . .'
"’Ereupon the good lidy fair drops the cup o' tea wot she 'ad bin 'oldin' in 'er 'and.
"An' when I sees wot she done I ses 'Gorblimey, wot ’ave you done?'
"‘Look at that,' ses Muvver. ‘'Ow many times 'ave I told you as woful waste makes wilful want? You pore are the most himprovident class there is. . . . Nor the floor ain't the plaice fer the tea if yer don't want it. 'Ow many times 'aven't I told you as cleanliness comes nex' ter Gawdliness ? . . .'
"‘'Ow! look at that,' chimes in ol' Muvver Skin-the-Goat, apintin' to a statoo of a naked femmle in the corner. I don' know wevver it were a 'oly saint or a gordless 'eathen 'ussy—but it was nood all the same.
​"‘Disgustin', I calls it. The trash you pore do waste yer money on! 'Ere, 'ang a hantimokasser rahnd the thing an' be decent if you are pore.'
"‘Go,' screams the lidy, tremblin' an' pintin' ter the door.
"‘Wot! Yer don' like bein' Districk-wisited."' ses Muvver. 'Well, I am serprised. Any'ow you jest read this track, "’Ow will you like 'Ell?" an' we'll call agin' nex' week an' 'ope ter find some improvement'—an' hout we all marches lookin' most disapprovin'. . . ."
Bobball mused a moment in silence.
"’Ighly irreg'lar it were, an' most unproper conduck on the ol' gal's part—but it done the trick orl right. We never grot Districk-wisited no more. . . . Course your Pa's Districk-wisitin' may be different. . . ."
"Good Tosh, Bobball," murmured the President, but the Vice had gone to sleep.