CHAPTERLXIII.MR. WRENCH AND JOE DOUGHTY—A VAGRANT’S LODGING HOUSE.The glories of Bartholomew Fair, of Greenwich, and a host of others in the neighbourhood of the metropolis have long since passed away, and it is not at all likely they will ever be resuscitated. But fairs of various descriptions are still held in many parts of England, but they are considerably shorn of their leading attractions.Mr. Wrench’s motive for hastening to Nantwich was to be present at the hiring fair at a small hamlet within a few miles of that place.On Pack-rag Day (the 29th of September), the serfs of agriculture pack up their clothes and seek fresh masters.And on this day the farmers, dressed in their Sunday clothes, ride to the mansions of their landlords, their faces bright with honest pride, their leather bags filled with gold coins and bank notes.The scene has been faithfully depicted in Wilkie’s celebrated picture of the “Rent Day.”The landlords, seated before their blue bundles of quarter’s bills, receive their tenants with smiles of welcome and gratitude—that is, if the latter are furnished with the amount of rent due.In some parts of England it is still customary among the lords of manors and proprietors of large lands to give a dinner to their tenants on the rent days, as shown in Wilkie’s well-known picture.But these quarterly feeds are now rapidly dying out of date, and will soon no longer exist, except in the hall of some youthful squire, who may be gifted with a dramatic passion for revivals.Like fairs, these convivial gatherings are fast becoming obsolete.In the year referring more especially to this history, the hiring fair to which Mr. Wrench was about to pay a visit happened to fall on quarter-day; so all the farmers of the neighbourhood paid their rents early, and rode on to the place to engage their carters, shepherds, and farm maids for the ensuing year.Mr. Wrench was not a man to be a day behind the fair. He came to a halt at a small village within an easy walk of it the day before its fun and frolic was to commence.He put up at a roadside inn, and secured the best bed in the establishment for Nell Fulford.This done, he explored the neighbourhood, having for his companion the redoubtable Joe.Near to the junction of three cross roads, there stood, at the time of which we are writing, a low-looking beershop bearing the sign of the “Travellers’ Rest.”This place was a vagrants’ lodging-house, and as Mr. Wrench and his rustic companion came within sight of the house the detective regarded it with a considerable amount of interest.After surveying it for some time he said to Joe Doughty—“As far as the accommodation is concerned I don’t know that I can recommend it, but if you don’t mind taking up your quarters in it for one night it would be as well. Tramps, thieves, and vagabonds of all sorts are accustomed to pay nightly visits to the ‘Travellers’ Rest,’ as it is termed, and it is possible you may be able to pick up some information respecting the man of whom we are in search.“If I thought that, I’d stop there this very night!” cried Joe.“I wish you would.”“Don’t ’ee say another word upon the matter, guv’ner—I’ll be one among ’em.”“And you can see me in the morning at the ‘Dun Cow.’ I would join you, but the chances are that some of the tramps in the ‘Travellers’ Rest’ would know me, and that would be fatal to us. You are a stranger—keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut, and who knows but you may gain the hundred pounds reward?”“I beant a-goin’ to take a shilling on it, coom what may,” returned Joe, in an indignant tone.“Very well, my man, that you can please yourself about.”“Noo, not a penny.”Mr. Wrench and Joe returned to the “Dun Cow,” this being the roadside house in which the former had taken up his quarters.Our detective was a diplomatist in his own peculiar way.His object was to remain as unobserved as possible till the day of the fair, but his rustic friend was appointed to what might be termed outpost duty.When night came on Joe was dispatched by the commander-in-chief to the vagrants’ lodging-house.The house in question had at one time been a respectable habitation.The lower part was built of brick, once red and flourishing, but now dirty and dingy; and about half-way up were boards, once painted white, which took the place of their more solid neighbours below. They were what was called weather-boards, and ran along one over the other, in order that the rain might drop off them to the ground.The walls below were substantial enough; the yard gate and large fore-court were amply covered with tall grass or graceless weeds.The gate that once was closed each night by the smart and active ostler now stood back on one hinge, resting, therefore, partly on the ground.And the stables once filled with prancing or neighing, or, at least, well-fed steeds, were at this time only warmed by the breath of beggars, too poor even to pay a groat for a night’s lodging, and who compounded with their host for a twopenny night’s straw in the outhouses.Occasionally, indeed, some benighted and bestormed waggoner, unable to reach the usual place of his sojourn, would unwillingly or unwittingly stop at the “Travellers’ Rest,” and allow his horses to share the same fate as the beggars who surrounded them. But such visits were few and far between, and even waggon horses would avoid if they could “the vagrants’ lodging-house.”The “Travellers’ Rest” was one of those houses which was known by all classes of mendicants, whether belonging to thesilverclass, or what are styled by all well-informed travellersbarkers, to thehighflyersor begging letterwriters to theshallow covesor impostors, who in various garbs obtain clothes from the compassionate and charitable to a great amount, and then sell them to the dealers as left-off garments—too often spending the produce in ardent spirits—to the shallow motts or females, who, like shallow coves, go nearly naked through the world, begging ever for clothes, ever obtaining them, and yet never clothing themselves, but selling them for food, for lodging, for drink, and for the enjoyment of every conceivable vice, as well as to the separate race of beggars and match-sellers, who live by the ordinary tales, true or false, of real or supposed misery, and in which class is to be found much more of suffering than crime, and of destitution and heart-rending woe than we are either accustomed to believe or like to inquire into.It has been well said that one-half of the world does not know how the other half lives, and the history of mendicants of every degree would furnish the outside public with strange revelations, many of which would appear almost incredible.The mendicant poor are in every way a different race of beings to the working population of this country.They have signs of their own, a language of their own, plans and schemes of their own, or rather for their own class, homes of their own, or rather barns and outbuildings, reserved by compassionate farmers and landowners for them. They split society into fractions, calculate with tolerable accuracy all their chances, and could tell in many cases how much they should receive in a week.Generally speaking, they are distrustful of each other, living in a constant state of fear of arrest and imprisonment, concealing their own names even from their commonest associates, and changing their announced plans and movements in less than an hour, as they saw with a prophet’s eye a lion in their path.But then how different are their classes!There’s the systematic vagrant, whose life has been one of constant and unchanging mendicity.There is the occasional vagrant, who begs after pea-picking season is over and after hopping has terminated, in order to raise money to go back to London or to the county to which he belongs.There is another class of occasional vagrants, who migrate from a district where poverty and misery assail them, to the place of their nativity or of their former brighter fortunes, seeking for halfpence on their way to provide for their daily wants as they press onwards.The vagrants in large towns and cities, and principally in the metropolis, are the very worst class.They are in eight cases out of ten rank impostors.They go about with statements of losses by fire, shipwrecks, and accidents.They obtain counterfeit signatures of clergymen and magistrates to declarations of having lost their property by fire.In a preceding chapter we have given a description of how these precious attestations were manufactured by the “smoucher,” and the account given of this clever concoction of false documents is substantially correct.Those who work with theslumanddelicate(the statement and book of subscriptions) furnished them by the “smoucher,” often raise large sums of money, which they expend in vice and profligacy.The shipwrecked mariner’s lurk used to be one of the most frequent and lucrative.A person of this character, known by the nickname of Captain Johnstone, followed the lurk of a shipwrecked captain for many years.He was an excellent writer, and had a respectable appearance—so the unwary were deceived, and he was enriched.It was said that he obtained some thousands of pounds by his mendacious statements.When any account of a shipwreck appeared in the newspaper which seemed likely to suit his purpose he would write out a new statement (slum), and provide a new book (delicate), and then set to work with the utmost zeal to obtain subscribers.Polish counts, who had been driven from the land of their birth by Russian tyranny, used at one time to infest London, Liverpool, Manchester, and Bristol, but this form of begging has gone out of fashion.“The victims of accidents,” wholly counterfeit, “the sufferers from sickness,” quite unreal, “the deaf and dumb lurkers,” who seem to be deprived of speech and hearing, “the servant out of place,” who cajoles the domestics at gentlemen’s houses, “the colliers who have suffered from water suddenly bursting into a coal pit,” and yet who never saw a coal pit, “the starved-out weavers,” who go about with printed papers or small hand-bills, representing that they are out of employ, although they have never seen a loom, “the cotton-spinning lurk,” with that trick of leaving printed appeals and calling again for them and alms, though they know as much about diamond mounting as cotton-spinning, are a few of the dodges of active, cunning, and shameless mendicants.There was, some years ago, a celebrated man named “Cheshire Bill,” who was at one time a cotton-spinning lurker.He travelled throughout various parts of England for more than fifteen years as a vagrant. Once he was a “shallow cove,” and represented himself as a shipwrecked sailor. Then he was a “carpet weaver in distress,” and sang through the streets to obtain “browns and wedge” (halfpence and silver). Then he was a cotton weaver from Manchester, singing through the streets in company with others, having a clean white apron round him. After this he was on the collier’s lurk, and carried a written paper, stating that he had suffered from a dreadful accident at Bilston in a coal pit.Then he turned watch-seller, afterwards a simple roadside beggar, and finally a cotton-spinner out of employ, selling cotton said to be of his own spinning, and out of which he managed to make a profit of a hundred per cent.“The calenderer’s lurk” is another trick, and the doggerel poetry, in which their appeal is made to the “kind and generous public,” contains amongst a variety of other verses the following record of their own virtues and charity when, as they pretend, they knew better days:—Whene’er we saw one in distressWe strove to help him through;But now we cannot help ourselves—We have no work to do.The systematic writers of begging letters are also much more common in London than in the country, and rejoice in the name of “highflyers.”Year after year they invent new cases with different hands, and sometimes their wives or mistresses, where they are known themselves, present their “appeal,” and thus avoid detection, and collect an abundant revenue for the sins as well as the necessaries of life.Well would it be for society at large if the vagrants of Great Britain were confined to these impostors. The remedy would be easy. Their extinction by imprisonment and transportation would not be difficult.But alas! mixed up with these untrue and unreal appeals to the sympathy of our nature are thousands and tens of thousands of cases where sickness, accidents, death, want of work, inadequate wages, and the other ills of life to which sorrowing man is heir, have given to the squalid, starving, wretched, and abused applicants the right to ask for food, or to seek in the “unions” they so much abhor the bread of existence.Joe Doughty had been accustomed throughout his life to fare but roughly. He had, however, never made the acquaintance of a low lodging-house, and did not, therefore, know the habits and manners of the people who are accustomed to patronise establishments of this description.When he arrived in front of the inhospitable looking place known as the “Travellers’ Rest,” he hesitated. All was as still as death. Joe’s courage appeared to fail him, and he was half inclined to go back to Mr. Wrench.The balance was turned in an opposite direction in a few seconds. “A cadger on the fly” (a beggar on the road) with his female companion and three children came up, and made straight for the door.They entered, and Joe Doughty, seeing that they were well acquainted with the house, followed them.The landlord of the house looked at his new customers from the door of his small inner room—or bar parlour, as it was termed out of courtesy. He was a man with an eagle eye, but withal a good-humoured cast of features. In a familiar tone and manner, he said to the cadger who had entered—“Well Mike, what luck old man? Which is it, ‘browns or wedge,’ eh?” Meaning, in plain terms: Well, Mike, what success have you had? Is it halfpence or silver?”“Not much ‘wedge’” replied the cadger, in a discontented tone. “Browns is the order of the day—people are getting jolly stingy. It’s a selfish world, make the best of it.”As he made the last observation, the cadger walked towards a large back room on the ground floor, which was the vagrants’ apartment.Joe Doughty followed, without either a word of civility or salutation with his host or his customers.He sat himself down on a bench originally rough and uncomely, but which had been polished by the much sitting of the vagrants thereon year after year.The sight presented to our honest countryman was neither cheery nor inviting, but Joe had made up his mind to take things as they came, and not to murmur under any circumstances.As long as he was not interfered with he was perfectly content, and did not find fault with the company in which he found himself.“Come here,” said the man, whom he had followed into the house, addressing himself to his companion and children.“Out with yourscran(broken victuals), and let’s have it. I’m as hungry as a half-starved dog.”Joe looked round. The room was filled with vagabonds of every possible description, but they were of a diversified character.Near the fire, which was composed of dead burning embers and coke, sat an old man, whose hair was white as the driven snow, and who, to all appearance, was between seventy and eighty years of age.His eyes appeared to be bright and piercing—certainly they were undimmed by age or care, and he fastened them on Joe Doughty for some considerable space of time. It was evident that he recognised a stranger in the countryman, whom he was endeavouring to reckon up.“These be hard times, my friend,” said the old man, addressing himself to Joe.“Aye, that they be, master. Work be scarce, and money be scarcer still.”“Umph, yes. It’s a bad neighbourhood forhigh-flyers,” remarked the old man.Joe, who did not understand the meaning of the term, said, haphazard, “I suppose it is, sir.”“Yes, very bad.”“But times ’ll mend, let us hope,” observed Joe.The old man shook his head, and lapsed into silence.The room was about eighteen feet long by fourteen or sixteen wide. In the daytime it was lighted by two windows which looked out into a sort of half yard and half garden, where there was a pump of good water, and a large stone sink.The floor consisted of dirty boards, which were, however, sanded every morning.The room had neither prints, pictures, blinds, or curtains, such articles being deemed altogether unnecessary.There were, however, strange to say, no broken panes in the windows; but two ventilators whirled round in the upper portion of them, through which the hot air and smoke from the pipes gained egress.The fireplace was at the farther end of the apartment.Around the wall, and fixed to it firmly, were a line of benches, before which were tables, on which the vagrant opened his bag, his towel, his basket, or his wallet.The favourite benches were those which were placed at the top of the room from the fireplace to each side, which were, in fact, cross benches.Those who arrived last were obliged to content themselves with the forms which were not fixed.The tables were by no means crowded, but they were tolerably full.Having discovered a vacant place about the right centre bench, which was fixed to the wall, Joe Doughty made his way to the spot, but as he pushed his way along he met with a reproof from a female, whose supper he disarranged in passing by.Joe apologised, and the female was gracious enough to accept it, and express herself well satisfied.This little incident passed unnoticed by the rest of the occupants, all of whom appeared to be intent upon their own business arrangements.Joe, when he had taken his place, had another glance at his companions, who, to say the truth, would have afforded a painter an excellent study for his canvas.By the side of the old man sat one of the prettiest girls Joe had seen for many a long day. She was travelling, or, in other terms, begging with her grandfather, who sat next to her.Whether she was his grandchild no one could tell; she passed as such, and the two were inseparable. Her age was about eighteen.There was a light in her eye, a rapidity in her step, a fascination in her smile, and a playfulness in her jests and tone, which were quite captivating.Joe had not come to the “Travellers’ Rest” to lose his heart, but the young girl engaged his attention in a remarkable degree.“She be a purty creature,” he murmured to himself, “and be a deal too good for a place like this ’ere.”He did not know, when he apostrophised her, that she had been corrupted by depraved society, and was miserably callous to all moral sentiment.The old man, her reputed grandfather, “did thelame lurk” during the day—that is, shammed lameness, and at night had his leg unbandaged, and could walk nimbly enough across the room.He was a picturesque old scoundrel, and his grey hairs doubtless helped him more than his lameness, and enabled him to smoke his pipe, drink his pint, and supply half the same quantity to the girl who devoted herself so uncomplainingly to him.The old man was now and then irritated by the whispering of “an out-and-out swell vagrant,” who sat next his grand-daughter and endeavoured to flirt with her.But the girl did not encourage the amorous swain; she shifted her seat to the other side of the old man, who fell foul of the “swell,” whom he soundly rated.“Shut up! stow it!” exclaimed several, addressing themselves to the young man. “You aint everybody, and the girl don’t want to have any of your fine speeches.”The young man, finding himself in the minority, desisted from further importunities.Joe Doughty’s attention was now attracted to another object, this being the landlord, who had entered the room, and, after having spoken to several of its occupants, he came in front of Joe and said—“Out or in, young man?”Doughty, who did not know what he meant, affected not to hear him.“Why don’t you answer?” said the landlord. “Out or in?”All of a sudden it occurred to our obtuse countryman that the question might relate to his sleeping accommodation.“Oh, in, if you please, sir,” said Joe.“All right, young man. Fourpence to pay, if you please. You’d like a bed to yourself, I s’pose.”“Oh dear me—yes,” returned Doughty.“Very well—down with the browns. Sharp’s the word.”Joe took out his fourpence, and placed them on the table all in halfpence.“Oh, that’s it—is it?” said the landlord, as he discovered three harps on the reverse side of the halfpennies.“Harp’sthe word this time it would seem,” said he.Joe Doughty did not know what he meant by this last observation.“I thoughtharpinghad gone out of fashion in these parts,” said the landlord as he walked away, “but it appears I am mistaken. Dick Baynton was nabbed yesterday, as was a month at Jecks, the grocer’s, and now’s in the lock-up for the ‘’sizes.’”Doughty was in a fog—he was under the impression that the words that had fallen from the lips of his host more particularly concerned him, as several present regarded him with a fitful glance.Presently he mustered up courage, and said to the old man who had previously addressed him—“What does he mean?”“Who?”“The landlord.”“Oh nothing particular; he takes you for apalmer.”Joe was as wise as ever, but he concluded that a palmer must be a scounrel of some sort.“What makes him do that?”The old man explained matters; he told Doughty that there were a class of thievish vagrants calledpalmers, who visit shops under the pretence of collectingharphalfpence, and to induce shopkeepers to search for them they offer thirteen pence for a shilling’s worth, when many persons are silly enough to empty a large quantity of coppers on their counters to search for the halfpence wanted.Thepalmeris sure to have his hand amongst the treasure, and while he affects to search diligently for theharpshe contrives to conceal some halfpence in the palm of his hand, and when he removes his hand from the copper always holds his fingers out straight, so that the shopkeeper has no suspicion that he is being robbed.This explanation was to a certain extent satisfactory, but Doughty did not feel complimented by being taken for a vagrant of that class; he however did not trouble himself much about the matter.The girl who acted as waitress to the establishment now presented herself, and Joe ordered her to bring him “a pint of beer.”“Penny, threehalfpenny, or twopenny?” said she.“The best you have, my gal,” returned Joe, who forthwith pulled out of his pocket some slices of bread and butter and a piece of German sausage, which Mr. Wrench had provided him with; for, as the astute detective observed, “When at Rome do as Rome does—every tramp brings hisprogwith him, which he devours before going to bed; and you must do the same.”The landlord’s suspicions were now confirmed. He, as well as the majority of those present, had but little difficulty in reckoning Doughty up. A fourpenny bed, twopenny beer, and bread, butter, and German sausage were fare and accommodation worthy of apalmer.The pint of beer was brought. Joe asked the old man to have a pint as well—which the latter accepted.The girl who acted as waitress was what might with justice be termed a character. She was short, crooked, one-eyed, lame on the right leg, flat as a pancake, long as a herring, yellow-white, with a sharp nose, and a mouth the shape of an old-fashioned semicircular door scraper.She wore a low dark cotton gown with a neck handkerchief which might have been white at the time of the Reformation. Her gown sleeves were tucked up above the elbows, and her gown was pinned up behind.She was certainly more useful than ornamental, and her life was a hard one. As far as work went she was a wonder, her master never supposing the possibility of her being tired or worn out. She was on the trot from morn to night, from week’s end to week’s end. Whatever good qualities she might have been possessed of had long since disappeared in consequence of the evil association she was constrained to submit to.She was sullenly stupid, and at times insolent, but she went round and round from January to December, like a horse in a mill, and never complained of the hard life she was leading.It is true she occupied her present post because nobody else would employ her as a waitress.As a rule, hotel-keepers and publicans like smart-looking girls to serve in that capacity.The landlord was a big strapping fellow, who had passed some months of his earlier days in a metropolitan prison for sundry acts of petty knavery, but the discipline of the gaol did not suit him, and he therefore made up his mind to “pull himself short up,” as he playfully explained it.He married, and took the “Travellers’ Rest,” which he obtained for a “mere song.”He was as strong as a giant, and stood over six feet in height, with strong sinewy limbs.No one would think of attacking him single-handed, and he was therefore well adapted by nature to be the chief of a vagrants’ lodging-house, for he was more than a match for the most desperate or daring mendicant.His wife was altogether of a different mould. She had once been handsome, but coarse language, coarse associates, combined with a predilection for strong drinks, had converted her into a faded and fallen beauty—a mere shadow of her former self.When the landlord had seen his customers supplied with the requisite quantity of beer, he turned to a thickset, wild, savage-looking man who had a small bull-dog at his feet, and who travelled with another man much like himself.The wild, savage-looking man had jet black hair, an old brown leather belt, and a little sack thrown across his shoulder.He was a “prig,” and belonged to that class of vagrants who are adepts in drawing a purse, watch, or pocket-book from persons in crowded places. Races, fairs, and prize fights were the most favourite places with him.His companion was so much like him that Joe came to the conclusion that he was his brother.One was talkative, and the other taciturn, and Jim Morgan (for such was the eldest brother’s name) gave all the orders and superintended all the arrangements. He was evidently commander-in-chief.The eldest might have been twenty-five, the youngest some three or four years younger.“In or out, gentlemen,” said the landlord, as he eyed the two with something like doubt and suspicion.“Why what do you suppose we come here for?” returned Jim Morgan.“It aint my bis’ness to ’spose anything,” said the landlord. “I only ask a question, which perhaps you will answer at your leisure.”At this sally there was a roar of laughter from the company.“You’re mighty clever in your way, no doubt,” cried Morgan, “and in course you are duly appreciated. Your question I will answer at once. We want two separate beds, or the largest-sized double bed which you have to spare.”“Right you are,” returned the landlord; “we won’t make any bones about the matter.No.9, first floor, two beds in the room, that will suit you all to pieces. If it don’t you can accommodate yourselves elsewhere, or out, if you prefer it.”“You’re jolly independent, but no matter, it’s the nature of the animal,” said Morgan.Joe Doughty had been listening to the foregoing conversation, and hence it was he was oblivious to the fact that a stranger had entered the room.The newcomer threaded his way through the assembly until he had gained the further end of the room.It was at this time that Doughty’s attention was attracted towards him. There was something in the movements and gait of the man which made Joe pause and consider.He looked hard at the newcomer, and saw that he was a man with a bushy beard, long elfin locks, and a green shade over his eyes. He did not appear to be acquainted with any of the vagrants, and Joe thought this a little singular.He seated himself on one of the benches and remained moody and silent for some little time; after which he rose suddenly, and wended his way back to the entrance of the room.As he passed along there was a peculiarity in his movement which caused Joe Doughty to regard him with a searching glance.“I dunno what to mek on him,” murmured Joe. “’Taint a bit loike the varmint I am in search of: but he be creeping along in a rum sort of way—a deal arter the fashion o’ Giles—but it can’t be him—and yet, I don’t feel quite sartain—I’ll wait and watch. Maybe he’ll coom back and let un see a bit more on him.”But Joe was wrong in his surmise. The man with the green shade and bushy whiskers did not return.Half-an-hour passed over, and the stranger did not again reappear.The landlord came into the room once more to attend to his customers. As he passed, Joe said—“What has become of the man with the green shade over his eyes?”“Oh, he’s hooked it,” returned the host. “Didn’t like the looks of you all—he’s a deal too particular for his money.”“Has he gone away?”“Yes he’s stepped it, and arter paying for his shake-down too—he’s a rum un.”“Gone, eh!” exclaimed Joe, scratching his head and looking wonder-struck.“Ah, surely; what’s the odds? We can do well enough without a varmint loike him. Let him go, and be hanged to him.”Joe Doughty was perplexed—the man’s sudden departure troubled him. He sat silent and thoughtful for some time, and then he took himself to his bed in one of the upstairs rooms.But the situation in which he found himself was so new and strange to him that it was a long time before gentle sleep closed his eyelids.By early morn he arose, and sallying forth from the vagrants’ lodging-house, he at once hastened to the “Dun Cow,” and there awaited, in the breakfast room, the appearance of Mr. Wrench.
The glories of Bartholomew Fair, of Greenwich, and a host of others in the neighbourhood of the metropolis have long since passed away, and it is not at all likely they will ever be resuscitated. But fairs of various descriptions are still held in many parts of England, but they are considerably shorn of their leading attractions.
Mr. Wrench’s motive for hastening to Nantwich was to be present at the hiring fair at a small hamlet within a few miles of that place.
On Pack-rag Day (the 29th of September), the serfs of agriculture pack up their clothes and seek fresh masters.
And on this day the farmers, dressed in their Sunday clothes, ride to the mansions of their landlords, their faces bright with honest pride, their leather bags filled with gold coins and bank notes.
The scene has been faithfully depicted in Wilkie’s celebrated picture of the “Rent Day.”
The landlords, seated before their blue bundles of quarter’s bills, receive their tenants with smiles of welcome and gratitude—that is, if the latter are furnished with the amount of rent due.
In some parts of England it is still customary among the lords of manors and proprietors of large lands to give a dinner to their tenants on the rent days, as shown in Wilkie’s well-known picture.
But these quarterly feeds are now rapidly dying out of date, and will soon no longer exist, except in the hall of some youthful squire, who may be gifted with a dramatic passion for revivals.
Like fairs, these convivial gatherings are fast becoming obsolete.
In the year referring more especially to this history, the hiring fair to which Mr. Wrench was about to pay a visit happened to fall on quarter-day; so all the farmers of the neighbourhood paid their rents early, and rode on to the place to engage their carters, shepherds, and farm maids for the ensuing year.
Mr. Wrench was not a man to be a day behind the fair. He came to a halt at a small village within an easy walk of it the day before its fun and frolic was to commence.
He put up at a roadside inn, and secured the best bed in the establishment for Nell Fulford.
This done, he explored the neighbourhood, having for his companion the redoubtable Joe.
Near to the junction of three cross roads, there stood, at the time of which we are writing, a low-looking beershop bearing the sign of the “Travellers’ Rest.”
This place was a vagrants’ lodging-house, and as Mr. Wrench and his rustic companion came within sight of the house the detective regarded it with a considerable amount of interest.
After surveying it for some time he said to Joe Doughty—
“As far as the accommodation is concerned I don’t know that I can recommend it, but if you don’t mind taking up your quarters in it for one night it would be as well. Tramps, thieves, and vagabonds of all sorts are accustomed to pay nightly visits to the ‘Travellers’ Rest,’ as it is termed, and it is possible you may be able to pick up some information respecting the man of whom we are in search.
“If I thought that, I’d stop there this very night!” cried Joe.
“I wish you would.”
“Don’t ’ee say another word upon the matter, guv’ner—I’ll be one among ’em.”
“And you can see me in the morning at the ‘Dun Cow.’ I would join you, but the chances are that some of the tramps in the ‘Travellers’ Rest’ would know me, and that would be fatal to us. You are a stranger—keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut, and who knows but you may gain the hundred pounds reward?”
“I beant a-goin’ to take a shilling on it, coom what may,” returned Joe, in an indignant tone.
“Very well, my man, that you can please yourself about.”
“Noo, not a penny.”
Mr. Wrench and Joe returned to the “Dun Cow,” this being the roadside house in which the former had taken up his quarters.
Our detective was a diplomatist in his own peculiar way.
His object was to remain as unobserved as possible till the day of the fair, but his rustic friend was appointed to what might be termed outpost duty.
When night came on Joe was dispatched by the commander-in-chief to the vagrants’ lodging-house.
The house in question had at one time been a respectable habitation.
The lower part was built of brick, once red and flourishing, but now dirty and dingy; and about half-way up were boards, once painted white, which took the place of their more solid neighbours below. They were what was called weather-boards, and ran along one over the other, in order that the rain might drop off them to the ground.
The walls below were substantial enough; the yard gate and large fore-court were amply covered with tall grass or graceless weeds.
The gate that once was closed each night by the smart and active ostler now stood back on one hinge, resting, therefore, partly on the ground.
And the stables once filled with prancing or neighing, or, at least, well-fed steeds, were at this time only warmed by the breath of beggars, too poor even to pay a groat for a night’s lodging, and who compounded with their host for a twopenny night’s straw in the outhouses.
Occasionally, indeed, some benighted and bestormed waggoner, unable to reach the usual place of his sojourn, would unwillingly or unwittingly stop at the “Travellers’ Rest,” and allow his horses to share the same fate as the beggars who surrounded them. But such visits were few and far between, and even waggon horses would avoid if they could “the vagrants’ lodging-house.”
The “Travellers’ Rest” was one of those houses which was known by all classes of mendicants, whether belonging to thesilverclass, or what are styled by all well-informed travellersbarkers, to thehighflyersor begging letterwriters to theshallow covesor impostors, who in various garbs obtain clothes from the compassionate and charitable to a great amount, and then sell them to the dealers as left-off garments—too often spending the produce in ardent spirits—to the shallow motts or females, who, like shallow coves, go nearly naked through the world, begging ever for clothes, ever obtaining them, and yet never clothing themselves, but selling them for food, for lodging, for drink, and for the enjoyment of every conceivable vice, as well as to the separate race of beggars and match-sellers, who live by the ordinary tales, true or false, of real or supposed misery, and in which class is to be found much more of suffering than crime, and of destitution and heart-rending woe than we are either accustomed to believe or like to inquire into.
It has been well said that one-half of the world does not know how the other half lives, and the history of mendicants of every degree would furnish the outside public with strange revelations, many of which would appear almost incredible.
The mendicant poor are in every way a different race of beings to the working population of this country.
They have signs of their own, a language of their own, plans and schemes of their own, or rather for their own class, homes of their own, or rather barns and outbuildings, reserved by compassionate farmers and landowners for them. They split society into fractions, calculate with tolerable accuracy all their chances, and could tell in many cases how much they should receive in a week.
Generally speaking, they are distrustful of each other, living in a constant state of fear of arrest and imprisonment, concealing their own names even from their commonest associates, and changing their announced plans and movements in less than an hour, as they saw with a prophet’s eye a lion in their path.
But then how different are their classes!
There’s the systematic vagrant, whose life has been one of constant and unchanging mendicity.
There is the occasional vagrant, who begs after pea-picking season is over and after hopping has terminated, in order to raise money to go back to London or to the county to which he belongs.
There is another class of occasional vagrants, who migrate from a district where poverty and misery assail them, to the place of their nativity or of their former brighter fortunes, seeking for halfpence on their way to provide for their daily wants as they press onwards.
The vagrants in large towns and cities, and principally in the metropolis, are the very worst class.
They are in eight cases out of ten rank impostors.
They go about with statements of losses by fire, shipwrecks, and accidents.
They obtain counterfeit signatures of clergymen and magistrates to declarations of having lost their property by fire.
In a preceding chapter we have given a description of how these precious attestations were manufactured by the “smoucher,” and the account given of this clever concoction of false documents is substantially correct.
Those who work with theslumanddelicate(the statement and book of subscriptions) furnished them by the “smoucher,” often raise large sums of money, which they expend in vice and profligacy.
The shipwrecked mariner’s lurk used to be one of the most frequent and lucrative.
A person of this character, known by the nickname of Captain Johnstone, followed the lurk of a shipwrecked captain for many years.
He was an excellent writer, and had a respectable appearance—so the unwary were deceived, and he was enriched.
It was said that he obtained some thousands of pounds by his mendacious statements.
When any account of a shipwreck appeared in the newspaper which seemed likely to suit his purpose he would write out a new statement (slum), and provide a new book (delicate), and then set to work with the utmost zeal to obtain subscribers.
Polish counts, who had been driven from the land of their birth by Russian tyranny, used at one time to infest London, Liverpool, Manchester, and Bristol, but this form of begging has gone out of fashion.
“The victims of accidents,” wholly counterfeit, “the sufferers from sickness,” quite unreal, “the deaf and dumb lurkers,” who seem to be deprived of speech and hearing, “the servant out of place,” who cajoles the domestics at gentlemen’s houses, “the colliers who have suffered from water suddenly bursting into a coal pit,” and yet who never saw a coal pit, “the starved-out weavers,” who go about with printed papers or small hand-bills, representing that they are out of employ, although they have never seen a loom, “the cotton-spinning lurk,” with that trick of leaving printed appeals and calling again for them and alms, though they know as much about diamond mounting as cotton-spinning, are a few of the dodges of active, cunning, and shameless mendicants.
There was, some years ago, a celebrated man named “Cheshire Bill,” who was at one time a cotton-spinning lurker.
He travelled throughout various parts of England for more than fifteen years as a vagrant. Once he was a “shallow cove,” and represented himself as a shipwrecked sailor. Then he was a “carpet weaver in distress,” and sang through the streets to obtain “browns and wedge” (halfpence and silver). Then he was a cotton weaver from Manchester, singing through the streets in company with others, having a clean white apron round him. After this he was on the collier’s lurk, and carried a written paper, stating that he had suffered from a dreadful accident at Bilston in a coal pit.
Then he turned watch-seller, afterwards a simple roadside beggar, and finally a cotton-spinner out of employ, selling cotton said to be of his own spinning, and out of which he managed to make a profit of a hundred per cent.
“The calenderer’s lurk” is another trick, and the doggerel poetry, in which their appeal is made to the “kind and generous public,” contains amongst a variety of other verses the following record of their own virtues and charity when, as they pretend, they knew better days:—
Whene’er we saw one in distressWe strove to help him through;But now we cannot help ourselves—We have no work to do.
Whene’er we saw one in distressWe strove to help him through;But now we cannot help ourselves—We have no work to do.
Whene’er we saw one in distress
We strove to help him through;
But now we cannot help ourselves—
We have no work to do.
The systematic writers of begging letters are also much more common in London than in the country, and rejoice in the name of “highflyers.”
Year after year they invent new cases with different hands, and sometimes their wives or mistresses, where they are known themselves, present their “appeal,” and thus avoid detection, and collect an abundant revenue for the sins as well as the necessaries of life.
Well would it be for society at large if the vagrants of Great Britain were confined to these impostors. The remedy would be easy. Their extinction by imprisonment and transportation would not be difficult.
But alas! mixed up with these untrue and unreal appeals to the sympathy of our nature are thousands and tens of thousands of cases where sickness, accidents, death, want of work, inadequate wages, and the other ills of life to which sorrowing man is heir, have given to the squalid, starving, wretched, and abused applicants the right to ask for food, or to seek in the “unions” they so much abhor the bread of existence.
Joe Doughty had been accustomed throughout his life to fare but roughly. He had, however, never made the acquaintance of a low lodging-house, and did not, therefore, know the habits and manners of the people who are accustomed to patronise establishments of this description.
When he arrived in front of the inhospitable looking place known as the “Travellers’ Rest,” he hesitated. All was as still as death. Joe’s courage appeared to fail him, and he was half inclined to go back to Mr. Wrench.
The balance was turned in an opposite direction in a few seconds. “A cadger on the fly” (a beggar on the road) with his female companion and three children came up, and made straight for the door.
They entered, and Joe Doughty, seeing that they were well acquainted with the house, followed them.
The landlord of the house looked at his new customers from the door of his small inner room—or bar parlour, as it was termed out of courtesy. He was a man with an eagle eye, but withal a good-humoured cast of features. In a familiar tone and manner, he said to the cadger who had entered—
“Well Mike, what luck old man? Which is it, ‘browns or wedge,’ eh?” Meaning, in plain terms: Well, Mike, what success have you had? Is it halfpence or silver?”
“Not much ‘wedge’” replied the cadger, in a discontented tone. “Browns is the order of the day—people are getting jolly stingy. It’s a selfish world, make the best of it.”
As he made the last observation, the cadger walked towards a large back room on the ground floor, which was the vagrants’ apartment.
Joe Doughty followed, without either a word of civility or salutation with his host or his customers.
He sat himself down on a bench originally rough and uncomely, but which had been polished by the much sitting of the vagrants thereon year after year.
The sight presented to our honest countryman was neither cheery nor inviting, but Joe had made up his mind to take things as they came, and not to murmur under any circumstances.
As long as he was not interfered with he was perfectly content, and did not find fault with the company in which he found himself.
“Come here,” said the man, whom he had followed into the house, addressing himself to his companion and children.
“Out with yourscran(broken victuals), and let’s have it. I’m as hungry as a half-starved dog.”
Joe looked round. The room was filled with vagabonds of every possible description, but they were of a diversified character.
Near the fire, which was composed of dead burning embers and coke, sat an old man, whose hair was white as the driven snow, and who, to all appearance, was between seventy and eighty years of age.
His eyes appeared to be bright and piercing—certainly they were undimmed by age or care, and he fastened them on Joe Doughty for some considerable space of time. It was evident that he recognised a stranger in the countryman, whom he was endeavouring to reckon up.
“These be hard times, my friend,” said the old man, addressing himself to Joe.
“Aye, that they be, master. Work be scarce, and money be scarcer still.”
“Umph, yes. It’s a bad neighbourhood forhigh-flyers,” remarked the old man.
Joe, who did not understand the meaning of the term, said, haphazard, “I suppose it is, sir.”
“Yes, very bad.”
“But times ’ll mend, let us hope,” observed Joe.
The old man shook his head, and lapsed into silence.
The room was about eighteen feet long by fourteen or sixteen wide. In the daytime it was lighted by two windows which looked out into a sort of half yard and half garden, where there was a pump of good water, and a large stone sink.
The floor consisted of dirty boards, which were, however, sanded every morning.
The room had neither prints, pictures, blinds, or curtains, such articles being deemed altogether unnecessary.
There were, however, strange to say, no broken panes in the windows; but two ventilators whirled round in the upper portion of them, through which the hot air and smoke from the pipes gained egress.
The fireplace was at the farther end of the apartment.
Around the wall, and fixed to it firmly, were a line of benches, before which were tables, on which the vagrant opened his bag, his towel, his basket, or his wallet.
The favourite benches were those which were placed at the top of the room from the fireplace to each side, which were, in fact, cross benches.
Those who arrived last were obliged to content themselves with the forms which were not fixed.
The tables were by no means crowded, but they were tolerably full.
Having discovered a vacant place about the right centre bench, which was fixed to the wall, Joe Doughty made his way to the spot, but as he pushed his way along he met with a reproof from a female, whose supper he disarranged in passing by.
Joe apologised, and the female was gracious enough to accept it, and express herself well satisfied.
This little incident passed unnoticed by the rest of the occupants, all of whom appeared to be intent upon their own business arrangements.
Joe, when he had taken his place, had another glance at his companions, who, to say the truth, would have afforded a painter an excellent study for his canvas.
By the side of the old man sat one of the prettiest girls Joe had seen for many a long day. She was travelling, or, in other terms, begging with her grandfather, who sat next to her.
Whether she was his grandchild no one could tell; she passed as such, and the two were inseparable. Her age was about eighteen.
There was a light in her eye, a rapidity in her step, a fascination in her smile, and a playfulness in her jests and tone, which were quite captivating.
Joe had not come to the “Travellers’ Rest” to lose his heart, but the young girl engaged his attention in a remarkable degree.
“She be a purty creature,” he murmured to himself, “and be a deal too good for a place like this ’ere.”
He did not know, when he apostrophised her, that she had been corrupted by depraved society, and was miserably callous to all moral sentiment.
The old man, her reputed grandfather, “did thelame lurk” during the day—that is, shammed lameness, and at night had his leg unbandaged, and could walk nimbly enough across the room.
He was a picturesque old scoundrel, and his grey hairs doubtless helped him more than his lameness, and enabled him to smoke his pipe, drink his pint, and supply half the same quantity to the girl who devoted herself so uncomplainingly to him.
The old man was now and then irritated by the whispering of “an out-and-out swell vagrant,” who sat next his grand-daughter and endeavoured to flirt with her.
But the girl did not encourage the amorous swain; she shifted her seat to the other side of the old man, who fell foul of the “swell,” whom he soundly rated.
“Shut up! stow it!” exclaimed several, addressing themselves to the young man. “You aint everybody, and the girl don’t want to have any of your fine speeches.”
The young man, finding himself in the minority, desisted from further importunities.
Joe Doughty’s attention was now attracted to another object, this being the landlord, who had entered the room, and, after having spoken to several of its occupants, he came in front of Joe and said—
“Out or in, young man?”
Doughty, who did not know what he meant, affected not to hear him.
“Why don’t you answer?” said the landlord. “Out or in?”
All of a sudden it occurred to our obtuse countryman that the question might relate to his sleeping accommodation.
“Oh, in, if you please, sir,” said Joe.
“All right, young man. Fourpence to pay, if you please. You’d like a bed to yourself, I s’pose.”
“Oh dear me—yes,” returned Doughty.
“Very well—down with the browns. Sharp’s the word.”
Joe took out his fourpence, and placed them on the table all in halfpence.
“Oh, that’s it—is it?” said the landlord, as he discovered three harps on the reverse side of the halfpennies.
“Harp’sthe word this time it would seem,” said he.
Joe Doughty did not know what he meant by this last observation.
“I thoughtharpinghad gone out of fashion in these parts,” said the landlord as he walked away, “but it appears I am mistaken. Dick Baynton was nabbed yesterday, as was a month at Jecks, the grocer’s, and now’s in the lock-up for the ‘’sizes.’”
Doughty was in a fog—he was under the impression that the words that had fallen from the lips of his host more particularly concerned him, as several present regarded him with a fitful glance.
Presently he mustered up courage, and said to the old man who had previously addressed him—
“What does he mean?”
“Who?”
“The landlord.”
“Oh nothing particular; he takes you for apalmer.”
Joe was as wise as ever, but he concluded that a palmer must be a scounrel of some sort.
“What makes him do that?”
The old man explained matters; he told Doughty that there were a class of thievish vagrants calledpalmers, who visit shops under the pretence of collectingharphalfpence, and to induce shopkeepers to search for them they offer thirteen pence for a shilling’s worth, when many persons are silly enough to empty a large quantity of coppers on their counters to search for the halfpence wanted.
Thepalmeris sure to have his hand amongst the treasure, and while he affects to search diligently for theharpshe contrives to conceal some halfpence in the palm of his hand, and when he removes his hand from the copper always holds his fingers out straight, so that the shopkeeper has no suspicion that he is being robbed.
This explanation was to a certain extent satisfactory, but Doughty did not feel complimented by being taken for a vagrant of that class; he however did not trouble himself much about the matter.
The girl who acted as waitress to the establishment now presented herself, and Joe ordered her to bring him “a pint of beer.”
“Penny, threehalfpenny, or twopenny?” said she.
“The best you have, my gal,” returned Joe, who forthwith pulled out of his pocket some slices of bread and butter and a piece of German sausage, which Mr. Wrench had provided him with; for, as the astute detective observed, “When at Rome do as Rome does—every tramp brings hisprogwith him, which he devours before going to bed; and you must do the same.”
The landlord’s suspicions were now confirmed. He, as well as the majority of those present, had but little difficulty in reckoning Doughty up. A fourpenny bed, twopenny beer, and bread, butter, and German sausage were fare and accommodation worthy of apalmer.
The pint of beer was brought. Joe asked the old man to have a pint as well—which the latter accepted.
The girl who acted as waitress was what might with justice be termed a character. She was short, crooked, one-eyed, lame on the right leg, flat as a pancake, long as a herring, yellow-white, with a sharp nose, and a mouth the shape of an old-fashioned semicircular door scraper.
She wore a low dark cotton gown with a neck handkerchief which might have been white at the time of the Reformation. Her gown sleeves were tucked up above the elbows, and her gown was pinned up behind.
She was certainly more useful than ornamental, and her life was a hard one. As far as work went she was a wonder, her master never supposing the possibility of her being tired or worn out. She was on the trot from morn to night, from week’s end to week’s end. Whatever good qualities she might have been possessed of had long since disappeared in consequence of the evil association she was constrained to submit to.
She was sullenly stupid, and at times insolent, but she went round and round from January to December, like a horse in a mill, and never complained of the hard life she was leading.
It is true she occupied her present post because nobody else would employ her as a waitress.
As a rule, hotel-keepers and publicans like smart-looking girls to serve in that capacity.
The landlord was a big strapping fellow, who had passed some months of his earlier days in a metropolitan prison for sundry acts of petty knavery, but the discipline of the gaol did not suit him, and he therefore made up his mind to “pull himself short up,” as he playfully explained it.
He married, and took the “Travellers’ Rest,” which he obtained for a “mere song.”
He was as strong as a giant, and stood over six feet in height, with strong sinewy limbs.
No one would think of attacking him single-handed, and he was therefore well adapted by nature to be the chief of a vagrants’ lodging-house, for he was more than a match for the most desperate or daring mendicant.
His wife was altogether of a different mould. She had once been handsome, but coarse language, coarse associates, combined with a predilection for strong drinks, had converted her into a faded and fallen beauty—a mere shadow of her former self.
When the landlord had seen his customers supplied with the requisite quantity of beer, he turned to a thickset, wild, savage-looking man who had a small bull-dog at his feet, and who travelled with another man much like himself.
The wild, savage-looking man had jet black hair, an old brown leather belt, and a little sack thrown across his shoulder.
He was a “prig,” and belonged to that class of vagrants who are adepts in drawing a purse, watch, or pocket-book from persons in crowded places. Races, fairs, and prize fights were the most favourite places with him.
His companion was so much like him that Joe came to the conclusion that he was his brother.
One was talkative, and the other taciturn, and Jim Morgan (for such was the eldest brother’s name) gave all the orders and superintended all the arrangements. He was evidently commander-in-chief.
The eldest might have been twenty-five, the youngest some three or four years younger.
“In or out, gentlemen,” said the landlord, as he eyed the two with something like doubt and suspicion.
“Why what do you suppose we come here for?” returned Jim Morgan.
“It aint my bis’ness to ’spose anything,” said the landlord. “I only ask a question, which perhaps you will answer at your leisure.”
At this sally there was a roar of laughter from the company.
“You’re mighty clever in your way, no doubt,” cried Morgan, “and in course you are duly appreciated. Your question I will answer at once. We want two separate beds, or the largest-sized double bed which you have to spare.”
“Right you are,” returned the landlord; “we won’t make any bones about the matter.No.9, first floor, two beds in the room, that will suit you all to pieces. If it don’t you can accommodate yourselves elsewhere, or out, if you prefer it.”
“You’re jolly independent, but no matter, it’s the nature of the animal,” said Morgan.
Joe Doughty had been listening to the foregoing conversation, and hence it was he was oblivious to the fact that a stranger had entered the room.
The newcomer threaded his way through the assembly until he had gained the further end of the room.
It was at this time that Doughty’s attention was attracted towards him. There was something in the movements and gait of the man which made Joe pause and consider.
He looked hard at the newcomer, and saw that he was a man with a bushy beard, long elfin locks, and a green shade over his eyes. He did not appear to be acquainted with any of the vagrants, and Joe thought this a little singular.
He seated himself on one of the benches and remained moody and silent for some little time; after which he rose suddenly, and wended his way back to the entrance of the room.
As he passed along there was a peculiarity in his movement which caused Joe Doughty to regard him with a searching glance.
“I dunno what to mek on him,” murmured Joe. “’Taint a bit loike the varmint I am in search of: but he be creeping along in a rum sort of way—a deal arter the fashion o’ Giles—but it can’t be him—and yet, I don’t feel quite sartain—I’ll wait and watch. Maybe he’ll coom back and let un see a bit more on him.”
But Joe was wrong in his surmise. The man with the green shade and bushy whiskers did not return.
Half-an-hour passed over, and the stranger did not again reappear.
The landlord came into the room once more to attend to his customers. As he passed, Joe said—
“What has become of the man with the green shade over his eyes?”
“Oh, he’s hooked it,” returned the host. “Didn’t like the looks of you all—he’s a deal too particular for his money.”
“Has he gone away?”
“Yes he’s stepped it, and arter paying for his shake-down too—he’s a rum un.”
“Gone, eh!” exclaimed Joe, scratching his head and looking wonder-struck.
“Ah, surely; what’s the odds? We can do well enough without a varmint loike him. Let him go, and be hanged to him.”
Joe Doughty was perplexed—the man’s sudden departure troubled him. He sat silent and thoughtful for some time, and then he took himself to his bed in one of the upstairs rooms.
But the situation in which he found himself was so new and strange to him that it was a long time before gentle sleep closed his eyelids.
By early morn he arose, and sallying forth from the vagrants’ lodging-house, he at once hastened to the “Dun Cow,” and there awaited, in the breakfast room, the appearance of Mr. Wrench.