At War with Society; or, Tales of the Outcasts

by Rodrigues Ottolengui

  The Mustard-Blister.

  I believe that if any one were to look back upon his past life for thepurpose of tracing out the most curious parts of it, he would find thatthey originated in the work of my old lady, Chance, and which is nothingmore than something occurring just at the moment when it is unlookedfor, but, being taken advantage of, turns out to be important. The greatsecret is to be able to seize the advantage, and this, as concerns mykind of work, lies in something like natural reasoning. If there'sanything out of the ordinary fitness of things, I begin to try to findout why it should be so. Books and learning don't help a man here. Ihave sometimes thought they rather work against him, and hence it isthat we find so many illiterate people rise up to be great and wealthy.Ay, but they can also be clever in a bad way; so with our thieves; but Ihave this consolation, that if their mother-wit has done a great dealfor them, mine has also to their cost done something for me. I will giveyou a case.

  In 1845, there were almost daily occurring cases of robbery from lardersin the New Town, and, what was more extraordinary, the accounts alltallied as to the fact that the thieves were exceedingly dainty. It wasonly the fine pieces of meat that would please them--large joints andlegs of mutton--nor did they seem to care for cold meat, in someinstances leaving it, as if they were above that kind of food. Ofcourse, I had my ordinary professional reasons for being active inendeavouring to lay hold of these burglars, who seemed to be so enviousof the good things of their neighbours, but I confess to the weakness ofhaving had a little of that same feeling in regard to them. I was noteasy under the notion that any of my children should be thus living athack and manger in so very much more luxurious a manner than myself, andfelt a great desire to shew them the difference between these hot jointsand the fare I am in the habit of providing for them.

  But how was I to get hold of them? Who could trace a leg of mutton afterit was cut down and eaten? No wee pawns for joints or beefsteaks, andthen the omnivorous gentry are generally so hungry that they could notafford, however epicurean, to lay past, to get tender andhigh-flavoured, a gigot of wether mutton or piece of venison. Then as tocatching red-hand, that was out of the question, for upon inquiry it wasfound that the thieves never tried a larder a second time. I could, inshort, make no discovery, and I was more uncomfortable under my want ofsuccess than I generally am, insomuch that my cooks were not only angryat losing their joints, but driven into a passion at the gentry'sdinners being spoilt by the disappearance on the previous night of some"old leg" which had been kept a fortnight for the very occasion, andwhich could not be supplied by the butcher. Their honour was at stake,and we all know what the honour of a _cuisiniere_ amounts to when thesame is calculated by the dripping lips of a _gobe-mouche_. I havecaught "old legs," which, like Madeira, had been sent over the sea toimprove, and have found them improved in the contrary way, but here my"old legs" defied me.

  I had given up hope, and my angry cooks were left to look better afterthe joints that were to be used in future, when one night I happened togo into the shop of Mr M'Dougal at the foot of the High Street. Therewere several people in the shop, and I stood back, not to avoid the gazeof Mrs Biddy Riddel of the Fountain Close, (her maiden name was O'Neil),who didn't look for me, and didn't see me, for, in truth, I was after nogame that evening, but merely to avoid interfering with the customers.Now was Biddy's turn to be served.

  "Half an ounce ov good tay--an ounce ov sugar--and an ounce ov raalDurham musthard," said she.

  The purchase struck me as being singular, and I'm sure the grocer was ofthe same opinion. I was perfectly aware that she was of the class of thehalf-ounce-of-tea-and-glass-of-whisky buyers, and if she had asked thewhisky I would have considered the purchase as quite in the ordinaryway, but the "raal Durham" was quite another thing, and I could accountfor it nohow.

  I saw that the grocer had looked at Biddy when she asked the mustard,just as if he felt inclined to ask what she was to do with so large aquantity, nay, any quantity, however small, but he proceeded withoutsaying a word to tie up the tea and the sugar, then, coming to the thirdarticle,

  "Did you say an ounce of mustard, Mrs Riddel?"

  "Ay, raal Durham."

  "Why, that will go a far way with you," said Mr M'Dougal, as he lookedover to me, and laughed--a kind of interference with the rights of tradethat Biddy did not seem to relish.

  "Wid me?" she said; "and why wid me? Shure, couldn't I buy a pound ov itif I chose?"

  "And most happy would I be to sell it to you," was the reply.

  "Ay, and I may need a pound ov it too," she continued, "if it doesn'tplase the Lord to be kinder to me; for hasn't Willie caught a terriblecowld, and amn't I to put a blisther on his throat this blissid night?"

  "Ah, that's another thing, Mrs Riddel. I'm sorry for William. His tradeof chimney-sweeping takes him early out in the cold mornings."

  "And shure it does," she replied; "but the never a bit less shame to yeto think I was to ate musthard like honey and the devil a bit ov saltmate to take wid it."

  "I am sorry for the mistake," said the grocer, as he rolled up the smallpacket, and Biddy laid down the pence.

  "And so you may," added she, not altogether reconciled; "and, what'smore, have I not as good a right to a piece of salt bacon as thegintry?"

  And not contented yet without the parting salute--

  "And ye don't know yet that we kept pigs at home, at Ballynagh; ay, an'they more than paid the rint; and, what's more, bedad, we didn't need totie the bit ov bacon to the ind ov the string and swallow it, and thinpull it out agin."

  "I believe it, Mrs Riddel," said the grocer.

  And then the last words came--

  "And what's more, it wasn't straiked wid a hunger and a burst, like yourgintry's. Just purty white and red where it should be; and we hadmusthard, too, galore, when we wanted it. Shure, and I've settled yourpenn'orth, anyhow."

  And so she had; for as she went grandly away, carrying in her hand herhalf-ounce of tea, and in her head the honour of Ballynagh, Mr M'Dougallooked as if he had committed an error in joking as he had done on thewants of the poor.

  "You've raised the lady's dander," said I.

  "Which I shouldn't have done," said he, "for her penny is as good to meas another's; and then she needs the mustard for the _outside_ of herson's throat, not the _in_."

  To which sentiment I agreed, even with a little sympathy for thefeelings of a mother, whose penny for a blister for her son's throat wasjust the tribute which she could ill spare paid from a mother'saffection to old AEsculapius. I confess to having been somewhat amused byBiddy's Irish vindication of the rights of her family, but having beenmerely amused, the interlude passed out of my mind--so completely so,that by the next morning I was thinking of something very different fromMrs Riddel and her invalid son, Willie, with the sore throat.

  Next day I was passing the mouth of the Fountain Close, and whom did Isee standing there, with a pipe in his mouth, but Bill himself, arrayedin his suit of black, with face of the same, indicating that he had beenat work in the morning? He was quite well known to me, and from acircumstance which will appear ludicrous. I had occasion at one time toseparate him from a baker with whom he had quarrelled, and with whom,also, he had fought so long that the two had so mixed colours that youcouldn't have told which was the man of the oven or the man of thechimney; but the truth is, that he had more to answer for than thrashinga baker, for he was an old offender in another way, where he tookwithout giving something more than dust. Of course it was a mystery tome how he had so soon recovered from his sore throat, and the effects ofthe "raal Durham."

  "Well, Bill, how's your throat, lad?" said I, going up to him.

  "My throat?" replied he; "nothing's wrong with it--never had a sorethroat in my life."

  "Except once," said I.

  "When?"

  "When I took you by it rather roughly," said I.

  "Unpleasant recollection," said the rogue. "Don't wish it mentioned.Steady now,--nothing but lum-sweeping and s
mall pay."

  "And no mustard-poultice last night?"

  "Mustard-poultice? Strange question! never had a mustard-poultice in mylife."

  "Quite sure? let me see your throat."

  "More sure than I am that you're not gibing a poor fellow," replied he,pulling down his neckcloth. "I don't belong to you now, so be off,unless you want me to sweep your vent for sixpence--cheap, as things go,and I'll leave you the soot to hide your shame for what you did to meyon time."

  Well, I took the joke, and really I had no reason in the world fordoubting his word as to either the throat or the blister, but I confessI was startled, and couldn't account for the discrepancy between thestory of the lady of Ballynagh and that of her son. Things were out oftheir natural fitness, and there was some explanation required to bringthem into conformity with it and themselves. What that explanatory thingwas I couldn't tell, and so I walked into the grocer's.

  "Why," said I, "Biddy Riddel's black darling has no sore throat, afterall. He is standing at the close-head quite well, with his throat, whichI have seen, as black as soot."

  "Strange enough," said he.

  "Have you sold her any ham of late?" said I, after musing a little.

  "Too poor for that," he replied; "all goes for whisky, and Biddy'shalf-ounces of tea, with, no doubt, a bit of coarse meat occasionally,to which an ounce of Durham would, of course, be out of the question."

  "Did she ever buy from you any mustard before?" I inquired again.

  "Why, now when I recollect, yes," replied he. "About a week ago she hadan ounce. I had really forgotten that, when last night I touched her ona tender part."

  With my additional information I left the shop, meditating as I went upthe High Street on the strangeness of the affair, small though itwas--for a little animal is just as curious in its organization as a bigone, and I've heard of some great man who lost his eyesight by peeringtoo closely into these small articles of nature's workmanship. I didn'tintend to lose mine, and yet I couldn't give over thinking, though it isjust as sure as death that I saw no connexion between what I had heardnoticed and the larder affair, neither then nor afterwards, during theentire day. Besides, another business took the subject out of my head,so that I thought no more of it.

  Next morning, as I was proceeding to the Office, my attention was againcalled to the mystery of the mustard-blister, by encountering the ladyof Ballynagh carrying a stoup of water from the Fountain Well, and Icouldn't resist a few words as I passed.

  "Well, Mrs Riddel," said I, with true official gravity, "how is yourdarling's throat after the blister?"

  "And it's you that has the impidence to ask it?" replied she; "are you adocthor?"

  "Yes, I sometimes try to mend people when they're _bad_."

  "To kill them, you mane, and the heart ov many a dacent widdow besides,"was the reply.

  "But I didn't make Bill's throat sore this time."

  "No more ye did; but small thanks to ye, for wouldn't ye hang him, ifyez could? and, shure, to hang a man wid the proud flesh in his throatwould be a mighty plaisant thing to the likes ov ye; and didn't I lookdown it wid me own eyes?"

  "But Bill says he never had a sore throat in his life."

  "And isn't that becase he's so bowld a boy?" replied she. "He nevercomplains, becase he knows it would hurt me; but is that any raison Ishouldn't blisther him when he's ill? And didn't I know he was ill whenhe could only spake like a choking dog, and couldn't for the life ov himtake a cup of tay or ate a bit ov bread?"

  And taking up her pitcher, she hurried away, leaving me as much in thedark as ever on this great subject, destined to become so much greaterbefore even that day was done, but not by any exertions of mine, for asyet I could see nothing in it beyond the fact that there was someincident required to be known to bring out the fitness of things. Norwas it long before I got satisfaction. The day was a strolling one withme, more a look-out for "old legs" than a pursuit after new ones, andfor some reason which I don't now recollect, I was in Hanover Street,along which I had got (it was now dark) a short way when I observed asweep coming along with a jolly leg of mutton in his hand. We aresometimes blamed for being somewhat curious in our inquiries into thenature of carried parcels, but here there was so much of the realunfitness of things that I might, I thought, be justified in mycuriosity--all the more, too, when I discovered that the proprietor orcarrier was my friend of the sore throat.

  "Where got you the leg of mutton, Bill?" inquired I, as I stood beforehim, and stopped his quick pace, intended to be much quicker the momenthe saw me.

  "The leg of mutton?" replied he, taken aback.

  "Yes," said I, "just the leg of mutton. It is so seldom you have a thingof that kind about you that I feel curious to know."

  "You might as well ask that gentleman where he got his umbrella or hiscoat," was the cool reply.

  "Not just the same," said I; "but I do not choose to point out thedifference. Where got you it?"

  "Bought it to be sure, and that's enough for you."

  "Quite enough," said I, "if you did buy it, and I confess you have agood taste. A better leg I haven't seen for a long time. An 'old leg'too, and just kept long enough to be tender. Who's your butcher?"

  "What's that to you?"

  "Perhaps I might fancy one the same," said I; for I felt inclined toplay a little as the idea of the mustard began to tickle my brain andmake me merry. "I might even fancy that one and offer a premium uponit."

  "What premium?" he said, perhaps not knowing very well what to say.

  "Perhaps sixty days and 'skeely' without a drop of mustard."

  The word operated like a charm on my sooty epicure, but he didn't seemto understand it any way, looking into my face inquisitively, and nodoubt remembering the conversation about the blister without being ableto connect the two things, for doubtless his mother had told himnothing of his sore throat and of the remedy.

  "Come," said I, "there are just two ways. You take me to the butcher'sshop or I take you to mine."

  Bill was too sensible a fellow not to see, even without the quickeningof the blister, that it was all up with him, and so accordingly,carrying his leg of mutton, he accompanied me very quietly to theOffice, where I deposited him and his burden. I now examined the legwith the view of endeavouring to ascertain whether it might beidentified, for I was here in the position I was in that morning I hadso much difficulty about my booty in the Cock and Trumpet. But I soondiscovered what I thought might serve my purpose, and, telling thelieutenant to take care not to allow the leg to be handled, I took myway to the Fountain Close, where I found my proud lady of Ballynaghsitting at her ease, no doubt expecting her son in by and by, or atleast before supper, which supper he would doubtless bring in himself,she providing the mustard.

  "I'm just here again," said I, as I opened the door and went in.

  "Ay, always shoving in your nose where you've no more right to be thanin heaven, where you'll never have any right at all," replied she. "Whatwid me now?"

  "I just want to know, Mrs Riddel, what you did with the ounce ofmustard you bought two nights ago at Mr M'Dougal's?"

  "The musthard?" she exclaimed, at the top of her voice.

  "Just the 'raal Durham.'"

  "The raal Durham! and what should I do wid it but make a blisther forBill's throat, as I towld ye before, and tell ye agin?"

  "And yet here is the most of it in this cup, ready made for supper,"said I, as I took from the old cupboard the article, and held it beforeher.

  "And was I to use it all at wunst for a blisther, d'ye think, ye mightydocthor M'Lavy?" said she, with something of her usual greatness; "andisn't his throat sore yet, and won't he naid the rest ov it this verynight?"

  "Then what will become of this fine piece of salt beef?" said I, as Ipulled out of the same recess the article which appeared so strange in asmall hovel, with two chairs and a table, and scarcely a bit offurniture besides. "You must reserve a little for it?"

  "And who gave ye the power to spake about my
mate, and ask whether I atemusthard to it or not? Isn't it me own?"

  "That's just what I want to know," said I, as I took out my handkerchiefto roll it up in.

  "And who knows that better than the woman who bought it, and salted it,ay, and put saltpatre upon it, and hung it, and boiled it?"

  "And told me that the mustard was for her son's throat," said I.

  "Ay, and the thruth, too, every word ov it."

  "Well, I'm going to take the beef to the Police Office, where Bill is,"said I; "I will leave you the mustard."

  "If you are going to be a thaif, take it altogether," she cried, "andmay the devil blister your throat before you try to ate what belongs toa poor widdow! And you've ta'en up the boy agin, have yez?"

  "Yes."

  "For stailing his own mate?"

  "And if you are not quiet," said I, "I will return and take up you forhelping him to eat it."

  "And that would just make the right ind ov it, you murtherin' spoiler ovwiddows and orphans."

  And now that she had begun to abuse me I might get more of her "goodwords" than I wanted, so I left her, hearing, as I went down stairs, asmany of the widow's malisons as would have served, if they had beenblessings, for the contents of all the rifled larders.

  I had nearly got to the Office when a cook from Inverleith Terrace cameand reported the theft of a leg of mutton. I was now pretty certain Ihad not overstepped my duty in apprehending Bill, but the difficultyremained as to the identification.

  "Would you know your leg if you saw it?" inquired I.

  "As easily as I would know my own, if it were cut off," she replied,with a grim smile.

  "Is that it, then?" said I, as I shewed her the article.

  "The very leg," said she. "There's the wether mark and the snip off thetail, to shew me which I was to use first, and to-morrow is the greatdinner day."

  "I was trusting to the string," said I, as I held within my hand thepiece by which the leg had been hung on the hook.

  "And so you might," replied she, "for it is a piece of an old windowcord which was lying on the dresser, and the rest of it is still in thekitchen."

  "Is that it?"

  "The very bit; I tied it with my own hands. But how, in the name of allthat's wonderful, has the leg found its way here before me?"

  "Never you mind that," said I. "You will be able to swear to thearticle?"

  "Ay; but what am I to do for the dinner?"

  "Why," said I, "you could scarcely serve up to your master and hisguests a leg of mutton that had been stolen by a sweep, and been in thePolice Office. Our 'old legs' don't get into high company when theyleave our society."

  For the leg Bill was supplied with the "raal Durham" in the shape oftwelve months' imprisonment.

  Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

  I rememember that=> I remember that {pg 48}

  through a mean of the residence=> through a means of the residence {pg105}