“I stood an’ stared an’ blinked, an’ then it come to me sudden what a particular large fool I’d bin. I takes another good ‘ard look at the bag, an’ the more I looked at it the more I bloomin’ well recognised it, an’ the more partik’lar extry large-size fool I felt, for it struck me clear as mud I’d bin and pinched my own bag! You see I ‘adn’t ‘ad it more ‘n ‘alf an hour, so it was pretty easy to make mistakes.
“‘This is what comes o’ bein’ so flustered over a new job,’ I says to myself, ‘an’ lookin’ the other way when I picked up the bag; but p’raps it ain’t too late to put it right now,’ I says. So I snaps the lock an’ turns the key, an’ hoofs it back double-quick over the long footbridge again. I took a liker over the railin’ when I turned the corner, an’ there I pipes the bag still all serene in the same place. So I went down the dancers double-quick, an’ down I slaps my bag again alongside the other, an’ swings out for another casual turn around.
“Things seemed right enough, an’ nobody watchin’, so I edged up careless once more an’ grabbed the other bag — though I’m blessed if I could ‘elp lookin’ the other way when I did it. ‘Abits of innocence, I s’pose. Any’ow I made sure I’d got the right ‘un this time, an’ I swaggered up the dancers an’ along the bridge like a bloomin’ dook on ‘is own estate. It was all serene again be’ind an’ in front, but this time there was more people in the bookin’-office, so I went through an’ out across the street an’ into the private bar of a pub opposyte. There was nobody else there, so I ordered a drink an’ then took a peep at my luck. This bag was locked too, but the key fitted — most all them keys fit all round — an’ I took my peep.
“I took my peep an’ I very near fainted on the spot. I did! S’elp me never, I nearly fainted! For it was bricks again! Bricks again, s’elp me bob!
“I felt I must be goin’ balmy on the crumpet. I swallered my first drink an’ ‘ad a brandy, an’ I wanted it. Then I ‘ad another good look at the bag. Surely I ‘adn’t gone an’ pinched my own again? I could ‘a’ swore — I could ‘a’ bet, in fact — that I shoved mine down on the right o’ the other one, an’ took this up from the left. I couldn’t ‘a’ bin such a fool as to make the mistake twice, I thought. An’ yet — an’ yet — yet, damn it all, the more I looked at this ‘ere bag, the more I seemed to remember it. I took it up on my knees an’ turned it over, an’ the more I turned it over the more certain I felt that this was the bag I brought from Ikey Cohen’s. At last I turned up the bottom, an’ then I was sure, for there was a brass stud missin’. You know the brass studs they ‘ave, at the corners, to take the wear? Well, one was gone, an’ I remembered, now, that when Ikey pulled the bag down from the shelf over ‘is ‘ead, one o’ the studs wasn’t there. It was plain enough I ‘ad pinched my own bag now, any’ow. But what about the other? Surely I couldn’t ‘a’ pinched the same bag twice? But then, what ‘ud just such another bag o’ bricks be doin’ there?
“I felt like chuckin’ up the ‘ole thing an’ goin’ ‘orne. But nobody likes bein’ done, an’ I wanted to see what it all meant. The thing sort of attracted me, if you understand, an’ I think, some’ow, I couldn’t ‘a’ kep’ myself from goin’ back to the station, an’ lookin’ for that other bag.
“So I locked up the bricks once more, an’ went across. But the other bag was gone clean now, an’ there I stood where I began, after doin’ two sep’rate clicks, with the same old bag o’ bricks in my duke, an’ two drinks be’ind on the transaction.
“What it all meant I couldn’t guess, but I was beginnin’ to get into practice by this, so I thought I’d see it through, an’ try again. I give the suburban department a rest this time, for I piped a train comin’ in on the main line, an’ I could see a ‘ole scuff o’ people collectin’ in the main-line bookin’-office, as though one was soon agoin’ out. So I dotted round that way, an’ saw there was a good deal o’ luggage spread about on the floor, an’ down beside it I whacks my old bag, not far from the entrance, an’ strolled off to see what might ‘appen.
“Well, I scarcely done it when there came the most surprisin’ bit o’ luck. The click jist did itself. A most astonishin’ toff with a eye-glass — forty times as big a dook as me, an’ I was dossy, as you know — this most rabunculous toff comes rushin’ in from the platform, whacks down a bag alongside mine, an’ calls a porter.
“Portah!’ says the toff, ‘call me a cab an’ put that bag on it;’ an’ ‘e points with ‘is stick.
“It seemed to me ‘e pointed a bit careless, for the porter grabs my bag an’ slings out with it to the cab, leavin’ the toff’s bag where ‘e dropped it. What ho!
“I didn’t waste no time — no good ‘angin’ back over a bit o’ luck like that. I whacks my duke onto the toff’s bag an’ offs it into the station an’ up the stairs again. There was no bloomin’ error now, for this bag was twice as old as mine, an’ ‘ad straps round it. I was on the job this time, an’ no mistake; an’ safe enough, too, thinks I, ‘cos even if the toff was standin’ before me at that moment, ‘e couldn’t deny it was ‘im as pointed the porter to the wrong bag. What was more, I was pretty sure it ‘ud be a good click, judgin’ from the style of the toff with the eye-glass. So I legs it out over the footbridge pretty sharp in case the toff should spot the mistake gettin’ into the cab, an’ at the Bishopsgate door I skipped into a shoful myself — a ‘ansom, you know — and told the bloke to drive ahead up Shoreditch way; I guessed the toff wouldn’t be goin’ that way, any’ow.
“Well, I put the bag across my knee in the cab, an’ took a look at the lock. It seemed a different sort o’ one from the other, but it was a bit loose, an’ presently I saw it was broke. So I unbuckled the straps very eager an’ pulled the peter open.
“P’raps you won’t believe what I’m goin’ to tell you. I shouldn’t blame you, for at first I didn’t believe it myself — not when I see it with my own eyes I didn’t. I rubbed my knuckles into ‘em an’ stared up at the sky an’ the ‘ouses, to make sure my little peepers was workin’. I looked at myself in the little bit o’ lookin’-glass by the door, to make sure it really was me, as wide awake as usual. It was me, an’ my eyes was open; an’ there on my knees was the toff’s bag, an’ — strike me pink! — full o’ bricks!
“Full o’ bricks, I tell you, if I never speak another word!
“It was so much like ghosts it give me the jumps. Was I bein’ ‘aunted by livin’ bricks, or was I goin’ clean off my rocker? It wasn’t my eyes wrong, any’ow, for I could feel the bricks, as well as see ‘em. There couldn’t be a bricklayin’ competition anywhere down the line, could there, that everybody was goin’ to, with their own bricks?
“Anywhere in the next two hundred yards you might ‘a’ smashed that bloomin’ cab, an’ I shouldn’t ‘a’ noticed it. What pulled me round at last was seein’ Triggy Norton, stumpin’ along in front on ‘is little bandy legs, carryin’ my bag — the one I’d got from Ikey Cohen’s! Leastways an hour ago I’d ‘a’ swore to it, but now I didn’t feel like bein’ sure of anything except that it couldn’t be anybody but Triggy with sich legs as them. So I stopped the cab when it caught ‘im up, an’ got out; but before I could say a word, ‘Ullo!’ says Triggy, ‘you’ve got my bag!’
“‘An’ you’ve got mine!’ says I.
“‘Well, it ain’t any catch,’ says Triggy, ‘it’s full o’ bricks!’
“‘Same to you,’ says I; ‘so’s yours — if it is yours. But I got it off a toff with a eye-glass.’
“You see I could understand Triggy ‘avin’ a bag full o’ bricks, though ‘e wasn’t a peter-hunter. His game was macin’ the digs — takin’ lodgin’s on the strength of ‘is luggage an’ slidin’ off with anything ‘e might find. So that a bag stuffed with bricks was just what ‘e ‘d ‘ave, natural enough. But that didn’t ‘elp me. The toff that brought this bag an’ rushed off with mine was no more like Triggy than your grandmother. Things was wilder than ever.
“‘I don’t know anyt
hing about a toff,’ says Triggy, ‘but I whacked that there bag down in Liverpool Street Station while I got a drink, an’ when I come back it was gone an’ this ‘ere one left instead. I didn’t mind much, bein’ as I thought at first I was makin’ something on the deal; any’ow this is a better bag, if it is full o’ bricks.’
“‘Well I want it for Ikey Cohen,’ says I. An’ then I looks up the street an’ sees something. ‘Lumme!’ I says, ‘‘ere comes the toff with the eye-glass!’
“An’ so ‘e was — an’ blow me silly if he ‘adn’t got my bag, too! An’ lookin’ black as thunder with it an’ all!
“‘Why that’s Jerry Wide, the peter-hunter!’ says Triggy. ‘Don’t you know Jerry? Hi Jerry! where are you off to?’
“The toff Jerry looks ‘ard at me. ‘Who’s this?’ he says.
“‘Oh, it’s all right,’ says Triggy, ‘only one o’ the mob. I thought you knew Snorkey. What luck?’
“‘Luck?’ says Jerry Wide; ‘What luck? Why every dam’ bag in Liverpool Street Station’s full o’ bricks, that’s what luck! I never ‘ad such a day in my life! ‘Ullo,’ says he, pipin’ the bag I’d got, ‘why that’s one of ‘em!’
“‘Yes,’ says Triggy, ‘so’s this!’
“‘An’ ‘ere’s another!’ says Jerry Wide, pullin’ up the one in ‘is ‘and. An’ so we three stood a-starin’ at each other.
“‘Look ‘ere,’ says Jerry presently, ‘we’ll ‘ave a drink on this, an’ talk it over.’
“So we did, an’ then it got plainer. Jerry Wide got ‘is bag from Ikey Cohen’s too, out o’ the same job lot as mine. He hikes it off to Liverpool Street an’ there sees Triggy Norton’s bag with nobody lookin’ after it, so ‘e works the change and guys off. Then up I comes an’ does my little turn — twice over, like as I told you, with Ikey Cohen’s two twin bags. An’ Triggy, ‘e comes out an’ finds another bag where ‘e left ‘is, and toodles off with that. By this time Jerry Wide breaks open Triggy’s bag an’ finds it full o’ bricks, so back ‘e comes to ring another change. ‘E looks out an’ sees me put down my bag in the bookin’ office an’ — what ho’ — e’s on it at once, doin’ it so neat an’ artistic with the porter an’ all that I never dreamed it wasn’t a mistake. His cab was ahead o’ mine when he found what he’d got, an’ he met us as he was comin’ back, mighty wild. An’ so at last there we sat, the three of us in the pub over our bags o’ bricks, an’ swore between the drinks.”
“From all of which it seems to me,” I said, seeking to improve the occasion, “that faro and peter-hunting don’t pay you.”
“Never mind,” replied Snorkey the incorrigible, “I’ve ‘ad my bit o’ fun out o’ both.”
In which remark I believe Snorkey told the secret of his choice — if it were a choice — of his profession: if you call it that.
TEACHER AND TAUGHT
I.
SKIBBY LEGG tramped the darkening streets with a new hope in his little soul. It was a mean hope enough, as beseemed its source, for it was no more than the hope of safe employment as jackal of a bolder thief. He was going on a mission from one high mobsman to another, and in charge of stolen bank-notes.
Even such an employment had its drawbacks, it was true: something of risk, though small, something of uncertainty as to profit — though none that the profit would be small also. But the drawbacks were less than Skibby Legg could plainly see in any other mode of life possible for him. Theft, bold and large, called for skill and nerve, of which he had neither; and its risks were great. Theft small and feeble — common sneakery — whereby he had sought to live, brought too little for the needs of a family, and still was often punished. While work was punishment itself, sure and certain. Withal he wished to feed his wife and children, for whom his natural affection was second only to that he bore himself.
He had taken his orders that evening at a “house of call” in the northern confines of the Jago. There he had met, by appointment, one Fish, high-mobsman, welsher and broadsman, and was given his job. He was to carry the notes — eight of ten pounds each — to another high-mobsman, Flash Povey, at his lodgings at Dalston, and offer him the lot for fifty pounds. This was below the market price, for, in fact, any high mobs-man could get nine pounds each for tenners got “on the cross”; but Skibby Legg was to explain that Fish wanted the money that evening, and was in debt to the only fence immediately available. Consequently, if Povey had the money in hand, or could get it, he might make a handsome profit out of the transaction.
Legg’s way lay across the Hackney Road and up Great Cambridge Street; and the streets were quieter and duller as he went, following the lamplighter along the wide Queen’s Road. Nine out of ten from the place he had left, given such a charge as his, would have forgotten the message long ere this, because of the more immediate interest excited by the effort to sell the notes on their own account. Skibby made this reflection with some internal pride in Fish’s reliance on his integrity. But in truth he would never have dared to “mace” the high-mobsman; and it was because Fish knew this that he had picked him for the job. Still, self-esteem is a luxury within the reach of the poorest in spirit, and Skibby Legg, who would gladly have stolen the money, but feared to do it, was as ready as any better-taught man to set his cowardice against his knavery and call the product a virtue.
As he went he fell a-wondering as to the man with whom he was to do business. The name of Flash Povey he knew well enough, but the man himself was a stranger. He was spoken of vaguely as a distant star in the upper ether of rascality, wholly out of sight from the nether slough wherein waded Skibby Legg and his like. Whispers of his exploits came down the intervening mists, and it was said that such was his acuteness that he had never once suffered a conviction. Skibby wondered what sort of man he should meet, what manner of quarters he maintained, and what he offered his visitors to drink. If his reception seemed to warrant it, Skibby resolved to hint at a small commission on the bargain he was bringing, and so perchance draw a dividend at both ends.
He stood before the house at last — a most respectable house, stuccoed and semi-detached, with garden front and rear, in a short road of similar houses. A man who had been leaning against the railings of the house opposite, smoking a pipe, turned and strolled off along the road as Skibby went in at the gate.
His knock was answered quickly, for a servant was lighting the gas behind the door. Legg gave himself no more identity than that he was “from Mr. Fish,” and as the girl took the words he was conscious of some passing presence of faded alpaca beyond the stairs, where the landlady made momentary observation. He saw no more of her, however, for the servant, with a prudent regard to his appearance, shut the door in Skibby’s face while she carried his message.
The door reopened in a very few seconds, and Mr. Fish’s deputy was shown his way up the stairs, darkening as they rose. In the first-floor front room, lighted by nothing but the dull fire in the grate and the last dusk glimpse through the window, he sat to wait; and again it was not for long.
For as he sat staring at the fire he started at a sudden barking cough by his ear, and in the moment was conscious of a light behind him. He turned and encountered a face, set as it were in the light of a candle that left the rest of the room in a gloom almost as deep as ever. It was a clear-skinned, waxen face — rather as if the wax were gone a little shiny in the heat of the candle; and the hollow of each cheek had a red spot like a dab of raddle. There was a set grin on this face — an uncomfortable grin that might mean forced affability or native malignity, and Skibby could not tell which. And withal he somehow remembered the face — had known it well, he felt sure, in its rounder and healthier days.
“Good evening,” said Skibby Legg; and then, “sir.” That stare through that grin made a man uncomfortable. “Good evening, Skibby Legg.”
Now he knew. He had been wondering, but the voice — the voice pronouncing his name — brought much to his memory, and he knew. Flash Povey had begun life under another name, and Skibby Leg
g had started him. As a boy he had been lob-crawler and parlour-jumper for Skibby, who had waited by shop doors while his junior crept on hands and knees toward tills, and who had bunked him into open windows to bring out anything he could find, and get whatever his principal chose to give him for his trouble. It was a division of labour — and profits — which suited Skibby’s temperament; and he had been sorry when misfortune — to the boy — separated them. And now his pupil, a grown man, had reached the top of the tree. It was wonderful how some chaps got on.
“Why, Cooper! — Ned Cooper!” exclaimed Legg. The grin widened, and now Skibby saw it had nothing of affability in it at all.
“I think you’d better forget that name, Skibby Legg. I don’t want to hear it. What have you come for?”
Of course, Skibby reflected, the gentleman would not like his real name mentioned. He apologised, a little awkwardly, and just as awkwardly brought out his message from Fish. For Povey had lit another candle, and having put the two on the table by his side, now sat with his sharp face thrust forward, his grin unabated, listening to the end without a sound, save now and again the hard little cough that sounded like a jeer.
Legg finished, and there was a short pause. Then Povey, never moving his eyes, so hard and glassy, from Legg’s, put out his hand and said: “Give me the notes.”
Skibby took the little bundle from his inner pocket, opened it out, and put it into the outstretched hand. Then at last the uncomfortable eyes shifted, and Flash Povey turned the eight notes over and examined them one after another. This done, he took them up in a sheaf, put a corner of it into the flame of the nearest candle, dropped the blazing paper on the fire, and thrust it well in with the poker.
“There go your eight tenners, Mr. Skibby Legg,” said Flash Povey.
The unhappy messenger clutched the chair under him with both hands, and sweat broke out on his face. “G — g — glor! They ain’t mine!” was all he could gasp.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 229