CHAPTER X.
“Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d,There trick wi’ tumult rages;Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d,An’ sense wi’ craft engages.* * * * *“Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair,Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak;An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware,Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak.* * * * *“Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see,Advancin’ for a brek,Just askin’ threyce as much as heKens he’ll consent to tek.‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here,Ye’s have it chep, believe me;’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear.Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’”Rosley Fair, by John Stagg.
“Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d,There trick wi’ tumult rages;Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d,An’ sense wi’ craft engages.* * * * *“Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair,Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak;An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware,Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak.* * * * *“Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see,Advancin’ for a brek,Just askin’ threyce as much as heKens he’ll consent to tek.‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here,Ye’s have it chep, believe me;’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear.Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’”Rosley Fair, by John Stagg.
“Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d,There trick wi’ tumult rages;Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d,An’ sense wi’ craft engages.
“Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d,
There trick wi’ tumult rages;
Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d,
An’ sense wi’ craft engages.
* * * * *
* * * * *
“Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair,Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak;An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware,Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak.
“Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair,
Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak;
An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware,
Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak.
* * * * *
* * * * *
“Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see,Advancin’ for a brek,Just askin’ threyce as much as heKens he’ll consent to tek.‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here,Ye’s have it chep, believe me;’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear.Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’”Rosley Fair, by John Stagg.
“Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see,
Advancin’ for a brek,
Just askin’ threyce as much as he
Kens he’ll consent to tek.
‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here,
Ye’s have it chep, believe me;
’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear.
Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’”
Rosley Fair, by John Stagg.
Weleft Mr. Sandboys engaged in the interesting occupation of hunting after his lost inexpressibles—the very inexpressibles which his wife had mended previous to his departure from Buttermere, and which that lady had since exchanged, together with forty pounds in bank notes and her own marriage certificate in the pockets, for a pot of mignionette and a couple of cut roses.
His son Jobby, too, was employed upon the same agreeable mission; but the researches of the youth were neither vigorous nor profitable, for remembering the unpleasant issue of his previous wanderings in the metropolis, he feared to travel far from the domestic precincts of Craven Street, lest his rambles might end in his being flayed; stripped of his cloth cuticle—his sartorial integuments, once more; the timid boy therefore kept pacing to and fro within view of his own knocker, or if he allowed the domestic door-step to fade from his sight, he did so only when at the heels of the proximate Policeman.
Mr. Cursty, however, was far more venturesome. He thought of his lost bank notes and missing marriage certificate, and what with the matter o’ money and the matrimony, he rushed on, determined not to leave a paving nor a flag-stone untrodden throughout the streets of London, till he regained possession of his lost treasures. So away he went, as the north country people say, “tappy lappy,” with his coat laps flying “helter-skelter,” as if he were “heighty-flighty.”
Up and down, in and out of all the neighbouring streets he hurried, stopping only to ask of the passers-by whether they had met a hawker of flowers on their way. Not a public-house in the neighbourhood but he entered to search and inquire after the missing flower-seller; and when he had explored every adjacent thoroughfare, and bar, and taproom, and, after all, grown none the wiser, and got none the nearer to the whereabouts of the floral “distributor,” he proceeded to unbosom himself respecting the nature and extent of his losses to the police on duty, and to consult with them as to the best means of recovering his notes and “marriage lines.”
All the “authorities” whom he spoke to on the subject, agreed that the only chance he had of ever again setting eyes on his property, was of proceeding direct to the Old Clothes Exchange in Houndsditch, whither the purchasers of the united “left off wearing apparel” of the metropolis and its suburbs daily resort, to get “the best price given for their old rags.”
Accordingly, Mr. Cursty Sandboys, having minutely copied down, in order to prevent mistakes—for his care increased with each fresh disaster—the name and description of the locality which he was advised to explore, called a cab, and directed the driver to convey him, with all possible speed, to the quarter in which the left-off apparel market was situated.
He was not long in reaching the desired spot. The cabman drew up at the end of the narrow passage leading to the most fashionable of the Old Clothes Marts, and Mr. Sandboys having paid the driver well for the haste he had made, proceeded at once to plunge into the vortex of the musty market.
Outside the gateway stood the celebrated “Barney Aaron,” the hook-nosed janitor, with his hook-nosed son by his side—the father ready to receive the halfpenny toll from each of the buyers and sellers as he entered the Exchange, and the youth with a leathern pouch filled with “coppers,” to give as change for any silver that might be tendered.
As Cursty passed through the gate, the stench of the congregated old clothes and rags and hareskins was almost overpowering. The place stank like a close damp cellar. There was that peculiar sour smell in the atmosphere which appertains to stale infants, blended with the mildewy odour of what is termed “mother”—a mixture of mouldiness, mustiness, and fustiness, that was far from pleasant in the nostrils.
Scarcely had Cursty entered the Mart before he was surrounded by some half-dozen eager Jews, some with long grizzly beards, and others in greasy gaberdines—each seizing him by the arm, or pulling him by his coat, or tapping him on the shoulder, as they one and all clamoured for a sight of whatever he might have to sell.
“Ha’ you cot any preaking?” asked one who bought old coats to cut up into cloth caps—“cot any fushtian—old cordsh—or old pootsh?”
“I’m shure you’ve shometing vot will shoot me,” cried another.
“You know me,” said a third—“I’m little Ikey, the pest of puyersh, and always give a cood prishe.”
Such was the anxiety and eagerness of the Israelites, that it was more than Mr. Sandboys could do to force his way through them, and it was not until a new-comer entered with a sack at his back, that they left him to hurry off and feel the old clothes-bag, as they clamoured for first peep at its contents.
Once in the body of the Market, Cursty had time to look well about him, and a curious sight it was—perhaps one of the most curious in all London. He had never heard, never dreamt of there being such a place. A greater bustle and eagerness appear to rage among the buyers of the refuse of London, than among the traders in its most valuable commodities.
Here, ranged on long narrow wooden benches, which extended from one side of the market to the other, and over which sloped a narrow, eaves-like roofing, that projected sufficiently forward only to shelter the sitter from the rain, were to be seen the many merchants of the streets—the buyers of hareskins—the bone-grubbers, and the rag-gatherers—the “bluey-hunters,” or juvenile purloiners of lead—the bottle collectors—the barterers of crockery-ware for old clothes—the flower-swoppers—the umbrella menders—and all the motley fraternity of petty dealers and chapmen. Each had his store of old clothes—or metal—or boots—or rags—or bonnets—or hats—or bottles—or hareskins—or umbrellas, spread out in a heap before him.
There sat a barterer of crockery and china, in a bright red plush waistcoat and knee breeches, with legs like balustrades, beside his half-emptied basket of “stone-ware,” while at his feet lay piled the apparently worthless heap of rags and tatters, for which he had exchanged his jugs, and cups, and basins. A few yards from him was a woman done up in a coachman’s drab and many-caped box-coat, with a pair of men’s cloth boots on her feet, and her limp-looking straw-bonnet flattened down on her head, as if with repeated loads, while the ground near her was strewn with hareskins, some old and so stiff that they seemed frozen, and the fresher ones looking shiny and crimson as tinsel. Before this man was a small mound of old cracked boots, dappled with specks of mildew—beside that one lay a hillock of washed-out light waistcoats, and yellow stays, and straw bonnets half in shreds. Farther on was a black-chinned and lantern-jawed bone-grubber, clad in dirty greasy rags, with his wallet emptied on the stones, and the bones and bits of old iron and pieces of rags that he had gathered in his day’s search, each sorted into different piles before him; and as he sat waiting anxiously for a purchaser, he chewed a piece of mouldy pie-crust, that he had picked up or had given him on his rounds. In one part of the Exchange was to be perceived some well-known tinker behind a heap of old battered saucepans or metal tea-pots, side by side with an umbrella mender, in front of whom lay a store of whalebone ribs and sticks. In another quarter might be seen the familiar face of some popular peep-showman, with his “back-show” on the form on one side of him, while on the other were ranged the physic phials and wine bottles and glass pickle jars that he had taken of the children for a sight at his exhibition; and next to him was located a flower-seller, with his basket emptied of all its blooming and fragrant contents, with the exception of one or two of the more expensive plants, and the places of the missing flowers filled with coats, waistcoats, boots, and hats.
To walk down the various passages between the seats, and run the eye over the several heaps of refuse, piled on the ground like treasure, was to set the mind wondering as to what could possibly be the uses of each and every of them. Everything there seemed to have fulfilled to the very utmost the office for which it was made; and now that its functions were finished, and it seemed to be utterly worthless, the novice to such scenes could not refrain from marvelling what remaining purpose could possibly give value to “the rubbish.”
The buyers, too, were as picturesque and motley a group almost as were the sellers—for the purchasers were of all nations, and habited in every description of costume. Some were Greeks, others were Swiss, while others were Germans. Some had come there to buy up the old rough charity clothing, and the army grey great-coats, for the “Irish” market; others had come to purchase the hareskins or old furs, or to give “the best price” for old tea-pots and tea-urns. One man, with a long flowing beard and greasy tattered gaberdine, was said to be worth thousands; thither he had come to add another sixpence to his hoard, by dabbling in the rags and refuse, strewn about the ground in heaps, for sale: others were there to purchase the old Wellingtons, and to have them new-fronted or their cracks heel-balled over, and then vended to clerks, who are “expected to appear respectable” on the smallest salaries. That Jewess is intent on buying up the left-off wardrobes “of the nobility,” so as to dispose of the faded finery to the actresses of the minor theatres, or the “gay” ladies of the upper boxes. Yonder old Israelite, who goes prowling between the seats, is looking out for such black garments as will admit of being “clobbered” up, or “turned” into “genteel suits” for poor curates, or half-paid ushers of classical academies. Nor does he reject those which are worn even threadbare in parts, for he well knows they will admit of being transformed into the “best boys’ tunics;” while such as are too far gone forthat, he buys to be torn to pieces by the “devil,” and made up again into new cloth, or “shoddy,” as it is termed; and others, which his practised eye tells him have already done that duty, he bids for, knowing that they will still fetch him a good price, even as manure for the ground. Some of the buyers have come principally to purchase the old silk hats—and as they wander among the heaps of old clothes, and rags, and metal, they stop every now and then, and crumple up the shapes in their hands to try whether they have been—as they call it—“through the fire or not,” and those which will stand the test of their experienced touch, they buy for the shops, to have converted into the “best new hats” for the country. Some, again, are there chiefly to “pick up” the old umbrellas, which they value not only for the whalebone ribs but the metal supporters—the latter articles furnishing the material for the greater part of the iron skewers of London; while some of the buyers, on the other hand, have come to look after the old linen shirts, which they sell again to the paper-mills, to be converted, by the alchemy of science, into the newspaper, the best “Bath post,” or even the bank-note.
As the purchasers go pacing up and down the narrow pathways, and pick their way, now among the old bottles, bonnets, boots, rags, and now among the bones, the old metal, the stays, the gowns, the hats and coats, a thick-lipped Jew-boy spouts from his high stage in the centre of the market, “Hot vine a ha’penny a clarsh! a ha’penny a clarsh!” Between the seats, too, women worm their way along, carrying baskets of “trotters” and screaming, as they go, “Legs of mutton two for a penny! two for a penny! Who’ll give me a handsell?—who’ll give me a handsell?” After them comes a man with a large tin can under his arm, and roaring, “Hot peas, oh! hot peas, oh!” In the middle of the market is another vender of street luxuries, with a smoking can of “hot eels” before him, and next to him is a sweetmeat stall, with a crowd of young Hebrews gathered round the keeper of it, gambling eagerly, with marbles, for “Albert rock” and “hardbake;” while at one end of the market stands a coffee and beer-shop, and inside this are Jews playing at draughts, or settling and wrangling about the goods they have bought of one another.
In no other part of London—and, perhaps, in no other part of the entire world—is such a scene of riot, rags, and filth to be witnessed. Every one there is dressed in hisworst—for none who know the nature of the place would think of venturing thither in even decent apparel.
Mr. Sandboys was the universal object of observation. Whathecould have to do in such a place, every one was puzzling his brains to think; and as Cursty hurried up and down between the seats, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his lost inexpressibles, the buyers and sellers, one and all delighted, as he passed, to crack some rude jest upon him. The women wished to know whether he wasn’t hunting after a “nice pair of stays” for his “missus;” the men would hold up some faded livery, and request to be informed whether he was looking for “an ’andsome suit for his Johnny.” But, regardless of their gibes, round and round, like the hyena at the Surrey Gardens, Mr. Sandboys went, in the hope of eventually lighting on his precious nether garments. Not a flower-seller entered the place but Cursty watched him intently, until he had seen every article turned out of his bag, and satisfied himself that the anonymous part of his apparel formed no portion of the man’s left-off stores.
Nor did he think of moving from the place until all the buyers and sellers had quitted it; and when the hour arrived for closing the gates, Cursty hardly knew what course of action to adopt.
At one time it struck him that it would not be a bad plan to do as Aladdin did when he lost his “wonderful lamp,” and go round the town crying, “New breeches for old ones;” but, on second thoughts, he perceived that, however feasible such a plan might have been in Bagdad, it was far from practicable in London; for he felt satisfied, from the universal habit of wearing such articles of dress among the male portion of the metropolitan population—(and, indeed, among not a few of the married females)—that the Londoners’ love of a good bargain, no matter at whose cost, would render them so particularly anxious to make the exchange, that the business he would be likely to do in one street alone would be sufficient, not only to ruin him in pocket, but to break his back with the burden. If the lady denizens of the capital were to be attracted to the linen-drapers’ establishments, solely by the enlivening inducement that somebody was to be ruined by their custom—if, like the Hindoo widows, they delighted in “awful sacrifices,” (at any other persons’ expense than their own) how eager, thought the philosophic Cursty, would wives of London be to deal with him, when they imagined that they could breech their husbands by stripping him of all he had.
After revolving in his mind many equally sagacious plans for the recovery of his precious pantaloons, Mr. Cursty decided that, perhaps, the wisest course to pursue, under all the circumstances, would be to return to his temporary domicile, and there consult with his wife as to the future mode of action. Accordingly, he hailed the first omnibus travelling Strandward, that passed him, and depositing himself within it, was once more on his way towards home.
While Mr. Sandboys, fagged out with his unprofitable and wearisome day’s work, is dozing away the distance from Whitechapel to the Strand in the corner of the long “short stage,” let us take advantage of that uneventful interval to communicate the circumstances that had occurred during his absence to mar again the peace and happiness of his family.
Some three or four hours had elapsed after that gentleman’s departure from home, when Mrs. Fokesell “bounced” breathless into the back attic, which now constituted the sitting-room, bed-room, dressing-room, and kitchen, of the united Sandboys.
“Oh, mum,” the landlady exclaimed, gasping as she wiped her forehead with the corner of her dirty pink cotton apron; “O—oh, mum! here’s a man come from the Station-’us.”
“From t’ Station-house!” echoed Mrs. Sandboys, who had hardly had time to recover the shock of the sudden entry of Mrs. Fokesell; but, on second thoughts, imagining the messenger had brought her tidings of the missing garments, she added: “So then, thank guidness, they’ve caught t’ man with t’ flowers and t’ trousers at last.”
“They’ve caughtyourman, you means, mum,” returned Mrs. Fokesell, shaking her head till the little bunch of vermicular ringlets at each side of her face swung backwards and forwards, like the “wings” of a kite in the wind.
“My man!” ejaculated the terrified Aggy, as she began to have a vague perception that “something dreadful” had occurred to her beloved Cursty. “What in t’ warl’ do’sta mean—what do’sta mean?”
“Why, it’s just this here, mum—that your good man, as you call him”—here the circumspect landlady opened the room-door mysteriously, to satisfy herself that nobody was listening, and then closing it again, advanced towards Mrs. Sandboys, and said, in a half-whisper, “your good man has been and got took up for being drunk and disorderly, and oncapable of taking care of hisself.”
Mrs. Sandboys threw up her hands, and dropped into the nearest chair; while Elcy came and leant over and tried to assure her that “it must be some shocking mistake again.”
But Mrs. Fokesell would not hear of such a thing; she had made most particular inquiries of the “party” below—for at first, she herself could hardly bring herself to believe that such a thorough gentleman, as Mr. Sandboys always appeared to be, could so lower hisself as to be seen intosticated in the public streets—but there couldn’t be no mistake this time, because the “party” had brought one of the “gent’s” cards with him. And when she heard Mrs. Sandboys and Elcy both sobbing at the intelligence, the landlady begged of them “not to go and take on in that manner,” for after his last voyage, Mr. Fokesell hisself—though he was as good a man as ever walked in shoe-leather, so long as he was at sea out of harm’s way—had gone and got overtook by liquor, and been skinned and robbed of everything he had, for all the world like young Mr. Sandboys was, by them painted dolls nigh the docks, and, as if that wasn’t enough to ruin her peace of mind, he must get hisself fined two pounds, or ten days imprisonment, for an assault on a policeman. Here the lady digressed into a long account of Mr. Fokesell’s failings, saying, that ever since their marriage she had never been a penny the better for his money, and that she didn’t know what would have become of her if it hadn’t been for her lodgers and the rent of a six-roomed cottage, that had been left her by her fust husband, who was an undertaker with a large connexion, but a weak, though an uncommon fine man, and who might have made her very comfortable at his death, if he had only done by her as he ought. Whereupon, wholly forgetting the object of her errand to Mrs. Sandboys, she further digressed into a narrative of the mixed qualities of Mr. Bolsh’s—her poor dear first husband’s—character.
Mrs. Cursty, who had been too deeply absorbed in her own family misfortunes to listen to those of Mrs. Fokesell, at length, on recovering her self-possession, requested to be informed where Mr. Sandboys had been “picked up” previous to being taken into custody.
The landlady, anxious to produce as great a sensation as she could, made no more ado, but informed her that her “good man” had been found lying on his back in a gutter in Wild Street, Drury Lane, and that it was a mercy that he hadn’t been druv over by one of them Safety Cabs as was dashing along, as they always does, at the risk of people’s lives.
The circumstance of the messenger having brought Cursty’s card with him was sufficient to preclude all doubt from Mrs. Sandboys’ mind; nevertheless she sat for a minute or two wondering how the misfortune could possibly have happened. At one moment she imagined that the loss of his bank notes had produced so depressing an effect on his spirits that Cursty had gone into some tavern to procure a glass of wine, in the hopes of cheering himself up amid his many misfortunes, and being unaccustomed to take anything of the kind before dinner, had perhaps been suddenly overcome by it. The next minute she felt satisfied that he had been entrapped into some dreadful place and drugged, like poor dear Jobby. Then she began to ask herself whether he could have lighted upon any friend from Cumberland, and in the excitement of the meeting been induced to take a glass or two more than he otherwise would; and immediately after this she felt half convinced that Cursty had discovered the flower-seller, and been so delighted at recovering possession of his pocket-book, that he had accompanied the fellow to some “low place” to treat him, and there, perhaps, been imprudent enough to take a glass of hot spirits and water “on an empty stomach,” and that this had flown to his head, and rendered him quite insensible to everything around him; or else she was satisfied that it was owing to the nasty bit of red herring which he would have that morning for breakfast.
When Mrs. Sandboys communicated to Mrs. Fokesell the several results of her ruminations, that lady was far from being of the same opinion, and did not hesitate to confess that she had long been convinced that the men were all alike, and that, for herself, she wouldn’t trust anyone of them—and especially her Fokesell—further than she could see him.
Mrs. Sandboys, however, was in no humour to listen to such harangues, and starting from her seat, desired to know whether the messenger from the station-house was still below stairs, so that she might accompany him back to her husband. On being answered in the affirmative, she proceeded to “put on her things” with all speed, while Elcy, with her eyes still full of tears, implored to be allowed to go with her.
When her toilet was finished, she kissed her gentle-hearted daughter previous to leaving her (for it was not fit, she said, that young girls should visit such places), and bidding her dry up her tears, for that all would yet be right, she hastened down the stairs, and in a minute afterwards she was on her way, in company with the messenger, towards Bow-street station-house.
The reader must not do poor Mr. Sandboys the injustice to imagine that he had so far forgotten himself as to have made a pillow of one of the metropolitan kerb-stones. Nor was he, at the time referred to, the temporary tenant of one of the Bow-street police cells; for that much maligned gentleman, far from being then in “durance vile,” was still enjoying a disjointed kind of nap in the corner of the Mile-end omnibus.
Let us explain.
The flower-seller, immediately on handling the discarded inexpressibles of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, had discovered that one of the pockets was not wholly empty; and though he was sufficiently alive to the impositions occasionally practised upon members of his fraternity by coachmen, grooms, footmen, and others, to be well aware that articles—especially buttons and pieces of silver paper—were frequently inserted in the fob of cast-off pantaloons, with the view of leading them to imagine that either some notes or coin had been accidentally left in the garments by their late innocent possessors, and so inducing them to give a higher sum for the articles than they were really worth—the flower-seller was, nevertheless, we say, too fully satisfied of the thorough rusticity and consequent simplicity of Mrs. and Miss Sandboys, to believe that they could be capable of any such trick. The hawker, too, was clever tradesman enough to lead Mrs. Sandboys to suppose that he was in no way anxious to become the purchaser of the articles offered to him; and he was particularly careful, as he turned the garments over and over to examine them, never to allow either of the pockets to fall under the notice of Mrs. Sandboys.
As soon as the bargain was settled, and the street-seller of flowers had got fairly out of sight of the house, he was joined by the female who usually accompanied him on his rounds, and of whose services he occasionally availed himself when any feminine article of dress was proffered for exchange. To her the hawker did not hesitate to make known his impression that he had got a “prize.” Accordingly, the two retired up the first court they came to on their way from the house, to examine what it was that the pockets really contained. The pocket-book was soon had out—each compartment being carefully searched—and when the roll of notes was found, their glee knew no bounds; but the woman, who acted as interpreter on the occasion—the man himself being unable to read—was perhaps even more delighted when she discovered the certificate of Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys’ marriage at Lorton Vale Church, in Cumberland; for, though not attaching a particularly high moral value to the hymeneal ceremony, she thought, knowing the prejudices of society in this respect, that the possession of such a document might prove of some little service to her on some future occasion. When, therefore, the two came to divide the proceeds of their good fortune, the lady stipulated that the marriage certificate should be hers, and that in consideration of this, she said her mate might take three of the notes, and she would be satisfied with two. This appeared so advantageous an arrangement to the gentleman, that, caring nothing for the possession of the “lines,” he immediately closed with the offer.
The arrangement, however, was far from being so advantageous as it appeared; for the lady, on proceeding to divide the treasure, availed herself of her “mate’s” want of education, so as, while giving him the greater number of notes, to retain for herself those of the higher value. Accordingly she handed him over three fives out of the forty, keeping a twenty and a five for her own portion. It was then settled between them that the man should proceed to the Old Exchange and dispose of the contents of his bag, while his partner should return home and get a bit of “summut particular good” against his arrival.
The sense of being the possessor of so large a sum of money, was too great a temptation for the hawker’s slender sobriety to withstand; while the treasure remained in his pocket, he could hardly assure himself of its worth, for people of his grade in life have generally an utter want of faith in the value of what appears to them to be nothing more than a strip of silver paper. Besides, he thought it would be prudent to “run for gold” as soon as possible, for he well knew that the current coin of the realm, unlike bank notes, bore no numbers by which one sovereign or shilling could be distinguished from another.
A variety of circumstances, therefore, conspired to lead the man into the first public-house he came to. Here he entered the taproom, and placing his basket of flowers on the seat beside him, called for a pint of “dog’s nose”—a combination of gin and beer, to which the gentleman was particularly partial.
This had the effect of rendering the hawker indisposed for prosecuting his journey to Houndsditch. What was the use, he began to ask himself, of his going all that way to sell a few rags, when he didn’t want for a pound or two? Accordingly, as the liquor got to make him feel more and more careless, he commenced tossing and raffling away the remaining flowers in his basket, among such as entered the taproom during his stay there; and while the gambling was going on, he partook of a second and a third quantum of his favourite potion, so that, by the time he had got rid of all his plants, he felt inclined to enjoy himself, and disposed to go anywhere but home. Still, however, he entertained some little difficulty respecting his costume, which certainly was not fitted for holiday-making, for, like the rest of the old clothes’ dealers, he was habited in his worst, with the view of attending the Houndsditch Exchange at the close of his day’s labours; and as he ran over to himself the several places of amusement that he should like to visit, he debated in his own mind as to what he should do for a “change.” To return home and put on his brown Petersham coat and bright “yellow kingsman” neckerchief, that he delighted to sport in Battersea Fields on a Sunday, was to go through a greater amount of exertion, at that precise moment, than he was inclined to undertake; and as he discussed within himself the several other modes of supplying his deficiency, it struck him that he had swopped a cactus that morning with a lady up in Clarendon Square for a “very tidy Pallytott,” and “these,” as he justly observed, “with the pair of breeches as he took with the pocket-book in ’em, would turn him out fit even for the ‘Heagle.’” Accordingly, he emptied the contents of his clothes-bag on one of the tables, and having selected therefrom such articles as he thought would suit him for the occasion, he proceeded at once, amid the laughter of all present, to indue himself with the garments; then having obtained permission of the landlord to leave the basket and bag in his charge for awhile, the hawker sallied forth, determined, like the quondam possessor of the trowsers he then wore, upon “enjoying himself.”
Still the flower-seller was undecided whither to direct his steps. At first he thought of Greenwich Park and a feast of tea and shrimps; but, though Greenwich had attractions, tea had none for him. Next he turned his attention to the Red House, but he knew of no pigeon match that was to come off there that day, sothatwould not suit him. “Then he made up his mind to pay a visit to theBower,” and the minute after he changed it in favour of “Lord Effingham’s concerts.” Still, what was he to do with himself till they began? He had it! he wouldn’t go to any of the places—he’d be off that moment to Rosherville—and yet it was getting late in the day for a trip to Gravesend, so he’d take a run down to Hungerford instead, and go on to the roof of the Swan and have a treat of periwinkles and ale. Accordingly he turned round and proceeded in the opposite direction to that on which he was before journeying.
But the flower-seller was too fond of halting at each tavern on the way to get even that far. The money he possessed, as the street people themselves say, “seemed to burn in his pocket;” and the drink he had already taken made him crave for more, so that it would have required greater strength of mind than he was master of to have refrained from entering the next public house he came to. The liquor that he here swallowed served as usual only to increase his thirst for more of the same maddening fluid. So on he went, “dropping in” at every “public” on his way, and standing at the bar drinking, wrangling, or tossing with any one whom he could “pick up.” At length, with the many glasses of raw spirit that he had taken on his road, the drink got to produce so violent an effect upon his temper, that the more respectable of the landlords refused to serve him; but this tended only to make him still more furious, so that at almost every tavern he visited, he was forced to be turned into the street before he could be got rid of. At one house, however, it was found impossible to get rid of him without closing the doors; for each time that he was thrust out, back he came staggering and offering to fight everybody at the bar. Seeing, therefore, that it was useless attempting to enter, he sat himself down on the step and went fast asleep against the door; on being roused by the pot-boy and desired to go about his business, the hawker grew so enraged that he jumped from his resting-place and strove to seize hold of the lad so that he might wreak his vengeance upon him. In the attempt, however, to catch the youth, the flower-seller stumbled and fell heavily on his back beside the kerb, and there he lay unable to raise himself, with a crowd of boys shouting and playing every imaginable trick upon him.
The arrival of the police at length put an end to the whole affair, and the hawker, with a dense crowd after him, was carried off, struggling and bellowing among four of the stoutest of the force, each holding him by one of his extremities. On being searched at the station-house, Mr. Sandboys’ pocket-book was found in the hawker’s possession; in one of its compartments were the cards of address belonging to that gentleman. The authorities, believing these to be the rightful property of the flower-seller, proceeded at once to enter, among the list of offenders of that day, the name of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, of Craven-street, Strand, as having been found drunk, disorderly, and incapable of taking care of himself.
The reader knows the occurrences that followed. A messenger was despatched to the residence of Mr. Sandboys, to apprise that gentleman’s family of his unpleasant position.
Mrs. Sandboys had been gone but a short while, before Cursty, who had been “dropped,” as the idiom runs, by the omnibus, at the top of the street, staggered, half asleep and half awake, up to the door.
He had no sooner set foot on the door-mat, than Mrs. Fokesell, who had espied him from the kitchen window, and run up to answer his knock, threw up her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, in a familiar way, “How in the world did you ever get out?”
The innocent Christopher was unable to comprehend either the cause of the lady’s surprise, or the meaning of her question. “What do’sta mean, woman?” he said.
“Oh!” returned Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye as she nudged his elbow; “you needn’t mind telling me—I knows all about it. There’s been a party up here, and told us of all your goings on.”
“My gangings an!” exclaimed Cursty. “Ye may well say that, for I’ve been half ow’r London.”
“Very well turned off”!” retorted Mrs. Fokesell; “but it won’t do. We’re up to all your tricks, we are: so you’d much better confess at once. Oh, you’re a sly old fox—though perhaps you ain’t much wuss than the rest of you men. Fokesell was almost as bad—hardly a pin to choose betwixt you.”’
Mr. Sandboys, fatigued and vexed with the futility of his journey, felt in no way inclined for jesting; so, brushing past the unceremonious landlady, he darted up the stairs to the family garret.
Mrs. Fokesell, however, in anticipation of a “scene,” which she longed to witness, hastened after him, and was just in time to behold Elcy throw herself into her father’s arms, and burst into subdued hysterics at the unexpected pleasure of his return.
For a few minutes the landlady stood unobserved at the doorway, and while Cursty was wondering within himself why his daughter should receive him with so unusual an outburst of affection, and coupling her tears with the mysterious conduct and insinuations of Mrs. Fokesell, he began to ask himself, half in fear, “What fresh disaster could have befallen them now?”
Elcy kissed him again and again, telling him each time how happy she was that she had him home again. “Could she get him anything, or would he not like to lie down?” she inquired.
“Yes, Miss,” interrupted the busy Mrs. Fokesell, “if your Pa will be advised by me, he’ll take off his boots, and go and lie on the bed for an hour or two—and let me get him a bottle of soda water, while you puts a wet towel round his head, for if you looks at his eyes you’ll see they’re quite bloodshot.”
“My e’en bluidshot!” ejaculated Mr. Sandboys, growing half enraged at the apparent unmeaningness of the whole of the landlady’s remarks; however he went to the glass to see if there were anything odd enough in his looks to account for the peculiarity of the landlady’s behaviour. His eyes were a little red, certainly, he thought, as he scrutinized his countenance, but that arose from the “nap” he had indulged in during his ride home, and beyond this he could see nothing which could call forth so much anxiety on his behalf.
“Do, father,” said Elcy, “dogo and lie down, or you’ll be ill, I am sure.”
“Yes;” chimed in Mrs. Fokesell, “I’m sure it’s a wonder you hasn’t got the ‘delirious trimmings‘ as it is. Fokesell, I know, once had ’em after one of these bouts, and then he fancied he was aboard his ship, in our back parlour, and that the house was agoing down, all hands, ’cause I wouldn’t work the pumps. Now, come, there’s a good gentleman,dobe persuaded by Miss Elcy, and go to bed for an hour or two.”
“Go to bed!” echoed Sandboys, tetchily. “I’m not tired—I’ve had a nap.”
“Oh, yes, we know,” retorted Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye and nodding her head, in a manner that is considered to speak volumes, and which was certainly meant to insinuate to the unsuspecting Sandboys that the lady was acquainted with the fact of his having tried to take “forty winks” in the gutter; “and we knowwhereyou had your nap too. Fine times, indeed, when you gents must needs go falling asleep in the ‘kennel.’”
“In t’ ‘kennel,’” shouted Sandboys, in none of the mildest tones. “What do’sta mean, woman, what do’sta mean, I say?”
“Oh, you knows what I means, well enough, Mr. Slyboots—going and doing such things, thinking it ’ud be unbeknown to your missus. A nice time she’d have on it if she only knowed all, I’ll be bound to say.” And here Mrs. Fokesell gave herself a jerk, expressive, as she imagined, of the highest possible indignation.
“How daresta speak to me in that way?” demanded the incensed Cursty. “Leave t’ room, woman.”
“Father! father! pray calm yourself,” said Elcy, growing alarmed at what she imagined to be the lingering effect of her parent’s indiscretion. “Pray be calm, and go and lie down just a little while.”
“Lie down! why, what’s come to you aw’? You seem to be aw’ mad tegidder. But where’s your mother?”
“Ah! you may well ask that,” answered the pert Mrs. Fokesell—“gone to look after you; and I suppose you can remember the kind of place you’ve come from?”
“I come from Houndsditch, I tell tha, woman,” replied Mr. Sandboys, curtly, for he was afraid to give full vent to his feeling, lest he might receive “notice to quit,” and then be left without a roof to shelter himself or family.
“You must tell that to the marines, as my Fokesell used to say,” retorted the landlady; “for I knows better—so it’s no use your denying the tricks you have been at no longer; and all I got to say is, the sooner you has your temples bathed with winegar, the better it will be for you in the morning. Come, now. I’m a married woman, and knows all about these matters. Bless you! my Fokesell has taken a drop too much many a time; so just let me go and get you a Seidelitz powder, or, if them’s too cold for you, be persuaded by me, and take a couple of ‘Cockles.’”
Poor Mr. Sandboys sat all this time almost “boiling over” with rage. He bit his lip between his teeth to prevent his saying a word, for he now began to see that not only the landlady, but his daughter, both imagined that he had been drinking. Why they should imagine as much was more than he could conceive, but it was evident that such was their impression.
“I’m sure your head must ache, father,” said Elcy, observing her parent bite his lip, as she fancied, with pain. “It really burns like a fire,” she added, as she laid her hand across his forehead.
“Doan’t be a fuil, child!” cried Cursty, as he angrily dragged down her arm. “I shall go mad among you aw’, I shall. What in t’ warl’s happened, to put sic notions in tha head?”
Here the girl of all-work tapped at the attic-door, and informed Mrs. Fokesell that there was a young man below stairs as wanted to speak with the lady of the house.
The landlady disappeared for a few minutes, and then suddenly darted back into the room, with cap-strings flying a yard behind her.
“Well, Idodeclare,” she exclaimed, standing with her hands on her hips, “if you ain’t all of a piece;—fust it’s you, and then it’s your missus. Ah, you may stare, but I’ve got a pretty set in my house, it seems. Here’s a young man below as has come to say that Mrs. Sandboys has got took up for assaulting a policeman, and that she’s a lying in the station-house till her case comes on for hearing.”
“Heavens!” cried Cursty, “it canna be true——”
“Oh, father! father! what will become of her?” said the afflicted Elcy, as her head fell on her parent’s shoulder, in terror at the thoughts of her mother being in such a place.
“What can it aw’ mean?” shouted Sandboys.
“Why, the lad says, as well as I can make it out, that Mrs. Sandboys went into the Black Bull public house—of all places in the world for a lady—to ask for change—and that there some noise or other arose about the money; that then the police was called in to settle the matter, and that on his stating that Mrs. Sandboys was not a proper woman, she flew at him, and nearly tore him to bits. And the young man does tell me,” continued the landlady, “that the language she used on the occasion was quite dreadful for decent people to hear—so a pretty set indeed it seems I’ve let into my house. Well, I always thought you was a queer lot, that I did—and I said as much to Mrs. Quinine as had my second floor. I’m sure the house has been like a common bear-garden ever since I’ve had you in it—what with your screams when a few coals was shot on top of you—and what with your frightening poor Mrs. Quinine nearly out of her life, and alarming the whole house with the screams of the dear thing—and what with your threatening to murder the policeman in my kitchen with my red-hot poker—and what with the springing of rattles, and collecting a mob round myhairyrails—and what with your allowing your son to be brought home here by a common policeman in the disrespectable state he was; and now what with the two police reports as there will be in the paper about you to-morrow morning, there’ll be fine talk about my house and my people all up and down both sides of the street. You’ll bring a scandal upon me, you will. I’m sure I’ve never knowed a moment’s peace—never since I was fool enough to be persuaded to allow you to set foot under my roof. But you’ll please to provide yourself with some other lodging the moment your week is up, for not another minute after do you stay here, I can tell you.”
Mrs. Fokesell, who had grown red in the face with the long catalogue of her grievances, was obliged to come to an end for sheer want of breath.
It was useless for Cursty to seek to obtain any more definite information from her in the excited state of her mind, for immediately he ventured to question her as to what had befallen his wife, it was but the signal for her to renew her vituperations. At last, putting on his hat, he hastened down stairs to the youth who had brought the intelligence, and proceeded to accompany him in search of his dearest Aggy.
Mrs. Sandboys, however, it should be made known, had been no more concerned in the occurrence above detailed than her lord and master had been the hero of the scene previously described; for the “lady” who had passed under that name was none other than the mate of the flower-seller, who had become possessed of the Sandboys’ marriage certificate. Proceeding on her way home, it had struck the woman that it would be as well to convert the twenty pound note into sovereigns as soon as she possibly could, for on a closer inspection of the valuable, she had perceived that the name of the gentleman mentioned in the marriage certificate was inscribed on the back of it. Accordingly she entered a public house where she was not known, and after having partaken of a glass of gin-and-rue, and the half of a pork pie, she tendered the bank note in payment for what she had devoured. The landlord, however, looked upon the possession of a note for so large a sum by one of so mean an appearance as a very suspicious circumstance, and believing that she had not come honestly by the money, began to question her as to how and where she had obtained it. Finding that her answers were not particularly lucid or consistent on the subject, he thought it best to send for a policeman, and leave the officer to decide upon what course to take. The official, on seeing the woman, was as confident as the landlord that the note had been got hold of by unfair means, nor did he hesitate to tell the woman that he was satisfied she had stolen it from some gentleman, insinuating at the same time that she was, as the phrase runs, “no better than she should be.” The words were no sooner uttered than the woman, incensed at being foiled in her prize, flew at the policeman, and with her clenched fist beat him in the face so vigorously that before the man had time to defend himself he was covered with blood.
In a few moments afterwards she was on her way, handcuffed, to the station-house, while the landlord, who had handed the note over to the officer, thought it best to send the messenger before mentioned to the address inscribed on the back of it.
On reaching the station house, the superintendent directed that the woman should be immediately taken before the sitting magistrate, so that the charge might be disposed of with the least possible delay.
His worship, on hearing the evidence of the policeman, demanded to know what proof the woman could adduce as to the note being her own lawful property, as she asserted; whereupon she drew forth the marriage certificate of the Sandboys, protesting most loudly that it was her own. The magistrate, having perused the document carefully throughout, and satisfied himself of its authenticity, said there could be no doubt that the woman was really the person whom she represented herself to be.
Finding the magistrate take this view of the case, the female flower-seller then laid a formal complaint against the policeman, declaring that he had insulted her in the grossest manner that a respectable married woman could possibly be insulted, insinuating that she was a person of immoral character, when his worship could see by the marriage lines as she had shown him, that she was as honest a woman as any in London. The man’s conduct, she added, had thrown her into such a passion that she really did not know what she had done to him after he had insulted her: and she put it to his lordship whether his good lady would not have done the same.
The magistrate, though hardly inclined to take that extreme view of the case, still acknowledged that every excuse was to be made for the woman, adding that the officer had no right whatever to make any such insinuation without having indisputable proof of the fact—and that, as it was, he should dismiss the case, warning the policeman to be more cautious in future, and ordering the note to be restored to the woman, upon whose character he was bound to say there was not the slightest stain.
But to return to our lost mutton—Mr. Christopher Sandboys.
Immediately on learning from the boy of the “Black Bull,” the precise part of the town in which the lady passing by the name of Mrs. Sandboys was held in “safe custody,” Cursty called a cab, and having placed the lad on the box beside the driver, deposited himself within it, ordering the man to carry him with all haste whither the youth should direct.
On reaching the station-house, to Cursty’s great delight, he was informed that Mrs. Sandboys had been discharged, as the magistrate said, “without the slightest stain on her character,” while the policeman, who had suffered so severely from the lady’s indignation, and who now began to fear, from the presence of Mr. Sandboys, that the magistrate had been perfectly correct in his conviction as to the honesty of the woman who had been brought before him, thought it prudent to apologize for his mistake, lest an action for something or other might be commenced against him.
The consequence was, that Cursty hastened back home quite as fast, if not faster, than he had hastened from it, in the hopes of clutching his poor injured Aggy to his bosom, and consoling her under her heavy trials, with the assurance of his undoubting affection.
During the absence of Mr. Sandboys, his better half had returned from Bow-street, where she had been agreeably surprised to find that Mr. Sandboys, or rather the gentleman known there by that name, had been bailed out a few minutes before her arrival, and had left the station accompanied by his friends. In vain did she make inquiries as to the name of the bail, in the hope of ascertaining who the friends could have been that had done her husband so great a service; for she was not aware of his being acquainted with a single individual in London: nor did the names and addresses of the sureties, when read over to her, tend in the least to enlighten her on the subject; so, as she found the authorities little disposed to enter into that minute account of the proceedings which was necessary to clear up the mystery, she left the police-office, and proceeded on her way home, wondering within herself who “in t’ name of guidness” the friends could be; and coming to the conclusion that they were some Cumberland people who had come up for the opening of the Exhibition, and whom her Cursty had stumbled upon in the course of his rambles through London.
On reaching home, Mrs. Fokesell, who had recognised, from the kitchen, the skirt of Mrs. Sandboys’ dress as it whisked round the corner of the door-step, ran up the stairs in immediate answer to her knock; and no sooner had she closed the door after the lady, than she began wondering how she could have the impudence to show her face in that house after what had happened, and begging to assure her, with a significant shake of her cap, that she was not in the habit of letting lodgings to people who occasionally occupied an apartment in the station-house.
Mrs. Sandboys imagined, of course, that she alluded to her husband’s recent incarceration, and not being particularly proud of the circumstance herself, endeavoured to calm the landlady’s irritation on the subject.
But Mrs. Fokesell was not to be appeased, and she gave Mrs. Sandboys plainly to understand, that she ought to think herself highly favoured to be allowed to set foot within her door again, after her shameful, unlady-like conduct to the policeman.
Aggy, imagining that the landlady referred to her inquiries at the station-house, endeavoured to call to mind how she could possibly have committed herself.
But Mrs. Fokesell soon informed her, that it was useless her attempting to play the innocent to her, for a man had been down there and told her about her shameful goings on, and how she had beaten one of the force within an inch of his life.
Mrs. Sandboys stood aghast at the accusation. At first she wondered how such a charge could possibly be trumped up against her; then she imagined it must surely be some jest of the landlady’s; but Mrs. Fokesell soon put that notion to flight, by not only repeating the aspersion, but adding, that she had been informed, on the very best authority, that she was well known to the whole of the police, as not being the most respectable person in the world.
This was more than the Cumberland blood of Mrs. Sandboys could bear; and, holding in her breath with the effort of subduing her wrath, she demanded to know what Mrs. Fokesell meant by such an assertion.
Mrs. Fokesell, who was nothing daunted, did not make the slightest attempt to mince the matter, but proceeded to tell her lodger, in the most unequivocal terms, that the policeman had declared that he knew she was not an honest woman.
Mrs. Sandboys could hardly contain herself for rage. If ever she had felt inclined to commit an assault upon any one, it was at that particular moment. Her fingers were all of a work, and it was evidently as much as she could do to keep her hands from tearing the landlady’s cap from her head. She could have borne any imputation in the world save an aspersion on her virtue.
Again she demanded of Mrs. Fokesell an immediate and full explanation. How dare a low-bred woman like her tell her she was not an honest woman—when Mrs. Fokesell, herself a married female, (and Mrs. Sandboys laid a strong emphasis on both of the words,) was without so much as a husband to show for herself. It was very well to make out that he was at sea, but nothing was easier than tosayas much.
It was now Mrs. Fokesell’s turn to grow scarlet with rage, and the words were scarcely uttered before she thrust her hands in the huge pocket she wore at her side, and drawing out an old “housewife,” she took from it a piece of paper, which, having torn open, she thrust into the face of the terrified Mrs. Sandboys, saying, as she shook it vigorously, “There’s my marriage lines, woman! show your’n! show your’n, if you can, and prove yourself to be what you says you are.”
Poor Mrs. Sandboys felt the helplessness of her position. She knew that she had parted with her certificate in the act of disposing of her husband’s old trowsers. It was idle for her to think of an explanation—of course it could but appear as a lame excuse on the present occasion; so prudence made her gulp down her indignation, and try to soothe the infuriated Mrs. Fokesell, who was once more making her misfortune the laughing-stock of the whole house—for the lodgers, hearing the wrangling of the two ladies in the passage, had crept one by one from their respective apartments, and stood with their necks stretched out over the balusters, giggling at the disputants below.
But the gentle Fokesell was rather anxious to make a public case of the matter, and finding that she was getting a good audience about her, shouted at the top of her voice, “Where’s your marriage lines? where’s your marriage lines?—where’s your marriage lines, I ask again, in the presence of all these respectable gentlemen.”
This was the unkindest cut of all, and Mrs. Sandboys sought to escape up stairs, but Mrs. Fokesell was in no humour to let her off so easily. She could not forget the base insinuations that the lady had presumed to throw out respecting the apocryphal character of her absent Fokesell, and feeling satisfied of Mrs. Sandboys’ inability to justifyhercharacter, by the production of her marriage certificate, she felt the more enraged that such a stigma should be cast upon her by such a person; accordingly, as Mrs. Sandboys endeavoured to get away from her, she seized that lady by the arms, and with her teeth clenched, proceeded to shake her violently against the wall, while the terrified Aggy shrieked “murder!” in her shrillest tones.
At this critical state of affairs, a loud double knock at the street door made the passage echo with its clamour. This had the effect of inducing Mrs. Fokesell to relax her hold of the poor trembling Mrs. Sandboys, to whose great relief, on the door being opened, no less a person than her own dear Cursty made his appearance.
Immediately that gentleman was fairly in the passage, the exasperated landlady sought to empty the vials of her wrath on the heads of the innocent couple, but Mr. Sandboys, observing the agitated state of his wife, and judging from a glance the nature of the scene that had transpired, thought it prudent to withdraw to his own apartment; though as he and Aggy ascended the stairs, they could hear Mrs. Fokesell in the passage below vowing all kinds of vengeance against them both on the morrow, and heaping on their names epithets that were not of the most choice or flattering description.
Once by themselves, each began to console the other. Cursty of course believed that his beloved Aggy had suffered imprisonment for assaulting a policeman. Aggy too, in her turn, fancied that her dear Cursty had been only just released from the station-house, where he had been confined for being drunk and disorderly, and each sought to learn from the other what circumstances could possibly have induced them so far to forget themselves. Elcy, who looked upon them both as martyrs, was delighted to welcome them back again, for while each of her parents believed that the other had transgressed, she had been led to imagine that they both had been incarcerated for violating the law in some way or other.
Mrs. Sandboys was anxious that Cursty should retire to rest, for she was afraid that he must have taken cold from sleeping in the street, as she had been informed he had done; and Cursty begged that she would dismiss the whole affair from her mind until the morrow, when they would both be in a better condition to speak calmly on the subject. He was sure a glass of wine would do her good, after all the violent exertion she had gone through. But Mrs. Sandboys, alluding to her trip to the station-house after her husband, begged to assure him that it was solely on his account that she had done what she had, and all she could say was, she’d do it again to-morrow for his sake. Cursty, however, who believed that she referred to her late assault on the policeman, felt within himself in no way anxious that she should encourage a habit of resenting any attack upon her honour, in the Amazonian manner in which she had so recently distinguished herself, lest some day or other, she might resort to the same unpleasant means of vindicating herself, when aggrieved, even with him. Then he told how he had gone off to the station-house merely out of his regard to her. But Mrs. Sandboys was unable to perceive how his falling asleep in the gutter was calculated in any way to benefit her; and thus the worthy couple went on for some time, playing at cross purposes, until at last an explanation became necessary; and then they both saw clearly that their names had been assumed by some unprincipled persons, though with what motive they neither of them could comprehend. Cursty, however, was determined to sift the affair to the bottom, and hurrying back to the station-house whither the woman had been conveyed, he obtained a minuter account of the whole circumstances than he had previously been able to receive, and soon became convinced that the woman was an accomplice of the flower-seller, who had got possession of part of the notes, and the marriage certificate that had been deposited in the missing pocket-book.
When he returned home and cleared up the mystery to his wife, Aggy could plainly see through it all, and what was more, she felt satisfied that they’d many more troubles to come, for so long as that certificate was out of their possession they could not tell what might turn up against them.
The next morning a climax was put to their distress of mind, in the shape of a long “comic” police report in all the daily papers, detailing how Mrs. Christopher Sandboys, of Cumberland, who had come up to town to see the Great Exhibition, had made a furious attack upon one of the most active members of the metropolitan police force.