The 'Caleb Jay'

I.

The 'Caleb Jay' was not, as his nickname of itself might testify, popular in our pit village of Black Winning. His appearance was against him in the first instance, and he continued to be shy and reserved even after you might be said to have made his acquaintance. Reserve is unpopular in any society, but in the lower social grades, where life is of a freer and more hearty character than in the propriety-loving circles of the well-to-do, it may be said to be one of the 'seven deadly sins.'

There was no reserve about Tom, his elder brother, who was a good-looking, idle, somewhat dissolute youth of twenty-three years of age.

Tom was always ready to 'stand in' for a 'ha'penny loo,' never flinched from a 'bout at the beer,' could throw a quoit well, when his eye was clear and his hand steady, and was never at a loss with the lasses.

Tom, therefore, was a general favourite, being 'well ta'en up wi'' by all save a few of the more serious-minded people; and 'Caleb Jay' suffered, I think, partly through contrast with his brother.

'Caleb Jay' had been injured when working as a putter down the pit, and consequently was 'game of one leg.' He wore the cast-off finery of his brother, the coloured scarves and embroidered waistcoats of his festive occasions--out of economy, no doubt, but some said 'oot o' foolishness.'

Certainly they did not suit well with his sallow complexion and thin, peaked countenance, and with the big and weary eyes.

He worked now at any odd job he could find. He had the care of the viewer's strip of kitchen garden, and went round with papers, etc.; but it was not much that he earned, apparently, for his mother, who doted on her handsome son Tom, was often heard to complain that he wasn't worth his keep.

He had a strange way of mysteriously disappearing for some days on occasion, sometimes even for a week at a stretch, and sundry persons, annoyed perhaps by his reticence, hinted at secret dissipation.

If closely questioned, he would admit having had a 'job i' the toon,' or 'ower away yonder,' pointing vaguely this way or that; and gossip had at least this confirmation for its uncharitable suspicion, that he always returned pale, tired and haggard-looking.

Some of the boys had tried to 'nab' him either coming or going on one of these expeditions of his, but he was 'cuter nor a cushat' as I overheard a sporting youth lament who had followed him in early morning all the way to Oldcastle, and there in the suburbs had suddenly lost him just on the brink of discovering the secret.

Gradually we became accustomed to his flittings, and he was spied upon no more; but for my own part I thought I had, by a comparison of the times and seasons of his absences, at least discovered this much--that he was usually away at the incidence of fairs and festivals.

I think I knew him more intimately than any other person in the village, except, perhaps, our Methodist minister, who never rested till he had succoured any who might be in 'sickness, sorrow, or distress'; but to neither of us, I found, on comparing notes, had he ever vouchsafed any confidences.

The only way in which I eventually discovered I could be of any use to him was by lending him books. He was extremely fond of reading, and had a special taste for dramatic poetry, which he occasionally gratified by coming to my lodgings, and there devouring the historical plays and tragedies of Shakespeare.

I had once or twice on these occasions endeavoured to extort from him the secret of his absences, but the only result had been an increased reserve on his part, followed by an almost immediate departure from my presence, so that I had soon desisted from further questioning him on the point.

At the same time, I confess I entertained a lingering hope that I might one day be able to penetrate the mystery; for mystery of some sort I was convinced it was, though not of a vulgar kind.


II.

It so chanced that I was detained in Bridgeton on the day of the annual fair and hiring, and having two hours to wait for my train, I determined to pass the time away by noting the humours of the festival. Farmers' wives, laden with 'remnants' and cheap bargains in the hardware line, were slowly surging through the throng, towards the various publics, in search of their 'men' and the 'trap.' Hinds, male and female, having now 'bound their bargains' with their masters, were coasting round the booths and stalls, 'putting in' at all the ale-houses they passed in their uncertain voyaging.

The men were somewhat sheepish still, not having taken sufficient beer on board as yet to lose the shyness of the countryman in town. They confined themselves to chaffing one another, to casting stray glances at their sweethearts, who tittered in their wake, and to offering, when moved to gallantry, 'anuther glass o' yel.'

A squad of pitmen here and there, their customary rivalries heated with liquor, were challenging each other noisily at the various 'try-your-strengths' and 'prove-your-powers' that were anchored in the corners of the market-place.

My attention was next attracted by the clash of cymbals and flamboyant drum-drubbings. ''Ere y'are, ladies and gents, 'ere y'are! Yo'r friend an' acquaintance Bob Stevens, wiv his high-class dancin', trapezin', Shakespearian an' variety entertainment!'

The great flaring gas-brackets, with their smoky tongues stabbing the darkness fitfully, lit up a most delectable advertisement. I produced 'tuppence,' 'walked up,' as invited, to the tent, and found myself in the 'hall of amusement and instruction combined.' It was already crowded, but I eventually discovered a seat in the far corner.

Cries of 'Back! back!' were still ringing in the air, and after a moment or two a most cadaverous-looking clown reappeared and advanced to the footlights.

His haggard, melancholy mien was in admirable artistic contrast to his garb and the burlesque humour of his song. '_And oh_,' sang he, at the end of each verse relating some contretemps of the bashful lover, '_it makes me very, very lively! Very, very lively!_' he repeated, as he step-danced up and down the tiny stage amidst the guffaws of his audience.

It was no great thing to do, perhaps; but it was admirably done. There was no extravagance in his accompanying actions, nor exaggeration of emphasis anywhere. In short, there was something of the genuine artist in him, and it was evident that he held his quaintly assorted 'tuppeny' audience in his grasp.

I grew strangely interested in the queer little figure before me. Something about him appealed strongly to the imagination.

He was encored again, and as I watched him more narrowly his aspect became more and more pathetic. I grew convinced that he was suffering physical pain; the blot of vermilion on his nose glowed brighter; beneath his mask of white I could see ashen-coloured lines streaking a colourless face.

'Poor little chap,' thought I; 'he's starving!'

Just at that moment he concluded at the 'wings,' bowing to the audience. His linen blouse blew open as he turned, and below a ragged shirt thus momentarily visible I saw that which made me suddenly feel sick. Before I recovered myself he had passed out on a step, humming his refrain, '_Oh, it makes me very, very lively!_'

Now, what I saw was a tumour which could only mean one thing, and that was death--an early and painful death probably. 'He's not starving,' I muttered to myself; 'poor little chap, he's dying!'

I thought I would go out into the fresh air, but as I prepared to rise my eye caught sight of a chink in the canvas through which the 'green room' was visible.

The trapeze gentleman was now performing, and the clown was removing his 'make up.' Now that he was off the stage I could see that he had a limp. A gust of wind came suddenly, enlarging the opening. He turned, apparently to close the orifice; his eyes met mine, and in that startled second I knew him to be the 'Caleb Jay.'

Repressing a cry of surprise, I came out, and went round to the back to wait for him.


III.

'Now, tell me,' said I, as I led him up to the station, 'why do you do it? You know you oughtn't to, for it will kill you if you exert yourself like that.'

'Ay, an' that's why,' replied he, 'for I ken I'm dyin'; I went an' axed a doctor a while back, iv Oldcastle, an' he says, "I'll gie ye a year ti live at the ootside," says he.'

'Then, why do it?' I urged. 'Do you love it so, or is it for the sake of the money?'

'Ay,' he replied, gasping a little, as we mounted the slope to the station, 'that's it. It's for the brass. Ye ken Tom, my brother? Well, it's for him i' pairt, an' i' pairt for my mother, who wants a bit frae me for my keep, ye ken. Noo, Tom's a bonny fellow, ain't he?--just a joy ti the eye ti look upon; an' he's aye wantin' a bit mair brass for this, an' that, an' t'ither, an', man, it's a pleasure ti me ti slave a bit for him. There's nae use o' brass for me--me that' just the puir "Caleb Jay"--but Tom's like a live lord when he's plenty of brass; an', man, but he spends it weel!'

I was silent for a while, thinking of the tragedy of it all. Then I inquired again: 'Well, but how did you know you had this gift of acting and singing and impersonation? and why did you hide your talent so carefully from us all?'

'It came ower us first, I think,' he answered, 'when reading Shakespeare an' tragedies an' sic like. I seemed ti see the vary actors theirselves before my eyes, an' I fair felt like them, ye ken. Ye'll think it strange, mevvies, but grandfeythor, he had a bit talent that way, an' ran awa frae his home, an' made his livin' play-acting an' piano-playin', an' singin', an' aal. He took ill somewhere aboot here, an' died, an' feythor, he took ti warkin' at the pits, an' that's the story of it,' concluded my little companion shyly.

'But with a gift like yours, why didn't you tell _me_ of it, for example, or the minister, and perhaps we could have got you a proper start somewhere?'

'Ay, I kenned that,' said he, 'an' thank ye kindlies; but I found, on tryin' it, that I wesn't strang enow for't iv a reg'lor way; an' forbye that, I didn't want the laddies ti ken aboot it, lest they might call us "Hamlet," mevvies, or "clownie," or sic like, an' my mother divvent like play-actin'; it was she as made my feythor give it up, sayin' it wes nae bettor than a mugger's life, elwis wanderin' frae one place tiv anuther, an' nae brass iv it at aal.'

There was no time for further talk, for the train was waiting, and, arriving at our destination, I found my companion so tired that it was all he could do to walk home.

The minister and I put our heads together after this, and collected enough money to send our little friend down to a seaside home for a few weeks.

On Saturday night, however, a message came from the doctor that he was rapidly sinking. His mother and brother were both out, as it happened, but the minister and I arrived just in time to bid farewell to the poor little 'Caleb Jay.'

As we proceeded silently homeward, an idea came into my head.

'In an age of public testimonials and memorials,' I said, 'humble self-sacrifice goes unrewarded. Our little friend ought to have a statue at the least; but, of course, it is no good doing anything. You, therefore, should bring him into your sermon to-morrow evening, and give a few people a hint of it beforehand.'

The idea seemed to strike my companion, and he said he would gladly do so.

I had not seen Tom, but as I walked to my lodgings I passed him standing at the street corner amidst a knot of companions.

I heard one of them mention the 'Caleb Jay,' and I stayed my steps a moment to hear the reply.

'Ay,' said Tom, 'he was a plucky little beggor iv his way, an' useful tae, an' I was often sorry for him, _he wes sae tarr'ble ugly_! But, ho-way, I's plenty brass on me, and I'll treat ye aal tiv anuthor beor!'