PAVEMENT PORTRAITS.

Otago Witness, Issue 1582, 18 March 1882, Page 27

PAVEMENT PORTRAITS.

Not a minute has elapsed after the arrival of the spider ere the fly appears. Out from the grand doorway of a Government office near at hand comes a fashionably-dressed young gentleman, with a rosebud in his coat, and a slight flush on his cheeks— not exactly a flush of health, but rather a blush of perplexity and shame at the business he has. in hand with the speckled smug at the corner. Turning sharp to the right, ho walks with a step too light and independent to be natural, straight to the. sacrifice about to be made, in which he himself is to be the victim, the bag-carrier the executioner and priest. The latter draws his chubby, white", but plebian-looking right hand from his hot cloth case, and gives four fingers to the victim, on whom he smiles complacently as he says : ' Good morning, Mr 'Ampton '—he is sparing of the letter A—' 'ow are you ?' , As he asks this simple question with 'a smile that is pensive and child-like,' ,his, restless little red, eyes wander along the street, and across the great broad road of Whitehall to the distant Mansard roof of Montagu Hou'sej as though ' for a moment he thinks that he has mistaken his mitier, and ' that his ■ rdle in life should have been that of an architect, instead of. that of financial agent to Government office fledglings', whom, to do him justice^ he plucks ere' even they have strong feathers for pulling. 'A commonplace answer to his commonplace question having been given, the roaming eyes return home from their journey across tho road, so to speak, and their owner's gaze suddenly takes a higher flight, over his companion's right shoulder in an oblique direction, as he says in a gentle, nervous tone : • 'Ow about those tickets for the theatre, Mr 'Ampton V 'I've told you; Mr Jackson, a hundred times, if I've told you once, that I never have orders for the theatre. When Igo I pay, and I am not in the way of getting tickets for free admission. I know lots of fellows do get them ; and lam sure some such fortunate beggars must be in your book, so that it is not necessary for you to come to me for such things. Well now, you got my letter yesterday, I see. Can you do what I ask ?' The fly has come to the point with a rush. He already begins to feel rather uncomfortable, and he wants to cut the interview short; albeit, he dares not look at the Bpider, but busies himself with arranging the flower in' his buttonhole, which gives the spider an opportunity to cease for a moment his study of the clouds, and allow his eyes to 'take in' the young man before him on their way downwards from space to the square of pavement immediately in front of his golosh-covered feet.

Then the gentle executioner draws a little diagram on the ground with the point of his umbrella, and speaking more to that Gampish article than to his interrogator, says : ' Well, you know, Mr 'Ampton, there is a little interest on that last bit of paper. It isn't much, and I daresay we can arrange it comfortable for you ; and I have brought a fresh one that you can take in and sign. It's all right. I've put it all together so as not to make any confusion. I 'ate 'aving so many little affairs with my friends when one bit of paper can show at a glance 'ow wo stand. There now, take it, anal look at it. I'm not 'ard on anybody. You'll be satisfied, I know.' Here the little man puts his umbrella under his arm and opens the bag— that receptacle which holds blood in bonds, young men's sighs, tears, and curses, hidden behind the signatures hastily scrawled on the oblong slips of ominous blue paper !— and produces two of the slips, which he hands to the impatient client. ' 'Ere they are," Mr 'Ampton. That's the old — you see I've entered the interest you paid me last on the back— that, you see, is for forty. Now, suppose we say I'll let you 'aye five, and you take up the old bit o' paper, and sign this new one, and then we'll be all right up to date.'

' But this bill, my dear sir, is for fifty !' exclaims the other, ' and I ask you for ten. Am I to sign for ten pounds and receive only five ? Oh, this is too much ! I can't do it, I really can't.' ' But the interest, Mr 'Ampton, the interest in those 'ard times ! You'll find it all correct if you just go in and work it out, Mr 'Ampton. I'll go and take a walk on the Embankment, and I'll come back in ten minutes, and then you'll see that I'm not hard upon you. I wouldn't be 'ard on any one for anything. 1 ' Oh, well, make it seven then, and I'll sign,' says the victim, who make an effort to get something nearer what he requires for the sacrifice which his signature will carry with it.

'Five ten.' This m the blandest way, with a sudden look of interest on a statue stepping out of a niche in the building opposite.

' No ; six pound;; tea, not a penny less ; and ihen I'll see wljetUgr I csn get any orders for the theatre.'

'Now, Mr 'Ampton, Mr 'Ampton, ym m really too bad. I can't give money away. I tell you what I'll do— l'll say six.' This last offer is actually accompanied by a gentle dig, administered by the spider to the fly on the middle button of the latter's frock-coat ; and a sort of little ricochet movement on the part of the former as he looks straight at his, victim for the first time. 'All right, then; six;' and away flies the fly to sign the new paper, which he soon brings out again ; upon recording which the financier produces a little chain purse, from which he extracts six sovereigns, already done uyj in paper, which he hands to the victim, saying : ' You won't forget the tickets, will you ?' ' Oh, all right. Good morning.' 'Good morning, Mr 'Ampton,' and the sucked one goes off to his ten-to-four duties ; while the sucker goes on to the Embankment to look at the penny steamers and to admire the flowers !

Nature is full of contrarieties ; otherwise it would seem odd that an' awful little moneygrubber, such as the subject of this sketch, should take pleasure in the growth of trees and flowers ; but so it is. This man, who, like a veritable vampire, exists on the blood of his victims, is quite an authority on roses ! He has ninety-nine different kinds of this flower, which have bloomed and withered year after year in the money -lender^ garden at Wimbledon. Prizes have been gained by him at local flower shows, where his roses have competed with those of the honest merchant and the unsophisticated local magnates ; and his cleverness at rearing them is often the talk of the gardeners in the neighbourhood. Works of art, too, are collected by this sixty per cent, monger ; and on^ the walls of his vulgar little villa hang 'bits' by Copley Fielding, 'old' Chrome, and Clarkson Stanfield ; while copies of the antique in statuettes stand upon his shelves. This man knows the money value of all these possessions ; but we doubt whether they give him pleasure in any other way. For had he any real perception of what is beautiful and good, how; could he sit among these things evening after evening, as he does, weaving the meshes in which he chains his victims, manufacturing gyves, and with his iniquitous per-cent. exactions, arranging racks as heavy and as cruel as those of Torquemada and the Inquisition of old ? The man is not pleasant ; and it would be well if it were possible to shut him up for ever with his roses, his canvas, and his curiosities, so that he might cease to trot round public offices, where his presence is as deadly as the typhus itself. — Chambers' Journal,