“They must relate to his granddad, then,” said the Sandman; “it’s impossible they can refer to him.”
“But I tell ‘ee they do refer to him,” said the Tinker, somewhat angrily, at having his assertion denied; “at least, if his own word’s to be taken. Anyhow, these papers is waluable to us. If no one else believes in ‘em, it’s clear he believes in ’em hisself, and will be glad to buy ’em from us.”
“That’s a view o’ the case worthy of an Old Bailey lawyer,” replied the Sandman. “Wot’s the gemman’s name?”
“The name on the card is Auriol Darcy,” replied the Tinker.
“Any address?” asked the Sandman.
The Tinker shook his head.
“That’s unlucky agin,” said the Sandman. “Ain’t there no sort o’ clue?”
“None votiver, as I can perceive,” said the Tinker.
“Vy, zounds, then, ve’re jist vere ve started from,” cried the Sandman. “But it don’t matter. There’s not much chance o’ makin’ a bargin vith him. The crack o’ the skull I gave him has done his bus’ness.”
“Nuffin’ o’ the kind,” replied the Tinker. “He alvays recovers from every kind of accident.”
“Alvays recovers!” exclaimed the Sandman, in amazement. “Wot a constitootion he must have!”
“Surprisin’!” replied the Tinker; “he never suffers from injuries — at least, not much; never grows old; and never expects to die; for he mentions wot he intends doin’ a hundred years hence.”
“Oh, he’s a lu-nattic!” exclaimed the Sandman, “a downright lu-nattic; and that accounts for his wisitin’ that ‘ere ruined house, and a-fancyin’ he heerd some one talk to him. He’s mad, depend upon it. That is, if I ain’t cured him.”
“I’m of a different opinion,” said the Tinker.
“And so am I,” said Mr. Ginger, who had approached unobserved, and overheard the greater part of their discourse.
“Vy, vot can you know about it, Ginger?” said the Sandman, looking up, evidently rather annoyed.
“I only know this,” replied Ginger, “that you’ve got a good case, and if you’ll let me into it, I’ll engage to make summat of it.”
“Vell, I’m agreeable,” said the Sandman.
“And so am I,” added the Tinker.
“Not that I pays much regard to wot you’ve bin a readin’ in his papers,” purused Ginger; “the gemman’s evidently half-cracked, if he ain’t cracked altogether — but he’s jist the person to work upon. He fancies hisself immortal — eh?”
“Exactly so,” replied the Tinker.
“And he also fancies he’s committed a lot o’ murders?” perused Ginger.
“A desperate lot,” replied the Tinker.
“Then he’ll be glad to buy those papers at any price,” said Ginger. “Ve’ll deal vith him in regard to the pocket-book, as I deals vith regard to a dog — ask a price for its restitootion.”
“We must find him out first,” said the Sandman.
“There’s no difficulty in that,” rejoined Ginger. “You must be constantly on the look-out. You’re sure to meet him some time or other.”
“That’s true,” replied the Sandman; “and there’s no fear of his knowin’ us, for the werry moment he looked round I knocked him on the head.”
“Arter all,” said the Tinker, “there’s no branch o’ the perfession so safe as yours, Ginger. The law is favourable to you, and the beaks is afeerd to touch you. I think I shall turn dog-fancier myself.”
“It’s a good business,” replied Ginger, “but it requires a hedication. As I wos sayin’, we gets a high price sometimes for restorin’ a favourite, especially ven ve’ve a soft-hearted lady to deal vith. There’s some vimen as fond o’ dogs as o’ their own childer, and ven ve gets one o’ their precious pets, ve makes ’em ransom it as the brigands you see at the Adelphi or the Surrey sarves their prisoners, threatenin’ to send first an ear, and then a paw, or a tail, and so on. I’ll tell you wot happened t’other day. There wos a lady — a Miss Vite — as was desperate fond of her dog. It wos a ugly warmint, but no matter for that — the creater had gained her heart. Vell, she lost it; and, somehow or other, I found it. She vos in great trouble, and a friend o’ mine calls to say she can have the dog agin, but she must pay eight pound for it. She thinks this dear, and a friend o’ her own adwises her to wait, sayin’ better terms will be offered; so I sends vord by my friend that if she don’t come down at once the poor animal’s throat vill be cut that werry night.”
“Ha! — ha! — ha!” laughed the others.
“Vell, she sent four pound, and I put up with it,” pursued Ginger; “but about a month arterwards she loses her favourite agin, and, strange to say, I finds it. The same game is played over agin, and she comes down with another four pound. But she takes care this time that I shan’t repeat the trick; for no sooner does she obtain persession of her favourite than she embarks in the steamer for France, in the hope of keeping her dog safe there.”
“Oh! Miss Bailey, unfortinate Miss Bailey! — Fol-de-riddle-tol-ol-lol — unfortinate Miss Bailey!” sang the Tinker.
“But there’s dog-fanciers in France, ain’t there?” asked the Sandman.
“Lor’ bless ‘ee, yes,” replied Ginger; “there’s as many fanciers i’ France as here. Vy, ve drives a smartish trade wi’ them through them foreign steamers. There’s scarcely a steamer as leaves the port o’ London but takes out a cargo o’ dogs. Ve sells ’em to the stewards, stokers, and sailors — cheap — and no questins asked. They goes to Ostend, Antverp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and sometimes to Havre. There’s a Mounseer Coqquilu as comes over to buy dogs, and ve takes ’em to him at a house near Billinsgit market.”
“Then you’re alvays sure o’ a ready market somehow,” observed the Sandman.
“Sartin,” replied Ginger, “cos the law’s so kind to us. Vy, bless you, a perliceman can’t detain us, even if he knows ve’ve a stolen dog in our persession, and ve svears it’s our own; and yet he’d stop you in a minnit if he seed you with a suspicious-lookin’ bundle under your arm. Now, jist to show you the difference atwixt the two perfessions: — I steals a dog — walue, maybe, fifty pound, or p’raps more. Even if I’m catched i’ the fact I may get fined twenty pound, or have six months’ imprisonment; vile, if you steals an old fogle, walue three fardens, you’ll get seven years abroad, to a dead certainty.”
“That seems hard on us,” observed the Sandman reflectively.
“It’s the law!” exclaimed Ginger triumphantly. “Now, ve generally escapes by payin’ the fine, ‘cos our pals goes and steals more dogs to raise the money. Ve alvays stands by each other. There’s a reg’lar horganisation among us; so ve can alvays bring vitnesses to svear vot ve likes, and ve so puzzles the beaks, that the case gets dismissed, and the constable says, ‘Vich party shall I give the dog to, your vorship?’ Upon vich, the beak replies, a-shakin’ of his vise noddle, ‘Give it to the person in whose persession it was found. I have nuffin’ more to do vith it.’ In course the dog is delivered up to us.”
“The law seems made for dog-fanciers,” remarked the Tinker.
“Wot d’ye think o’ this?” pursued Ginger. “I wos a-standin’ at the corner o’ Gray’s Inn Lane vith some o’ my pals near a coach-stand, ven a lady passes by vith this here dog — an’ a beauty it is, a real long-eared Charley — a follerin’ of her. Vell, the moment I spies it, I unties my apron, whips up the dog, and covers it up in a trice. Vell, the lady sees me, an’ gives me in charge to a perliceman. But that si’nifies nuffin’. I brings six vitnesses to svear the dog vos mine, and I actually had it since it vos a blind little puppy; and, wot’s more, I brings its mother, and that settles the pint. So in course I’m discharged; the dog is given up to me; and the lady goes avay lamentin’. I then plays the amiable, an’ offers to sell it her for twenty guineas, seein’ as how she had taken a fancy to it; but she von’t bite. So if I don’t sell it next week, I shall send it to Mounseer Coqquilu. The only vay you can
go wrong is to steal a dog wi’ a collar on, for if you do, you may get seven years’ transportation for a bit o’ leather and a brass plate vorth a shillin’, vile the animal, though vorth a hundred pound, can’t hurt you. There’s law again — ha, ha!”
“Dog-fancier’s law!” laughed the Sandman.
“Some of the Fancy is given to cruelty,” pursued Ginger, “and crops a dog’s ears, or pulls out his teeth to disguise him; but I’m too fond o’ the animal for that. I may frighten old ladies sometimes, as I told you afore, but I never seriously hurts their pets. Nor did I ever kill a dog for his skin, as some on ’em does.”
“And you’re always sure o’ gettin’ a dog, if you vants it, I s’pose?” inquired the Tinker.
“Alvays,” replied Ginger. “No man’s dog is safe. I don’t care how he’s kept, ve’re sure to have him at last. Ve feels our vay with the sarvents, and finds out from them the walley the master or missis sets on the dog, and soon after that the animal’s gone. Vith a bit o’ liver, prepared in my partic’lar vay, I can tame the fiercest dog as ever barked, take him off his chain, an’ bring him arter me at a gallop.”
“And do respectable parties ever buy dogs knowin’ they’re stolen?” inquired the Tinker.
“Ay, to be sure,” replied Ginger; “sometimes first-rate nobs. They put us up to it themselves; they’ll say, ‘I’ve jist left my Lord So-and-So’s, and there I seed a couple o’ the finest pointers I ever clapped eyes on. I vant you to get me jist sich another couple.’ Vell, ve understands in a minnit, an’ in doo time the identicle dogs finds their vay to our customer.”
“Oh! that’s how it’s done?” remarked the Sandman.
“Yes, that’s the vay,” replied Ginger. “Sometimes a party’ll vant a couple o’ dogs for the shootin’ season; and then ve asks, ‘Vich vay are you a-goin’ — into Surrey or Kent?’ And accordin’ as the answer is given ve arranges our plans.”
“Vell, yourn appears a profitable and safe employment, I must say,” remarked the Sandman.
“Perfectly so,” replied Ginger. “Nothin’ can touch us till dogs is declared by statute to be property, and stealin’ ’em a misdemeanour. And that won’t occur in my time.”
“Let’s hope not,” rejoined the other two.
“To come back to the pint from vich we started,” said the Tinker; “our gemman’s case is not so surprisin’ as it at first appears. There are some persons as believe they never will die — and I myself am of the same opinion. There’s our old deputy here — him as ve calls Old Parr — vy, he declares he lived in Queen Bess’s time, recollects King Charles bein’ beheaded perfectly vell, and remembers the Great Fire o’ London, as if it only occurred yesterday.”
“Walker!” exclaimed Ginger, putting his finger to his nose.
“You may larf, but it’s true,” replied the Tinker. “I recollect an old man tellin’ me that he knew the deputy sixty years ago, and he looked jist the same then as now, — neither older nor younger.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Ginger. “He don’t look so old now.”
“That’s the cur’ousest part of it,” said the Tinker. “He don’t like to talk of his age unless you can get him i’ the humour; but he once told me he didn’t know why he lived so long, unless it were owin’ to a potion he’d swallowed, vich his master, who was a great conjurer in Queen Bess’s days, had brew’d.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Ginger. “I thought you too knowin’ a cove, Tinker, to be gulled by such an old vife’s story as that.”
“Let’s have the old fellow in and talk to him,” replied the Tinker. “Here, lazy-bones,” he added, rousing the sleeping youth, “go an’ tell Old Parr ve vants his company over a glass o’ rum-an’-vater.”
* * *
CHAPTER III
THE HAND AND THE CLOAK
A furious barking from Mr. Ginger’s dogs, shortly after the departure of the drowsy youth, announced the approach of a grotesque-looking little personage, whose shoulders barely reached to a level with the top of the table. This was Old Parr. The dwarfs head was much too large for his body, as is mostly the case with undersized persons, and was covered with a forest of rusty black hair, protected by a strangely shaped seal-skin cap. His hands and feet were equally disproportioned to his frame, and his arms were so long that he could touch his ankles while standing upright. His spine was crookened, and his head appeared buried in his breast. The general character of his face seemed to appertain to the middle period of life; but a closer inspection enabled the beholder to detect in it marks of extreme old age. The nose was broad and flat, like that of an ourang-outang; the resemblance to which animal was heightened by a very long upper lip, projecting jaws, almost total absence of chin, and a retreating forehead. The little old man’s complexion was dull and swarthy, but his eyes were keen and sparkling.
His attire was as singular as his person. Having recently served as double to a famous demon-dwarf at the Surrey Theatre, he had become possessed of a cast-off pair of tawny tights, an elastic shirt of the same material and complexion, to the arms of which little green bat-like wings were attached, while a blood-red tunic with vandyke points was girded round his waist. In this strange apparel his diminutive limbs were encased, while additional warmth was afforded by the greatcoat already mentioned, the tails of which swept the floor after him like a train.
Having silenced his dogs with some difficulty, Mr. Ginger burst into a roar of laughter, excited by the little old man’s grotesque appearance, in which he was joined by the Tinker; but the Sandman never relaxed a muscle of his sullen countenance.
Their hilarity, however, was suddenly checked by an inquiry from the dwarf, in a shrill, odd tone, “Whether they had sent for him only to laugh at him?”
“Sartainly not, deputy,” replied the Tinker. “Here, lazy-bones, glasses o’ rum-an’-vater, all round.”
The drowsy youth bestirred himself to execute the command. The spirit was brought; water was procured from the boiling copper; and the Tinker handed his guest a smoking rummer, accompanied with a polite request to make himself comfortable.
Opposite the table at which the party were seated, it has been said, was a staircase — old and crazy, and but imperfectly protected by a broken hand-rail. Midway up it stood a door equally dilapidated, but secured by a chain and lock, of which Old Parr, as deputy-chamberlain, kept the key. Beyond this point the staircase branched off on the right, and a row of stout wooden banisters, ranged like the feet of so many cattle, was visible from beneath. Ultimately, the staircase reached a small gallery, if such a name can be applied to a narrow passage communicating with the bedrooms, the doors of which, as a matter of needful precaution, were locked outside; and as the windows were grated, no one could leave his chamber without the knowledge of the landlord or his representative. No lights were allowed in the bedrooms, nor in the passage adjoining them.
Conciliated by the Tinker’s offering, Old Parr mounted the staircase, and planting himself near the door, took off his greatcoat, and sat down upon it. His impish garb being thus more fully displayed, he looked so unearthly and extraordinary that the dogs began to howl fearfully, and Ginger had enough to do to quiet them.
Silence being at length restored, the Tinker, winking slyly at his companions, opened the conversation.
“I say, deputy,” he observed, “ve’ve bin havin’ a bit o’ a dispute vich you can settle for us.”
“Well, let’s see,” squeaked the dwarf. “What is it?”
“Vy, it’s relative to your age,” rejoined the Tinker. “Ven wos you born?”
“It’s so long ago, I can’t recollect,” returned Old Parr rather sulkily.
“You must ha’ seen some changes in your time?” resumed the Tinker, waiting till the little old man had made some progress with his grog.
“I rayther think I have — a few,” replied Old Parr, whose tongue the generous liquid had loosened. “I’ve seen this great city of London pulled down, and built up again — if that’s anything. I’ve se
en it grow, and grow, till it has reached its present size. You’ll scarcely believe me, when I tell you, that I recollect this Rookery of ours — this foul vagabond neighbourhood — an open country field, with hedges round it, and trees. And a lovely spot it was. Broad Saint Giles’s, at the time I speak of, was a little country village, consisting of a few straggling houses standing by the roadside, and there wasn’t a single habitation between it and Convent Garden (for so the present market was once called); while that garden, which was fenced round with pales, like a park, extended from Saint Martin’s Lane to Drury House, a great mansion situated on the easterly side of Drury Lane, amid a grove of beautiful timber.”
“My eyes!” cried Ginger, with a prolonged whistle; “the place must be preciously transmogrified indeed!”
“If I were to describe the changes that have taken place in London since I’ve known it, I might go on talking for a month,” pursued Old Parr. “The whole aspect of the place is altered. The Thames itself is unlike the Thames of old. Its waters were once as clear and bright above London Bridge as they are now at Kew or Richmond; and its banks, from Whitefriars to Scotland Yard, were edged with gardens. And then the thousand gay wherries and gilded barges that covered its bosom — all are gone — all are gone!”
“Those must ha’ been nice times for the jolly young vatermen vich at Black friars wos used for to ply,” chanted the Tinker; “but the steamers has put their noses out o’ joint.”
“True,” replied Old Parr; “and I, for one, am sorry for it. Remembering, as I do, what the river used to be when enlightened by gay craft and merry company, I can’t help wishing its waters less muddy, and those ugly coal-barges, lighters, and steamers away. London is a mighty city, wonderful to behold and examine, inexhaustible in its wealth and power; but in point of beauty it is not to be compared with the city of Queen Bess’s days. You should have seen the Strand then — a line of noblemen’s houses — and as to Lombard Street and Gracechurch Street, with their wealthy goldsmiths’ shops — but I don’t like to think of ‘em.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 498