Mugby Junction. Charles Dickens

it was—?”

      “Open?”

      “It ain’t my place, as a paid servant of the company to give my opinion on any of the company’s toepics,” he pronounced it more like toothpicks, “beyond lamp-ile and cottons,” returned Lamps, in a confidential tone; “but speaking as a man, I wouldn’t recommend my father (if he was to come to life again) to go and try how he’d be treated at the Refreshment Room. Not speaking as a man, no, I would not.”

      The traveller nodded conviction. “I suppose I can put up in the town? There is a town here?” For the traveller (though a stay-at-home compared with most travellers) had been, like many others, carried on the steam winds and the iron tides through that Junction before, without having ever, as one might say, gone ashore there.

      “O yes, there’s a town, sir. Anyways there’s town enough to put up in. But,” following the glance of the other at his luggage, “this is a very dead time of the night with us, sir. The deadest time. I might a’most call it our deadest and buriedest time.”

      “No porters about?”

      “Well, sir, you see,” returned Lamps, confidential again, “they in general goes off with the gas. That’s how it is. And they seem to have overlooked you, through your walking to the furder end of the platform. But in about twelve minutes or so, she may be up.”

      “Who may be up?”

      “The three forty-two, sir. She goes off in a sidin’ till the Up X passes, and then she,” here an air of hopeful vagueness pervaded Lamps, “doos all as lays in her power.”

      “I doubt if I comprehend the arrangement.”

      “I doubt if anybody do, sir. She’s a Parliamentary, sir. And, you see, a Parliamentary, or a Skirmishun—”

      “Do you mean an Excursion?”

      “That’s it, sir.—A Parliamentary, or a Skirmishun, she mostly doos go off into a sidin’. But when she can get a chance, she’s whistled out of it, and she’s whistled up into doin’ all as,” Lamps again wore the air of a highly sanguine man who hoped for the best, “all as lays in her power.”

      He then explained that porters on duty being required to be in attendance on the Parliamentary matron in question, would doubtless turn up with the gas. In the meantime, if the gentleman would not very much object to the smell of lamp-oil, and would accept the warmth of his little room.—The gentleman being by this time very cold, instantly closed with the proposal.

      A greasy little cabin it was, suggestive to the sense of smell, of a cabin in a Whaler. But there was a bright fire burning in its rusty grate, and on the floor there stood a wooden stand of newly trimmed and lighted lamps, ready for carriage service. They made a bright show, and their light, and the warmth, accounted for the popularity of the room, as borne witness to by many impressions of velveteen trousers on a form by the fire, and many rounded smears and smudges of stooping velveteen shoulders on the adjacent wall. Various untidy shelves accommodated a quantity of lamps and oil-cans, and also a fragrant collection of what looked like the pocket-handkerchiefs of the whole lamp family.

      As Barbox Brothers (so to call the traveller on the warranty of his luggage) took his seat upon the form, and warmed his now ungloved hands at the fire, he glanced aside at a little deal desk, much blotched with ink, which his elbow touched. Upon it, were some scraps of coarse paper, and a superannuated steel pen in very reduced and gritty circumstances.

      From glancing at the scraps of paper, he turned involuntarily to his host, and said, with some roughness—

      “Why, you are never a poet, man!”

      Lamps had certainly not the conventional appearance of one, as he stood modestly rubbing his squab nose with a handkerchief so exceedingly oily, that he might have been in the act of mistaking himself for one of his charges. He was a spare man of about the Barbox Brothers’ time of life, with his features whimsically drawn upward as if they were attracted by the roots of his hair. He had a peculiarly shining transparent complexion, probably occasioned by constant oleaginous application; and his attractive hair, being cut short, and being grizzled, and standing straight up on end as if it in its turn were attracted by some invisible magnet above it, the top of his head was not very unlike a lamp-wick.

      “But to be sure it’s no business of mine,” said Barbox Brothers. “That was an impertinent observation on my part. Be what you like.”

      “Some people, sir,” remarked Lamps, in a tone of apology, “are sometimes what they don’t like.”

      “Nobody knows that better than I do,” sighed the other. “I have been what I don’t like, all my life.”

      “When I first took, sir,” resumed Lamps, “to composing little Comic-Songs-like—”

      Barbox Brothers eyed him with great disfavour.

      “—To composing little Comic-Songs-like—and what was more hard—to singing ’em afterwards,” said Lamps, “it went against the grain at that time, it did indeed.”

      Something that was not all oil here shining in Lamps’s eye, Barbox Brothers withdrew his own a little disconcerted, looked at the fire, and put a foot on the top bar. “Why did you do it, then?” he asked, after a short pause; abruptly enough but in a softer tone. “If you didn’t want to do it, why did you do it? Where did you sing them? Public-house?”

      To which Mr. Lamps returned the curious reply: “Bedside.”

      At this moment, while the traveller looked at him for elucidation, Mugby Junction started suddenly, trembled violently, and opened its gas eyes. “She’s got up!” Lamps announced, excited. “What lays in her power is sometimes more, and sometimes less; but it’s laid in her power to get up to-night, by George!”

      The legend “Barbox Brothers” in large white letters on two black surfaces, was very soon afterwards trundling on a truck through a silent street, and, when the owner of the legend had shivered on the pavement half an hour, what time the porter’s knocks at the Inn Door knocked up the whole town first, and the Inn last, he groped his way into the close air of a shut-up house, and so groped between the sheets of a shut-up bed that seemed to have been expressly refrigerated for him when last made.

II

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      “You remember me, Young Jackson?”

      “What do I remember if not you? You are my first remembrance. It was you who told me that was my name. It was you who told me that on every twentieth of December my life had a penitential anniversary in it called a birthday. I suppose the last communication was truer than the first!”

      “What am I like, Young Jackson?”

      “You are like a blight all through the year, to me. You hard-lined, thin-lipped, repressive, changeless woman with a wax mask on. You are like the Devil to me; most of all when you teach me religious things, for you make me abhor them.”

      “You remember me, Mr. Young Jackson?” In another voice from another quarter.

      “Most gratefully, sir. You were the ray of hope and prospering ambition in my life. When I attended your course, I believed that I should come to be a great healer, and I felt almost happy—even though I was still the one boarder in the house with that horrible mask, and ate and drank in silence and constraint with the mask before me, every day. As I had done every, every, every day, through my school-time and from my earliest recollection.”

      “What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?”

      “You are like a Superior Being to me. You are like Nature beginning to reveal herself to me. I hear you again, as one of the hushed crowd of young men kindling under the power of your presence and knowledge, and you bring