I HAVE to thank Mr. EMDEN for his aid and superintendence as manager, and all the actors concerned in this drama for the large part of the success of the piece which is due to the excellent acting of every one engaged in it. I owe extra thanks to Mr. HORACE WIGAN for his intelligent labours as stage-manager.
Mr. NEVILLE gives great force to the part of Brierly by his unstaginess, the general truth as well as force of his impersonation, and, in particular, by the excellence of his north-country dialect, which is essential to the proper representation of the part.
Actors of this character should bear in mind that any staginess or stiltedness will be fatal to its effect.
As much has been said apropos of this drama, on the subject of originality in play writing, I wish to submit here a few remarks on this matter. As regards the present play, all credit for the invention of the story belongs to MM. BRISEBARRE and Nuz, the authors both of
I have invented many of my subjects; I have borrowed several; in my printed plays, I have invariably mentioned the source to which I am indebted for my story. Of my longer comedies and dramas—
Lastly, I may express my belief, however startling the avowal may be thought, that there has been no period, for the last two centuries, in which invention and activity have been more conspicuous in the dramatic field than during the thirty or forty years which include the epoch of such dramatists as Miss MITFORD, SHERIDAN KNOWLES, BULWER LYTTON, JAMES WHITE, JERROLD, BROWNING, G. DARLEY, SEARLE, MARSTON, HORNE, LOVELL, TROUGHTON, BELL, Mrs. GORE, SULLIVAN, PEAKE, POOLE, HOOK, PLANCHE, CHARLES and GEORGE DANCE, the MORTONS, MARK LEMON, BUCKSTONE, SELBY, FITZBALL (who, whatever may be the literary quality of his plays, has given evidence of genuine romantic invention). BERNARD, COYNE, OXENFORD, SHIRLEY BROOKS, WATTS PHILLIPS, and those peculiar products of our own time, the burlesque writers, like the Brothers BROUGH, and Messrs. BYRON and BURNAND.
T. TAYLOR.LAVENDER SWEEP, Wandsworth, June, 1863.
First Performed at the Olympic Theatre, under the management of Messrs. Robson and Emden, On Wednesday, May 27th, 1863.
The Scenery by and under the direction of Mr. TELBIN.
The Ticket-of-Leave Man.
TIME—THE PRESENT DAY.
An interval of three years and a half between the First and Second Acts, and intervals of six and four months between the Second and Third, and Third and Last Acts respectively.
THE BRIDGEWATER ARMS, In which Miss Hughes will introduce "The Maniac's Tear," a Sensation Scena, composed expressly for her by J. H. Tully, Esq.
A STREET IN THE CITY. AN OLD CITY CHURCHYARD.
(Page 78.) ———Stand off, I say!May. Oh! Robert, Robert! This is the first time you ever thrust me from you. He is a good, kind husband, gentlemen; but we have had sore trouble lately, and it has almost driven him wild sometimes. But, oh, if you have wives of your own at home, think of them and spare me. Don't drive him to drink. He's never taken to that in all our troubles. Robert, come home with me —our hearth may be cold, but Love has always sat beside it—our cupboard may be bare, but we have never yet wanted bread, and, with heaven's help, we never will. Robert, come—come with the wife that loves you—come, come!
———and don't sit up for me.May. Robert!
———not wanted here at all.May. Oh! Robert, Robert!
Page 80.—SCENE SECOND. — Begin.Enter MAY EDWARDS, L., breathless and pale—her head uncovered—her hair dishevelled. May. Thrust from
his side—no, no—nothis ; but the fierce, hard man's, that drink and despair have changed him to! He told me to go home.Home !(shuddering) As if there was any home for me, but where he is, in his sorrow! I tried to watch but the pain in my heart blinded me, and I've wandered—wandered through the black night in these stony streets! Oh—if I had only died before this! If I could die now! Ha! the river can't be far off! there is rest there.(shrieks) No, no, no—What devilish tempting is this? Die and leave him alone with his despair. Heaven help him and forgive me! No; I will live—to bring him back to love and hope and faith. If I must die, it shall be with my hand in his our hearts against each other! If I could but find him! Oh, Robert! Husband! Love! Where are you? Come to me—come to me.She staggers off R., distractedly. (omit her appearance in the subsequent part of the scene) Then enter MRS. WILLOUGHBY and SAM.
Coming!
Report.
What? don't twig me? Then it is a good get up,
Stow that. There's no tigers here. My name's Downy; you mind that. John Downy, from Rotherham, jobber, and general dealer.
My good friend, Mr. Moss here, insists on standing a bottle of sherry.
What, you will make it champagne? very well, I'm not proud.
Come, Ti—
That's serious, eh? Well, I've taken a serious turn, always do when it's low tide here.
Down on your luck, eh?
What, Hawkshaw, the 'cutest detective in the force?
He's taken his oath on the Bow Street Office testament to be square with me for that
Peckham job—
Ah!
When I spoiled his mate.
Hush, here's the tipple.
And so you're keeping dark, eh?
Yes, pottering about on the sneak, flimping or smashing a little when I get the chance; but the Nailer's too hard on me. There's no picking up a gentlemanly livelihood. Hang me if I haven't often thought of turning respectable.
No, no; it aint so bad as that yet.
And how about lagging? If I'm nailed it's a lifer.
Bless you, I wouldn't have you chance it; but in the high society you keep, you could surely pick up a flat to put off the paper.
I've the very man. I gave him an appointment here, for this evening.
Did you, though? How pat things come about! Who is he?
A Lancashire lad; an only son, he tells me. The old folks spoiled him as long as they
lived, left him a few hundreds, and now he's got the collar over his head, and is kicking 'em
down, seeing life.
Ha, ha, ha! and you're selling him the bill of the play.
I'm putting him up to a thing or two—cards, skittles, billiards, sporting houses, sparring
houses, night houses, casinos—every short cut to the devil and the bottom of a flat's purse.
He's as green as a leek and as soft as new cheese, no vice, steady to ride or drive, and runs
in a snaffle.
Thank you, I know your partnership articles, me all the kicks and you all the halfpence. But if I can work him to plant a lot of these flimsies of yours, I don't mind; remember, though, I won't go higher than fifteen bob for a fiver.
What, only fifteen bob! and such beauties, too, they'd take in the Bank chairman—fifteen! I'd better chance it myself! Only fifteen—it's robbery.
Take it or leave it.
I must take a turn and think it over.
Bid me down again, and I stand on ten shillings —now you know. It's like it or lump it.
Aye! nobody shall say Bob Brierly craned while he could keep't going.
Nay, lad, you can find room for another glass.
It puts heart into a chap!
Doctor? Nay; I'm as game as a pebble and as stell as a tree!
I'll take a light from you.
It's that waking—waking. If I could only sleep.
I know the symptoms of del. trem. pretty well—sit down, sit down. First and foremost
Welly cleaned out I've written to the lawyer-chap, down at Glossop—him that's got all my property to manage, yo' know for more brass.
Nay, will yo' though? That's friendly of you. Here's luck—and sink the expense!
Good evening, gentlemen,
Now, for your devil, Master Bob.
Beg pardon, sir, but if the paper's not in hand
Ah, much my own case. They put a fellow up to the dodges of the town, though: for instance,
these cases of bad notes offered at the Bank lately.
I never took a bad note in my life.
You've been lucky—in the Smithfield line, too, I think you said. In the jobbing way, may I ask, sir, or in the breeding?
Sometimes one, and sometimes t'other—always ready to turn the nimble shilling.
My own rule.
May I ask your business?
The fancy iron trade. My principle is, to get as much of my stock on other people's hands as I can. From the country, I think?
Yes, Yorkshire.
Ah! I'm Durham myself; and this young gent?
What's that to you?
From Lancashire, I see; why, we are quite neighbours when we are at home—and neighbours ought to be neighbourly in this overgrown city, so I hope you'll allow me to stand treat—give it a name, gentlemen.
They've a saying down in Glossop, where I come from, If you want a welcome, wait to be axed.
Ah, quite right to be cautious about the company you keep, young man. Perhaps I could give you a bit of good advice—
Thank ye! I'm not in the way o' takin' good advice.
Well, don't take bad; and you won't easy find a worse adviser than your thieving companion here.
Not you, sir.
And wish to keep ourselves to ourselves.
And think your room a deal better than your company—meanin' no offence you know.
Don't be long—I can't abear my own company.
I've only a word to say to a customer.
Now then, James! Jackson take orders. Interval of ten minutes allowed for refreshment. Giv your orders, gents, give your orders. The nigger melodists will shortly commence their unrivalled entertainment. preliminary to the orchestral selection from
If they'll only let me sing to-night.
Halloa, halloa! what's this? Oh, it's you, is it, Edwards? Come, I'm glad to see you're about again, but I can't have you cadging here.
Oh, Mr. Maltby, if you'll only allow me to try one song, and go round after it, I'll stop as soon as ever they ring up.
Well, well, you was always a well-behaved girl, so, for once in a way—
Oh, thank you, thank you, and if you should have an opening for me in the room, sir, when I'm quite strong again—
No chance of it, we're chuck full—a glut of talent; but if I should be able to find room for you in the chorus, and to double Miss Plantagenet when she's in the tantrums, ten shillings a week, and find your own wardrobe, you know—I'm not the man to shrink from a generous action. Now then, Jackson, money in 4.
Stop, lass;
I've not taken anything to-day, and I've not been well lately.
Thank you, sir, you're very kind.
Wather?
Beg pardon, sir, it's for No. 1.
I'se No. 1.
No, it's mine.
I'll let you know,
There, lass.
Sup it up.
It makes me so warm.
It'll put some heart i' thee. Sup again, thou'lt tune thy pipes like a mavis on that. Now try and eat a bit.
Oh, sir, you're too good.
Good? me! nay—
The gent can't say fairer.
Here.
We ain't in the habit of scoring, sir, not to strangers.
Then yo'd betther begin; my name's Bob Brierly.
Your name may be Bob Brierly, sir, or Bob Anybody, sir, but when people take wine in this establishment, sir—especially other party's wine— they pay for it.
A tell yo— I'll pay as soon as my friend comes back.
Oh, your friend! A regular case of bilk—
Now yo' take care.
It's too bad.
Why can't you pay the man?
Police!
Sorry I haven't change, but we'll manage it directly.
Come, Bob, don't be a fool, take a turn and cool yourself.
Insult! ho, ho, ha, here's a lark! A half-starved street-singer cheeking me in my own
establishment! You'd better apply for an engagement,
I'm sure the music's very nice, Mr. Jones.
Thick-ribbed ain't a proper word to use to any lady, and I tell you my ma's name ain't Traddles, Mr. Jones, it's the same as mine—St. Evremond; she's changed it at my wish.
I beg pardon of your stern parient,
And very wrong it was of me to go to that whitebait dinner without ma; and preciously she blew me up about it, though I told her you couldn't have treated me with more respect if I'd been a countess instead of a coryphée.
I'm perfectly serious. My hand and my heart, my fortune and my future. Don't stare, Emily. It's as true as that my name is Green. I'm quite in earnest—I am indeed.
Oh! Green, dear, I'm in such agitation.
And don't
Yes, I like to associate with all classes. "Survey mankind," you know, Emily—" from China"—to earthenware. So when Charley Punter proposed a night at the tea gardens, I sank the swell; and here I am with my Emily and her mama. Charley didn't seem to see the parient; but, "Propriety, Charley my boy," I said, and he submitted with a sigh. And now what will you have?
Oh! anything but that. Now do oblige me by shutting up, that's a good girl.
No, no, poor thing. Let her sing; she has a sweet voice.
Flat, decidedly.
You'll have to change a good many notes when we are married.
Downy not here? He said I was to bring 't brass to our table.
Why, it's t' singin' lass.
No, sir.
And where's t' landlord. Here's that'll make civil enough.
Oh, what a lot of money!
Brass for a twenty pound note. I got it changed at t' cigar shop down t'road. He's a good'un is Downy—lends me whatever I want. Here yo' landlord. Hoy!
Coming! Coming!
Thou cur!
I can't bear you should trouble for me, indeed, sir.
Here, take this,
Two sovereigns! oh, sir!
Nay, thou'lt make better use o't' brass than me—What, cryin' again! come, come, never heed that old brute, hard words br'ak no bones, yo know.
It's not
What then?
Poor thing! heaven help thee—thou mindest me of a sister I lost, she'd eyes like thine, and hair, and much t' same voice, nobbut she favert redder i' t' face, and spoke broader. I'd be glad whiles to have a nice gradely lass like you to talk to.
But where I live, sir, it's a very poor place, and I'm by myself, and
Brierly!
Here'st' change—I've borrowed five o'the twenty.
All right, now let's be off— I've a cab outside.
Never, I'll set it down,
Come!
And yo, tell me yo'r name—will yo?
May Edwards.
Confound your billing and cooing—come!
You're wanted.
I know you, James Dalton!
Remember the Peckham job!
The Nailer! Hit out, Bob!
I have! Some o' them garottin' chaps!
There, Goldie, I must give you your breakfast,
Oh, yes, Mrs. Jones.
St. Evremond, please, Miss Edwards. Jones has changed his name. When people have come down
in circumstances, the best they can do is to keep up their names.
I hope you got the engagement, dear?
I'm so sorry; your husband will be so disappointed.
Oh! bless you, he doesn't know what I've been after. I couldn't bear to worrit him, poor
fellow! He's had so many troubles.
What noise is that? It's in your room.
Don't be alarmed—it's only Green; I left him to practice the clog-dance while I went out. He's so clumsy. He often comes down like that in the double shuffles. But he gets on very nicely in the comic duets.
It's very fortunate he's so willing to turn his hand to anything.
Yes, he's willing enough to turn his hand, only he is so slow in turning his legs. Ah, my dear, you're very lucky only having yourself to keep.
I find it hard enough work sometimes. But after the life I've passed through, it seems paradise.
Oh! I couldn't a-bear it; such a want of excitement! And you that was brought up to a
public life too.
I'm afraid Mr. Jones ran through a great deal in a very short time.
Well, we were both fast, dear; and to do Jones justice, I don't think he was the fastest
You see he
Come in!
Your wife's here, Mr. Jones.
St. Evremond, please dear.
Yes, Montague St. Evremond; that is to be in the paulo-poster-futurum. I thought you would
be here, Milly. I saw you come in at the street door.
Oh, you were watching for me out of the window, I suppose, instead of practising your pas.
I was allowing my shins an interval of refreshment. I hope, Miss Edwards, you may never be reduced to earn a subsistence by the clog hornpipe, or if you are, that you will be allowed to practise in your stockings. The way I've barked my intractable shins!
Poor dear fellow! There, there! He's a good boy, and he shall have a piece of sugar—he
shall.
Sugar is all very well, Emily, but I'm satisfied I shall never electrify the British public
in this style of pump.
Stout was the word.
Oh! was it? Anyway, you meant short winded. My vocation is in the more private walks of existence. If I'd a nice easy light porter's place, now—
Oh! Montague, how can you be so mean spirited?
Or if there's nothing else open to us but the music halls, I always said we should do better with the performing dogs.
Performing dogs! Hadn't you better come to to monkeys at once?
I've a turn for puppies. I'm at home with
You poor dear soft-headed—soft hearted—soft-shinned creature! What
Which ready you always was, to the minit, that I will say, my dear. You'll excuse me if I
take a chair,
At all events, Mrs. Willoughby, you're looking very, very well this morning.
Ah, my dear, you are very good to say so, which, if it wasn't for rheumatics and the rates,
one a top of another, and them dustmen, which their carts is a mockery,
I'm sure you ought to have one, so hard as you've worked all your life, and when Sam gets a situation—
Sam, ah, that boy—I came here about him; hasn't he been here this morning?
No, not yet. I was expecting him—he promised to carry some things home for me.
Ah, Miss Edwards, if you would only talk to him; he don't mind anything I say, no more than if it was a flat-iron, which what that boy have cost me in distress of mind, and clothes, and caps, and breakages, never can be known—and his poor mother, which was the only one I brought up and had five, she says to me, "Mother," she says, "he's a big child," she says, "and he's a beautiful child, but he have a temper of his own;" which, "Mary," I says—she was called Mary, like you, my dear, after her aunt, from which we had expectations, but which was left to the Blind Asylum, and the Fishmongers' Alms Houses, and very like like you she was, only she had light hair and blue eyes—"Mary, my dear,' I says, "I hope you'll never live to see it," and took she was at twenty-three, sudden, and that boy I've had to mend and wash and do for ever since, and hard lines it is.
I'm sure he loves you very dearly, and has a excellent heart.
Heart, my dear—which I wish it had been his heart I found in his right-'and pocket as I was
a-mending his best trowsers last night, which it was a short pipe, which it is nothing but
the truth, and smoked to that degree as if it had been black-leaded, which many's the time
when he've come in, I've said, "Sam," I've said, "I smell tobacco," I've said. "Grandmother,"
he'd say to me, quite grave and innocent, "p'raps it's the chimbley" —and him a child of
fifteen, and a short pipe in his right-hand pocket! I'm sure I could have broke my heart over
it, I could; let alone the pipe—which I flung it into the fire—but a happy moment since is a
thing I have not known.
Oh! he'll get rid of all his bad habits in time. I've broken him in to carry my parcels already.
Yes, indeed! and how you can trust him to carry parcels; but, oh! Miss Edwards, if you'd talk to him, and tell him short pipes is the thief of time, and tobacco's the root of all evil, which Dean Close he've proved it strong enough, I'm sure—and I cut it out of the
No; I expect no one—unless its Sam.
Oh! you mustn't mind, Mrs. Willoughby, it's Robert.
Oh—Robert! I suppose by the way he's a-goin' on, Robert's your brother—leastways, if he ain't your brother
Her brother? yes, ma'am, I'm her brother!
Indeed! and if I might make bold to ask where you've come from—
I'm just discharged.
Discharged! and where from—not your situation, I 'ope?
From Her Majesty's Service, if you must know.
How I come to be here before the time I told you in my letter? You see, I had full marks
and nothing against me, and the regulations
I shall be much obliged to you, my dear— which I know, when brothers and sisters meet
they'll have a great deal to talk over, and two's company and three's none, is well
beknown—and I never was one to stand listenin' when other folks is talkin' and one thing I
may say, as I told Mrs. Molloy only last week, when the first floor had a little tiff with
the second pair front about the water—"Mrs. Molloy," I says, "nobody ever heard me put in my
oar when I wasn't asked," I says, "and idle chatterin' and gossip," I says, " is a thing that
I never was given to, and I ain't a goin to begin now," I says, which good mornin' to you,
young man, and a better girl, and a nicer girl, and a harder workin' girl than your sister,
Prettier than ever—you couldn't look better or kinder.
Now sit down, and don't talk nonsense.
Sit down! not I—I've had a good look at you —and I must have a good look at the place. How
snug it is! as neat as the cell I've just left. But it wasn't hard to keep
Isn't it a nice clock, Robert? and look at the cheffonier! I picked that up a bargain and all out of my own earnings!
It's the cosiest little nest for my bird—you were a singing bird once, you
know—
I should be the most ungrateful creature if I did! How many a dinner it's earned for
me!—how many a week's rent it's paid! But for it I never should
So did I. But I felt it was true—
Aye, when all stood aloof. In the prison—in the dock—to the van-door. But for you, May, I should have been a desperate man. I might have become all they thought me a felon, in the company of felons.
Oh, do not look back to that misery—but tell me how you are out so long before your time?
Here's my ticket-of-leave—they've given me every week of my nine months—they hadn't a mark against me—I didn't want to look forward to my discharge —I was afraid to—I worked away; in school, in the quarry-gang first, and in the office afterwards, as if I had to stay there for ever—I wasn't unhappy either—all were good to me. And then I had your letters to comfort me. But when I was sent for to the governor's room yesterday, and told I was a free man, everything swam round and round—I staggered—they had to give me water, or I think I should have fainted like a girl.
Ah, as I felt that night when you gave me the wine.
Poor dear, I remember it, as if it was yesterday. But when I passed out at the gate, not
for gang labour, in my prison dress, with my prison mates, under the warder's eye, and the
sentry's musket, as I had done so many a weary week—but in my own clothes—unwatched —a free
man—free to go were I liked—to do what I liked—speak to whom I liked,
But here, no one knows you—you'll get a fresh start now.
I hope so, but it's awfully up hill work, May; I've heard enough down yonder of all that stands between a poor fellow who has been in trouble, and an honest life. But just let me get a chance.
Oh—if only Mr. Gibson would give you one.
Who's he?
The husband of the lady who was my first and best friend.
You don't want a light porter—eh, May?
No—I've not quite business enough for that yet. If Mr. Gibson would only give you employment. He's something in the City.
No chance of that, May. I must begin lower down, and when I've got a character, then I may
reach a step higher, and so creep back little by little to the level of honest men.
Me, May?
Yes. You forget those two sovereigns you lent me—I've put away a shilling every week out of
my savings and then there's the interest, you know—ever so much. It's all here.
My good, kind May, do you think I'd touch a farthing of your savings?
Oh, do take it, Robert, or I shall be so unhappy —I've had more pleasure out of that money than any I ever earned, because I thought it would go to help you.
Bless your kind heart! To think of those little fingers working for me—a lusty, big-boned
chap like me!
Twenty pounds! Oh, how small my poor little earnings will look! I was so proud of them,
too—
Well, keep 'em, May—keep 'em to buy your wedding-gown,
Oh!
How was I to know you had company? Of course I'd have knocked if I'd been aware you'd your young man.
Well, what?
Go it, Master Sam! Ha, ha, ha!
My name's not Sam. It's Samivel Willoughby, Esquire, most respectable references given and
required,
Now be off, like a good little chap.
Come—cheeky! Don't you use bad language. I'm rising fifteen, stand five feet five in my
bluchers, and I'm sprouting agin' the summer, if I ain't six foot of greens already like
Come—I'm bigger than you are, I'll bet a bob.
Oh, here's that boy at last! which upstairs and down stairs, and all along the street, have
I been a seekin' of him,
If you will nobble a fellow's bacca, you must take the consequences; and just you mind it
ain't no use a tryin' it on breaking my pipes, Granny. I've given up Broselys and started a
briar-root.
Oh dear, oh dear! if it ain't enough to melt an'eart of stone—no! fronts I may wear to 'ide my suffering, but my grey 'airs that boy have determined to bring with sorrow to the grave.
What? Cos I smoke? Why there's Jem Miggles smokes, and he's a year younger than me, and he's allowed all the lux'ries of the season—his father's going to take him to see the badger drawn at Jemmy Shaw's one of these days—and his mother don't go into hysterics.
Sam, I'm surprised you should take pleasure in making your grandmother unhappy!
I don't take pleasure—she won't let me; she's always a knaggin' and aggravatin' me. Here,
dry your eyes, granny—
And you'll give up that nasty tobacco, and you'll keep your clothes tidy, and not get
sliddin' down
Best put me in charity leathers at once with a muffin cap and a badge, wouldn't I look
stunnin'? Oh my!
There! that's just him—always some of his imperent audacious chaff—I know he gets it from that young Miggles—ready to stop his poor granny's mouth with.
No.
Which robbery is too good a word for it. It was forgery, aye, and a'most as good as murder— which it might ha' been my death! Yes, my dears, as nice looking, civil spoken a young man as you would wish to see—in a white 'at, which I never can forget, and a broad way of speaking—and, "Would you change me a twenty pound note, ma'am," he says;" "And it aint very often," I says, "you could have come into this shop"— which I was in the cigar and periodical line at that time.
In the Fulham-road, three doors outside the Bell-vue Gardens— "And a note is all the same
to me," I sez—"if all correct," I sez—and when I looked in that young man's face, I had no
more suspicion than I should of either of yours, my dears; so he gave me the note, and he
took the sovereigns. And the next thing I saw was a gent, which his name he told me was
Hawkshaw, and he were in the police, on'y in plain clothes, and asked to look at the note,
and told me it was a bad un; and if that man left me on the sofa, in the back shop, or behind
the counter, with my feet in a jar of brown rappee, and my head among the ginger beer
bottles, is more than I can tell for fits it was for days and days, and when I worked out of
'em, then I was short of my rent, and the stock sold up and me ruined.
And you never recovered your money?
Not a penny, my dear, and if it hadn't been for a kind friend that set me up in my own
furniture, in the Fulham Workhouse I might have been at this moment, leastways St. George's,
which that's my legal settlement and that blessed boy
Which if that young man knew the mischief he'd done.
You're not going?
I've a little bit of business that can't wait— some money to pay.
You'll not be long?
No; I'll be back directly.
You'll excuse me, it's not often I talks about it, Miss Edwards, which it's no use a cryin' over spilt milk, and there's them as tempers the wind to the shorn lamb—and if it wasn't for that boy—
Which if I'd only the means to put him to school and keep him out of the streets, and clear of that Jim Miggles and them rats
And don't you see how unhappy she makes me, talkin' of sendin' me to school.
Then, what does she break my pipes for?
Oh, them pipes!
More visitors! What a busy morning this is! Come in !
Miss Edwards—eh?
Yes, sir.
Glad I'm right—I thought it was the third floor front a woman told me downstairs. I'm
afraid I pulled the wrong bell.
And a nice way Mrs. Molloy would be in if you brought her down to another party's bell, which, asking your pardon, sir, but was it the first floor as opened the street door? It was a lady in a very broad cap border and still broader brogue.
I don't know.
Which that is the party, sir, as I was a speakin' of; and I do 'ope she didn't fly out, sir, which Mrs. Molloy of a morning—after her tea—she says it's the tea—is that rampageous—
No, no; she was civil enough when I said I wanted Miss Edwards.
Which I do believe, my dear, you've bewitched every soul in the 'ouse, from the kitchens to the attics.
Miss Edwards don't confine her witchcraft to your lodgers, my good lady. She's bewitched my wife. My name's Gibson.
Oh, sir; I've never been able to say what I felt to your good, kind lady; but I hope you will tell her I am grateful.
She knows it by the return you have made. You've showed you deserved her kindness. For
fifty people ready to help, there's not one worth helping— that's my conclusion. I was
telling my wife so this morning, and she insisted that I should come and satisfy myself that
she had helped one person at any rate who
I was alone, sir, when she found me. He was
Oh, dear no, sir, begging your pardon, which that is my grandson, Samuel Willoughby, the
only one of three, and will be fifteen the twenty-first of next April at eight o'clock in the
morning, and a growing boy—which take your cap out of your mouth, Samuel, and stand straight,
and let the gentleman see you.
With a good character, I hope.
Oh, yes!
So—
But now you've got your discharge, she'll have a protector.
I hope so, sir—as long as I live, and can earn a crust—I suppose I shall be able to do that.
What do you mean to do?
Ah, there it is; I wish I knew what I could get to do, sir. There are not many things in the way of work that would frighten me, I think.
That's the spirit I like your sister speaks well of you, but I shouldn't mind that. It's
enough for me that you've come out of
Tolerably good, sir.
Beautiful, sir: here are some of his letters—look, sir.
A capital hand. Can you keep accounts?
Yes, sir, I helped to kept the books—yonder.
Holloa, Granny, here's a parcel I found for you in the letter box ain't it heavy, neither.
What's the matter, Mrs. Willoughby?
Sovereigns! real, golden sovereigns!
Sovereigns!
Oh, crikey!
There, Granny—I always said we was comin' into our fortune.
Amen!
Which, first and foremost—there's my silver tea pot, I'll have out of pawn this blessed day, and I'll ask Mrs. Molloy to a cup of tea in my best blue chaney, and then this blessed boy shall have a year of finishin' school.
I wish the party had kept his money, I do!
Drat the boy's imperence! Him askin' for sovereigns as natural— Ah! they'll all be for you, Sam, one of these days.
I should like a little in advance.
Oh, sir!
There there, don't thank me.
Robert, the money has brought us a blessing already.
Everything must have a beginning. I'm only under messenger now, at six bob a week, but it's the small end of the wedge. I don't mean to stay running errands and dusting books long, I can tell you. I intend to speculate—I'm in two tips already.
Tips?
Yes.
Bring me those pens.
Now I call that mean. One City gent interfering with another City gent's amusements.
As if I didn't know well enough already. Lark, lush, and a latch-key—a swell rig out, and lots of ready in the pockets—a drag at Epsom, and a champagne lunch on the hill! Oh my—ain't it stunning!
Ah, Sam, that's the fancy picture—mine is the true one. Excitement first, then idleness and drink, and then bad companions—sin—shame—and a prison.
Come, I don't want to be preached to in office hours: granny gives me quite enough of that at home, ain't it a bore, just!
Oh, my lad, take my advice, do! Be steady— stick to work and home. It's an awful look out
for a young chap adrift in this place, without them sheet anchors.
Oh, I ain't afraid. I cut my eye teeth early. Tips ain't worse than time bargains—and
they're business.
Serves you jolly well right, for coming to business on your wedding day.
Oh! I've two hours good before I'm wanted for that.
I say, Bob, you don't mean to say you've been to the Bank for the petty cash this morning?
Yes.
And didn't leave the notes on the counter?
No.
And didn't have your pocket picked?
No.
Well, you are a cool hand. I've often wondered how the poor chaps in Newgate managed to eat a good breakfast before they're turned off. But a fellow coming to office the morning he's going to be spliced and when the Governor has given him a holiday too—by Jove, it beats the Old Bailey by lengths. I hope I shall be as cool when I'm married.
You you young cock-sparrow.
Yes. I've ordered the young woman I want down at Birmingham. Miss Edwards ain't my style.
No—isn't she though? I'm sorry it's too late to have her altered.
She's too quiet—wants go. I like high action. Now I call Mrs. Jones a splendid woman. Sam Willoughby, Esquire, must have a real tip-top lady. I don't mean to marry till I can go to church with my own brougham.
I suppose that means when you've set up as a crossing sweeper. And now, Sam, till your brougham comes round for you, just trot off to the stationer's and see if Mr. Gibson's new bill-case is ready.
Ah, May darling!
Not yet, sir.
In two hours.
There's many a slip between the cup and the lip, you know. But as the clerks aren't come
yet, I thought I might just look in and shew you
Your wedding gown!
Yes. It's Mrs. Gibson's present, with such a kind note—and she insists on providing the wedding breakfast and she's sent in the most beautiful cake, and flowers from their own conservatory. My little room looks so pretty.
It always looks pretty when thou art in it. I shall never miss the sun, even in Nicholas Lane, after we are married, darling.
Oh! Robert, won't it be delightful? Me, house-keeper here, and you, messenger, and such a favorite too! And to think we owe all, to these good kind generous —There's only one thing I can't get off my mind.
What's that?
Mr. Gibson doesn't know the truth about you. We should have told him before this.
It's hard for a poor chap that's fought clear of the mud, to let go the rope he's holding to and slide back again. I'll tell him when I've been long enough here to try me, only wait a bit.
Perhaps you are right, dear. Sometimes the thought comes like a cloud across me. But you've
never said how you like my dress.
I couldn't see it for looking at thy bonny face— but it's a grand gown.
And my own making! I forgot—Mrs. Jones is come, and Mrs. Willoughby. They're going to church with us you know — Emily looks so nice—she would so like to see the office, she says, if I might bring her in?
Oh, yes! the place is free to the petticoats till business hours.
Oh! Mr. Brierly.
While Robert does the honours of the office, I'll go and help Mrs. Willoughby to set out the breakfast. The white service looks so lovely, Robert, and my canary sings as I haven't heard him since I left the old lodgings. He knows there's joy in the wind.
There! I'm wanted. I'm coming, Mrs. Willoughby. Oh, dear! If I'd known the trouble it was to be married, I don't think I should have ventured. I'm coming.
They are but dull places. Not this one, though, since May's been housekeeper.
Yes, they are dull, but so respectable—look so like money, you know. I suppose, now, there's no end of money passes here?
A hundred thousand pounds a day, sometimes.
Gracious goodness! All in sovereigns?
Not a farthing—all in cheques and bills. We've a few thousands, that a queer old fashioned depositor insists on Mr. Gibson keeping here, but except that, and the petty cash, there's no hard money in the place.
Dear me! I thought you City people sat on stools all day shovelling sovereigns about. Not
that I could bear to think of Jones sitting on a stool all day, even to shovel about
sovereigns, though he always says
Except when he married you.
Well, I don't know about that, but I suppose he would have got through the property without me he's so much the gentleman, you know.
He's coming to church with us?
Oh, yes! You know he's to give away the bride. But he was obliged to keep an appointment in the City first, so queer for Jones, wasn't it? He wouldn't tell me what it was.
Here's your husband!
There all out. Let's see—bonnets, Eau-de-Cologne, gloves, bouquets—seven ten; Two and six the cab—my own togs, five ten—that's thirteen two and six in all.
Jones, are you mad?
Is your principal here, Brierly?
The governor? No, it's not his time yet.
En attendant, you couldn't advance me thirteen two six, could you?
What! lend you the money?
Emily, be calm. It's not the least consequence. They can wait—the shopman, I mean —that is— the two shopmen and cabby.
Oh, he's gone crazy!
The fact is, I've had a windfall. Choker Black has turned up trumps. He was put in the hole in California's year, had to bolt to Australia--struck an awfully full pocket at the diggings, and is paying off his old ticks like an emperor. He let me in for two thousand, and he has sent me bills for five hundred, as a first instalment.
Five hundred! And you've got the money?
I've got the bills on his agent. Here they are. Emily, embrace your husband!
No, you're not among your old sixty per cent. friends here. We only do good bills at the market rate.
That's your sort. I feel now the full value of the commercial principle.
Oh, Green! But you'll be careful of the money?
Careful! I'm an altered man. I swear—you'll allow me to register a vow in your office? —to devote myself to the virtuous pursuit of money-making. I'm worth five hundred pounds, I've fifteen hundred more coming in; — Not one farthing of that money shall go in foolish extravagance.
But how about these things, Jones?
Trifles; —a cadeau de noce for the ladies, and a case of Eau-de-Cologne for
myself. I've been running to seed so long, and want watering so much.
Oh dear, Green! I'm afraid you're as great a fool as ever.
Nay, nay, Mrs. Jones—no man's a fool with £500 in his pocket. But here come the clerks;—band-boxes and bouquets ain't business-like. You must carry these down to May.
Good morning. Governor come yet?
Not yet, Mr. Sharpe; it's getting near his time, though.
Here's a gentleman waiting for you, sir, on business.
If you'll walk into my room, sir?
I'm right proud of that, sir.
You won't mind my giving you a word of advice on your wedding-day? Go on as you've begun—
keep a bright eye and an enquiring tongue in your head
Mr. Gibson—sir—I can't thank you—but a look-out like that—it takes a man's breath away.
In the City there's no gap between the first round of the ladder and the top of the tree.
But that gentleman's waiting.
Yes, the famous detective. Shew him in when he comes. I've a particular appointment with him.
Hawkshaw coming here! The principal witness against me at my trial. Perhaps he won't know
me—I'm much changed. But they say, at Portland, he never forgets a face. If he knows me, and
tells Mr. Gibson, he'll discharge me—and, to-day, just when we looked to be so happy! It
would break May's heart. But why should I stay? I'm free for the day—I will not wait to meet
my ruin.
Take in my name.
I don't recollect you, sir.
Mr. Gibson will see you in a moment, sir.
Very well.
He knows me —I can read it in his face—his voice. He'll tell Mr. Gibson! Perhaps he's telling him now! I wish I'd spoken to him—but they have no mercy. Oh, if I'd only made a clean breast of it to Mr. Gibson before this!
Robert!
Yes, sir.
Before you leave just step round to Glynn's and get me cash for this. You'll have time enough before you're wanted downstairs, you rascal.
Had him long?
Six months.
Good character?
Never had a steadier, soberer, better behaved lad in the office.
Had you references with him?
Why I think I took him mainly on the strength of his own good looks and his sweetheart's. An honest face is the best testimonial after all.
H'm—neither is always to be relied on.
You detectives would suspect your own fathers. Why how you look at the lad. Come, you've
never had him through your hands.
Yes. As it was after hours the clerk told the presenter to call this morning.
Bill forging is tip-top work. The man who did this job knows what he's about. We mustn't alarm him. What time did the clerk tell him to call?
At eleven.
It's within five minutes. You go to your room. I'll take my place at one of these desks as a clerk and send the customers in to you. When the forged bill is presented, you come to the door and say, loud enough for me to hear—"Vanzeller and Co., Penang," and leave the rest to me.
Oh dear no—I like to work single handed— but don't be excited. Take it coolly, or you may
frighten the bird.
Easy to say take it coolly! I haven't been thief catching all my life.
H-sh!
bonâ fide holder
for value—I can face any examination, I can. But I should like to know Hawkshaw's little
game, and I shouldn't mind spoiling it.
He's in his office, sir.
Mr. Gibson?
Would you oblige me, Mr. Gibson, by looking
Yes, a most respectable firm. But all's not gold that glitters; I thought the paper as safe as you do; but, unluckily, I burnt my fingers with it once before. You may or may not remember my presenting a bill drawn by the same firm for discount two months ago.
Yes, particularly well.
Well, sir, I have now discovered that was a forgery.
So have I.
And I'm sadly afraid, between you and me.— By the way, I hope I may speak safely before your clerk?
Oh, quite.
I'm almost satisfied that this bill is a forgery too. The other has been impounded, I hear.
My object in coming here yesterday was, first to verify, if possible, the forgery in the case
of this second bill; and next, to ask your assistance, as you had given value for the first
as well as myself, in bringing the forger to justice.
Really sir,—
Oh, my dear sir! If we City men don't stand by each other in these rascally cases! But before taking any other step, there is one thing I owe to myself, as well as to you, and that is, to repay you the amount of the first forged bill.
But you said you had given value for it?
The more fool I! But if I am to pay twice, that is no reason you should be a loser. I've a
memorandum of the amount here.
Oh! pray, sir, don't trouble yourself about the coppers.
I'm particular in these matters. Excuse me It's a little peculiarity of mine
Oh, my dear sir!
Ah! careless, careless!
Really, sir, I had marked that two hundred and twenty off to bad debt a month ago. By the way, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name?
Wake, sir—Theophilus Wake, of the firm of Wake, Brothers, shippers and wharfingers,
Limehouse, and Dock-street Liverpool. We have a branch establishment at Liverpool. Here's our
card.
So far from expecting you to repay the money, I thought you were coming to bleed me afresh with forged bill No. 2—for a forgery it is, most certainly.
Quite natural, my dear sir, quite natural—I've no right to feel the least hurt.
And what's more, I had a detective at that desk ready to pounce upon you.
No, really!
You can drop the clerk, now, Mr. Hawkshaw.
Hawkshaw! Have I the honour to address Mr. Hawkshaw, the detective, the hero of the great
gold dust robberies, and the famous Trunk-line-transfer forgeries?
I'm the man, sir. I believe —
Sir, the whole commercial world owes you a debt of gratitude it can never repay. I shall have to ask your valuable assistance in discovering the author of these audacious forgeries.
Have you any clue?
He was within a week.
Can you give me a description of him? Age—
Unluckily I know very little or him personally. My partner, Walker Wake, can supply all the information you want.
Where shall I find him?
Here's our card. We'll take a cab and question him at our office. Or
You'll not leave this office till I come back?
If Mr. Gibson will permit me to wait.
You may expect me back in half an hour at farthest
Ha, ha, ha! how very pleasant.
But I'll soon be down on this youngster.
If only he hasn't left London.
Bless you—they can't leave London. Like the moths, they turn and turn about the candle till they burn their wings.
Ah! thanks to men like you. How little society is aware of what it owes its detective benefactors?
There's the satisfaction of doing one's duty— and something else, now and then.
Ah! a good round reward.
That's not bad; but there's something better than that.
Indeed!
Paying off old scores. Now, if I could only clinch the darbies on Jem Dalton's wrists.
Dalton! What's your grudge against him in particular?
He was the death of my pal, the best mate I ever had, poor Joe Skirrit.
Did he murder him?
Not to say murder him right out. But he spoiled him—gave him a clip on the head with a
neddy—
Mr. Hawkshaw, I wish you every success!
But I've other fish to fry now.
Ask anybody for our office!
I'm really ashamed to keep you waiting, sir.
Oh, I can write my letters here.
My dear sir, if you were Dalton himself—the redoubtable Tiger—you couldn't steal ledgers
and day-books, and there's nothing more valuable here—except, by the way, my queer old
depositor, Miss Faddle's, five thousand, that she insists on Mr. Gibson keeping here in the
office in gold, as she believes neither in banks nor bank-notes. And, talking of notes, I may
as well lock up these you so handsomely paid me.
Not believe in notes! Infatuated woman!
Phew!
You ask a great deal too many questions.
I'll trouble you to answer 'em.
By what right?
I'm messenger in this office, and I've a right to know who touches a lock here.
You messenger here? Indeed! and suppose I took to asking questions you mightn't be so keen of answering yourself—Robert Brierly!
You know me!
Yes. And your character from your last place—Port—
Your hair hasn't grown so fast but I can see traces of the prison-crop.
For mercy's sake!
Silence for silence. Ask me no questions and I'll press for no answers.
You must explain your business here to Mr. Gibson. I suspected you for a thief.
And I know you for a jail-bird. Let's see whose information will go the farthest. There,
I'll make you a fair offer, Robert Brierly. Let me pass, and [ leave this place without
breathing a word to your employer that you're fresh from a sentence of penal
Hush! Coming, Mrs. Willoughby.
Is it a bargain?
Go—go—anything to escape this exposure.
Which, I've to ask pardon for intruding, not bein' used to an office, and knowing my place I 'ope. But it's gettin' on for a quarter past eleven, Mr. Robert, and twelve's the latest they will do it, and the breakfast all set out beautiful and some parties is a gettin' impatient, which it's no more than natural, bless her, and Sam that rampagious — But whatever's the matter? You look struck all of a heap like?
Oh, nothing, nothing. It's natural, you know, a man should look queer on his wedding morning. There, go and tell May I'll be with her directly.
Come along, Bob, we're all tired of waiting, especially this child.
Go—go—I'll follow you—I've some business matters to attend to.
A nice state for business you're in—I don't think— There, granny.
Drat your imperence.
But the party's waiting down stairs, and we're wanted to keep 'em in spirits, so come along, granny.
Known! Threatened! Spared by Hawkshaw— only to be denounced by this man
Mr. Gibson, if you please?
He's in his office, sir—that way.
I remember the young man now. A convict get himself into a respectable situation. It is a
duty one owes to society to put his employer on his guard.
Yes—he's gone — I can draw my breath again— I was wrong to let him go. But to have the cup at one's lip, and see it struck away—I couldn't—I couldn't—even the detective had mercy. When we're married, I'll tell Mr. Gibson all.
You can question him, sir, if you don't believe me: any way I've done my duty, and that's what I look to.
Where are you going?
To dress for church, sir.
Stay here.
Sir!
You have deceived me.
Mr. Gibson—
I know all—your crime—your conviction— your punishment!
Mercy! Mercy!
Unhappy young man.
Ah! unhappy you may well call me. I was sentenced, sir, but I was not guilty. It's true, sir, but I don't expect you to believe it—I've worked out my sentence, sir—they hadn't a mark against me at Portland —you may ask 'em—here's my ticket-of-leave, sir. You own I've been steady and industrious since I came here. By heaven's help I mean to be so still, indeed I do.
I dare say, but I must think of my own credit and character. If it was buzzed about that I kept a ticket-of-leave man in my employment—
Heaven help thee, my poor lass.
You are pale you tremble—you are ill! Oh, speak, what is it?
Bear up, May. But our marriage—cannot— be—yet—awhile.
The wedding put off!
No bonnets!
And no breakfasts!
By Jove!
Here's a-go!
Am I dreaming! Robert—what does this mean?
It's hard to bear. Keep up your heart— I'm discharged. He knows all.
Sorry for it. You have both deceived me— you must both leave the place.
You hear—Come, May.
I'll go, sir. It was I deceived you, not he. Only give him a chance—
Never heed her, sir.
Hush, hush, Robert! We were wrong to hide the truth; we are sorely punished but if
My brave wench! Thank you for all your kindness, sir. Good bye, friends. Come, May, we'll go together.
Ah, the subcontractor for the main sewer in the next street. Such a nuisance! stops all traffic—
But sends you all the navvies. It's here they're taken on, and paid you know.
Connexion not aristocratic, but beery; we do four butts a-week at the bar, to say nothing of the concert room up stairs.
Oh, yes, sir! I introduced the arts from the West End. The roughs adore music, especially selections from the Italian Opera, and as for sentiment and sensation, if you could hear Miss St. Evremond touch them up with the "Maniac's Tear," the new sensation ballad, by a gifted composer, attached to the establishment, and sold at the bar, price one shilling: why we've disposed of three dozen "Maniac's Tears" on a pay night —astonishing how it goes down!
With the beer?
Miss St. Evremond, the great sensation balladist, formerly of the Nobility's Concerts, and
her Majesty's Theatre—
Proud to make the acquaintance of so gifted an artiste.
You're very obliging, I'm sure.
Tidy, but nothing to what it will be. It's the navvies pay-night you know.
Navvies! oh lord!
They are not aristocratic, but they are appreciative.
Yes! poor creatures! they do know a good thing when they hear it!
If Miss St. Evremond will oblige us with a ballad—
The Maniac's Tear.
If these gentlemen wouldn't mind.
On the contrary—we like music; don't we, Moss?
I doat upon it; especially Handel!
But where's the accompanist?
I regret to say the signor is disgracefully screwed!
Oh, never mind, Jones can accompany me!
In the trotter line, or the tuneful?
To accompany me on the piano!
Till you're ready, these gentlemen wouldn't like to try a trotter would they? A penny a set, and of this morning's boiling—if I might tempt you? They're delicious with a soupçon of pepper.
No, no, Mr. Jones, these are not your style of customers.
Excuse me, Mr. Maltby, I'm aware trotters are not known in good society; but they go down as a relish, even with people accustomed to entreés! I liked 'em as a swell before I was reduced to them as a salesman.
You're very kind. Jones! Where's the glass?
True—in the humble trotter-man who would suspect the husband of the brilliant St. Evremond!
There's
Now, Jones—you are going to be jealous again! I do believe jealousy's at the bottom of those trotters!
Now's our time while the fools upstairs are having their ears tickled. You've the tools ready for jumping that crib in St. Nicholas Lane?
Yes, but tools ain't enough—I must have a clear stage, and a pal who knows the premises.
I've managed that nobody sleeps in the place but the old housekeeper and her precious grandson.
He's as sharp as a terrier dog—and can bite too a young varmint. If I come across him.
No occasion for that— you're so violent. I've made the young man's acquaintance. I've asked him to meet me here to-night for a quiet little game—his revenge, I called it. I'll dose the lad till he's past leaving the place. You drop a hint to the old lady—she'll come to take care of him. The coast will be clear yonder.
And the five thousand shiners will be nailed in the turning of a jemmy. If we had that young Brierly in the job—he knows the way about the place blindfold. But he's on the square, he is —bent on earning an honest livelihood.
But I've blown him wherever he's got work. He must dance to our tune at last!
Ah! if you've got him in hand! Work him into the job, and I'll jump the crib to-night.
He's applied to be taken on at the contract works near here. This is the pay night—Tottie, the sub-contractor, is a friend of mine—
He's lucky!
Yes. I find him the cash at twenty per cent, till his certificates are allowed by the
engineer. 'Taint heavy interest, but there's no risk--a word from me, and he'd discharge
every navvie in his gang. But I've only
Ah! nobody likes the Portland mark. I know that I've tried the honest dodge, too.
It don't answer.
It didn't with me. I had a friend, like you, always after me. Whatever I tried, I was blown as a convict, and hunted out from honest men.
And then you met me and I was good to you —wasn't I?
Yes. You were very kind.
Always allowed you handsome for the swag you brought, and put you up to no end of good things! and I'll stick by you, my dear—I never drop a friend.
No, till the hangman takes your place at his side.
Don't be disagreeable, my dear—you give me a cold shiver. Hush! here come the navvies.
Gallon 'o beer! measter.
A gallon?
Aye, and another when that's done—I'm in brass to night, and I stand treat. Here, mates,
who'll drink?
No, thank you; I've a poor head for liquor, and I've not had my supper yet.
Thou'st sure it's not pride?
Pride? I've no call for pride—I've come to try and get taken on at the works.
Well, thou looks a tough 'un. There's cast-iron Jack was smashed in the tunnel this morning. There'll be room for thee, if thou canst swing the old anchor.
The old anchor?
Ha, ha! It's easy to see thou's no banker. Why, the pick to be sure —the groundsman's
bread- winner. Halloa, mates, keep a drop for Ginger.
Aye, aye!
Here's the old anchor, boys, and long may we live to swing it.
The pick for ever! Hip, hip, hurrah!
I should think he did —say I'm coming.
Beautiful! Sacred to the memory of Jem Dalton's jack-in-the-box! Ha, ha, ha!
Here, landlord, take your change out of that.
Thou'llt come back, mate?
Here's thy health!
Emily is bringing down the house in the
Stop till we get brass, we'll clear out thy basket.
Yes, the old anchor is my last chance—I've tried every road to an honest livelihood, and, one after another, they are barred in my face. Everywhere that dreadful word, jail-bird, seems to be breathed in the air about me—sometimes in a letter, sometimes in a hint, sometimes a copy of the newspaper with my trial, and then it is the same story, sorry to part with me, no complaint to make, but can't keep a ticket-of-leave man. Who can it be that hunts me down in this way? Hawkshaw spared me; I've done no man a wrong—poor fellows like me should have no enemies. I wouldn't care for myself, but my poor lass, my brave true-hearted May; I'm dragging her down along with me. Ah! here she is.
That will be something new.
I've got a promise of work from the Sailor's Ready Made Clothing Warehouse near here. It
won't
Not yet. He's in yonder paying the men. He'll send for me; but I scarcely dare to ask him. Oh! May, lass, I've held on hard to hope, but it feels as if it was slipping out of my hand at last.
Robert, dear Robert, grasp it hard; so long as we do what is right, all will come clear at last; we're in kind hands, dear—you know we are.
I begin to doubt it, lass—I do, indeed.
No, no; never doubt that, or my heart will give way too—
And thou that has had courage for both of us. Every blow that has fallen, every door that has been shut between me and an honest livlihood, every time that clean hands have been drawn away from mine, and respectable faces turned aside as I came near them, I've come to thee for comfort, and love, and hope, and I've found them till now.
Oh, yes! what's the good of a sunshine wife? It's hard weather tries us women best, dear, you men ain't half so stout-hearted.
I'd not mind the misery so much for myself, 'tis for thee.
I don't complain—do I?
Never! But, nevertheless, I've brought thee to sorrow, and want, and shame. Till I came
back to thee thou hadst friends, work, and comforts. But since Mr. Gibson discharged us off,
the blight that has followed me, has reached thee too, the bravest, honestest, brightest lass
that ever doubled a man's joys, and halved his burdens. Oh! it's too bad;
Bright days! I can't see them through the prison cloud that stands like a dark wall between
me and honest labour. May, lass, I sometimes think I had
Oh, Robert, that is cruel! nothing others could do to us could hurt me like those words from you; we are man and wife, and we'll take life as man and wife should, hand-in-hand: where you go. I will go; where you suffer, I will be be there to comfort; and when better times come, as come they will—we will thank God for them together.
I'll try to hope.
And you won't heed the black thoughts that come over you when you're alone?
I'll do my best to fight 'em off.
That's a brave dear; I'm only going to the warehouse, I shall be back soon. Good-bye, dearest. Remember, when the clouds are thickest, the sun still shines behind them.
Bless that brave bright heart; she puts strength into me, in spite of the devilish doubts
that have got their claws about my throat. Yes, I will try once more.
If this chance fail—God, help us both!
There he goes!
It would be a pity to let a ticket-of-leave man in among all those nice, sober,
well-behaved young men.
I must blow him again; he ought to be near the end of his tether, now.
I don't care—I'm game for anything from sherry to rum-shrub. Suppose we begin with a brandy and soda, to cool the coppers?
I had an awful go in of it last night at the balls, and dropped into a lot of 'em, like a
three-year-old!
Billiards, too! Lord! what a clever young chap you are!
A round or two of brag to begin with, and a few deals at Blind Hookums for a wind up.
Heaven be thanked, another chance yet!
Yes, I'm to come to work to-morrow morning. I'm in Ginger's gang.
I'm Ginger. Come, let's wet thy footing.
My last shilling!
Nay, it shan't be said Ginger Bill ever cleared a chap out neither. I'll pay for thy
footing, and thou'lt stand beer thy first pay night. Here, measter, a gallon
Stop a minute—ace of diamonds!
First stake to you. Hang it! never mind,
A shilling.
Five.
I stand.
Ten.
A sovereign! thirty-one! Third stake, and the brag.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! I'm ruined—ruined.
Now, for my deal.
Best card! First stake. I stand.
I brag. Hang peddling with tizzies—half a crown.
Five.
Ten.
A sovereign.
Oh! dear, what a boy it is! How much have you got in your pocket?
Lots! I'm paid quarterly now. Had my quarter to-day! Another cold without.
Three pairs—fives, trays, deuces, and the knave of clubs.
Hang it all! How is a man to stand against such cards?
How is a man to stand against such play? He was looking over your cards, and
see—
Oh! dear, oh, dear! to say such things to a man at my time of life.
We're not to be bullied.
I shan't! Here, Mr. Maltby.
Come, be off. I can't have any disturbance here, Mr. Moss is a most respectable man, and his friends are as respectable as he is, and as for you if you won't leave the room quietly—you must be made to.
Who'll make me? Come on,
Well, suppose you have—what then?
What then! Oh! dear—oh! dear. And I've run myself into that state of trimmle and perspiration, and if it hadn't been for the gentleman I might have been east, and west, and high, and low, but it's at the "Bridgewater Arms," you'll find him he says—and here I have found you, sure enough—and you come 'ome with me this minute.
It's no use, Granny, I'm not a child to be tied to your apron strings—you've no right to be
naggin' and aggravatin', and coming after a chap, to make him look small this way. I don't
mind—I shan't stir. There!
Oh! dear—oh! dear—he'll break my heart, he will.
Go home, my lad—go home with her—be a son to her —love her as she has loved thee—make her old days happy—be sober, be steady, and when you're a grown man, and her chair's empty at t'chimney corner, you'll mayhap remember this day, and be thankful you took the advice of poor, hunted-down, broken-hearted Bob Brierly.
Here's your purse, old lady.
I'll trouble you not to speak to my grandson. If ever an old man was ashamed of his grey hairs, it's you ought to be. Come, Sam.
No—I didn't give her back her keys.
Aye that he is— ought to be ashamed of himself.
Stow that! He's one of
Aye—Aye.
Here's Bob's health, mates.
Aye—Aye.
Stop;
Oh, man, if you've a heart —
I owe you one—I always pay my debts—
Jail-birds!
Aye—jail-birds. Ask him how long it is since he served his four years at Portland.
Who knows, lads—perhaps he's repented.
No—no.
Aye, mates—it's true I was convicted, but I wasn't guilty. I served my time. I came out an
altered man. I tried hard to earn an honest livelihood
No—no.
Nay, then, my last hope is gone—I can fight no longer!
Eh?
Only tell me —Is it you who have followed me in this way?—who have turned all against me?—who have kept me from earning honest bread?
Yes.
But why, man, why? I had done you no wrong.
Ask him.
I don't know him—yet—I've seen that face before. Yes, it is—Jem Downy! Thou villain!
Easy does it, Bob. Hands off, and let's take things pleasantly.
Not content with leading me into play, and drink, and devilry, with making me your tool, with sending me to a prison, it's you that have dogged me —have denounced me as a convict.
Of course you didn't think any but an old friend would have taken such an interest in you.
Did you want to close all roads against me but that which leads to the dock?
Exactly.
Exactly.
You see, when a man's in the mud himself and can't get out of it, he don't like to see
another fight clear. Come, honest men won't have anything to do with you—best try the black
sheep—we ain't proud.
You always gave him the best of characters.
Is it a bargain?
Yes.
There! Tip us the cracksman's crook—so!
Now a caulker to clench the bargain.
You here—lass?
Oh, these petticoats!
You're not wanted here, young woman.
He is my husband, sir. He is not strong—the drink will do him harm.
Ha, ha, ha! Brandy do a man harm! It's mother's milk—take another sip.
Robert, dear—come with me.
Have you got work?
No—not yet.
No more have I, lass. The man took me on— it was the old story.
Oh, Robert—come!
I shall stay with my friends here—thou go home, and don't sit up for me.
I've my reasons.
Come, are you going?
Oh, Robert, Robert!
These men! to what have they tempted him in his despair. They shan't drive me away.
Shut up. I'm shut up. Good night.
He's in a deplorable state of intoxication.
Yes, he's got his cargo, no danger in him— now for business. First and foremost, no more of
this.
Yes, but you've not told me where it is, or why you want my help?
It's old Gibson's office. The five thousand you know—you know where it's kept.
Well.
And you'll take us to it?
Yes.
That's the ticket, then we may as well start.
Now?
Now. My rule is, never put off till to-morrow the crib I can crack to-day. Besides, you might change your mind.
One has heard of such things.
But—
You crane—
No.
I'll get a cab.
And I'll get another—we'd best go single.
No, it wouldn't be polite to leave Mr. Brierly —
If he'll only leave me for a moment.
Perhaps, if you went to the landlord
No, I'd rather stay with you—I like your company, uncommon.
Here's Mr. Tottie standing champagne round to the Wisconsin Warblers, and the bar stock all
out, and the waiters in bed! I must go down to the cellar myself—very humiliating!
Then I'll go too.
The stairs are steep—two's quite enough.
But I'm so fond of your company.
If you'll hold the light.
Allow me. The light will do best in the middle.
You?
I,
You're sure you had 'em at the public?
Certain sure, my dear, leastways, I let myself out with the big street door, so I couldn't have left that in the kitchen window, and I'd the little ones all in my pocket, which I noticed a hole in it only yesterday— and it's best holland at one and six, and only worn three years, and they ain't dropped into my skirt, nor they ain't a hanging to my crinoline.
Oh, bother, granny, we can't have a regular Custom House search in the street; let's go back to the public, perhaps they've found them.
There's only one set left: perhaps Providence has sent a customer. Trotters, mum?
Mr. St. Evremond.
Mr. St. Evremond—what's he a doin'?
He's in business.
Yes, as a
Oh, my dear, it's a long story and if you wears pockets, mend 'em, is my advice—which, whether they dropped, or whether they was picked—
And you haven't a latch? Well, I wouldn't have thought it of you. Where did she lose them?
At the Bridgewater Arms—and the house is shut up now.
I'm engaged there; I don't mind knocking Maltby up—I rather like it. Come along, Jones,
it's only a step;
Emily thinks trotters low; she don't see that even the trotter trade may be elevated by politeness and attention to seasoning.
Come along, Bob. All serene.
This should be Crampton's beat.
I've followed the cab as far as I could. I saw them get out, and lost them at the last turning. If I could only keep them in sight—if he could but hear my voice— Robert! Robert!
Now to transplant the tools!
I'm just taking a little walk in my garden before retiring for the night; they've gone on to the Cave of Harmony—first turn on the left; there's a red lamp over the door, you can't miss it.
Oh, thank you—thank you!
That's neat! Trust old Moss when anybody's to be made safe.
Stir or speak, and you're a dead man!
We'll share at the Pigeons in Duck Lane. The box! quick!
A word or two first.
We can talk in the cab.
No, here. You were my ruin four years ago.
I've paid you back to-night twice over. Come —the box!
I suffered then for your crime. Ever since you've come between me and honest life—you've broke me down—you've brought me to this.
I suppose you mean you've a right to an extra share of the swag?
No, I mean that you're my prisoner, or you're a dead man!
Hands off, you fool!
Nay then
You should have asked me for the caps. Here they are.
No matter; armed or unarmed, you don't escape me.
Now, Jem Dalton! It's my turn!
Hawkshaw!
Robert! Husband!
Now Jem Dalton! remember poor Joe Skirrett—I promised him I'd do it. I've done it at last.
This way! Here they are! The safe open! The cash-box gone?
No, saved.
By whom?
The man who is bleeding yonder, Robert Brierly.
My husband, wounded! Oh mercy!
Thank heaven, he's not dead. I can repay him yet.
Men don't die so easily. He's worth a dozen dead men.
Look, he opens his eyes. Robert, speak to me, It's May your own wife.