CHAPTERLXIV.THE HIRING FAIR.When Mr. Wrench made his appearance in the public room of the “Dun Cow,” Joe, after a little circumlocution, explained to his chief his adventures of the previous night.As the latter listened to the account of the stranger in the vagrants’ lodging-house, and his sudden departure, his countenance was irradiated with a smile.“And this fellow went away without saying a word to anybody?” said Wrench.“He never so much as opened his ugly mouth,” returned Doughty.“Ah, who knows, but he might be the man of whom we are in search?”“He warn’t a morsel loike ’im.”“He wasn’t?”“Noa, not a morsel, ’xcept his walk, and that war a goodish bit arter the style of Giles Chudley’s.”“All right, Doughty, I don’t think you have spent a night in the lodging-house in vain; but you must be hungry. We’ll have breakfast, and then make the best of our way to the fair.”Breakfast was ordered and served. Nell Fulford joined her two companions, and did the honours of the table.While partaking of their morning’s meal the detective and his two companions observed throngs of persons passing the window, rushing even at that early hour to the fair.“They are taking time by the forelock, Miss Fulford,” said the detective, looking towards the window of the parlour.“Oh, yes; it be always loike this at fair time. People coom from all parts, far and near.”“There is one thing I wish to impress on both of you,” observed Wrench, “and that is to keep as quiet as possible. We’ll see all that’s to be seen, but we won’t appear to be looking for any one. We are only here to enjoy the fun of the fair—that’s all.”“Fun!” cried Nelly, with a sigh.“I don’t expect for one moment, Miss Fulford, that you, or indeed any one of us, will have much enjoyment, but as far as that is concerned it is quite a secondary consideration; but we must appear to be attracted hither for amusement. Let us hope something more important will follow.”His female companion inclined her head in tacit acquiescence, and Joe said he’d have nuffin’ to say to anybody.The fair was held at a small market town, which was built on the banks of a river. As far as architectural beauty was concerned, it was not much to boast of, for the streets rivalled those of Cairo, which are said to be the narrowest and dirtiest in the world, and central is the market-place.In this market-place the fair was held, though many of the booths and canvas-covered stalls extended down the Egyptian thoroughfares, choking them with impassability.For one hour or so after breakfast the occupants of the parlour of the “Dun Cow” contented themselves with watching the passengers in the road from the bay window of their snug little apartment.Mr. Wrench had letters to answer which were sent from Scotland-yard. There was one also from Lord Ethalwood, in which the writer besought him to do his best to discover the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin.A detective’s life is both an anxious and an arduous one, make the best of it.The earl’s letter, of course, had to be answered by return of post. Mr. Wrench had little or nothing to communicate at present, but he deemed it expedient to write off and inform his lordship that his injunctions would not be disregarded.When he had finished his correspondence, which was necessarily very brief, the detective informed his two companions that he was ready to accompany them to the fair.Many of our readers are doubtless very well acquainted with the most noticeable features of a country fair. When held in a picturesque locality it is a sight worth seeing.Fairs and wakes are of Saxon origin, and date back for many hundreds of years. The former were instituted in England by Alfred, in the year 886.Wakes were established by order of GregoryVII.in 1049, and termedFeriæ, at which the monks celebrated the festival of their patron saints.Fairs were established in France about 800 by Charlemagne, and encouraged in England about 1071 by William the Conqueror.They may be said to be identified with the history of our country.It was early in the day when Mr. Wrench arrived at the fair with his two companions, but nevertheless crowds of persons were already assembled.As they joined the body of the people the noise was almost deafening, but a noise so like that of people enjoying themselves that he must have been a flinty philosopher who could get out of temper with it.No gathering of this sort was complete without Richardson’s celebrated show, in which a melodrama of a most touching nature was enacted in the brief space of twenty minutes, or from that to half an hour.Richardson himself at this time was gathered to his fathers.He was a dumpy, pock-marked man, with a red face and a long brown coat.Reading and writing were not included in his accomplishments, but he was a kindly-disposed, persevering, honest little man, much given to dirt and the drama, who contrived by praiseworthy industry to amass a large fortune.It was his boast that some of our most celebrated actors and actresses were, at one time or another, included in his troupe.The late Edmund Kean in his early career acted at Richardson’s show.The great Mrs. Pritchard, who played with David Garrick, began life as a performer at fairs.Numbers of similar instances could be cited of other distinguished members of the theatrical profession who were wont to strut their hour upon the stage at shows and booths.Although Richardson had passed away the booth in the fair still bore his name, albeit it was in other hands.“Walk up, ladies and gentlemen—just going to begin!” shouted out a leather-lunged individual on the platform of the show.“The Bleeding Nun; or, the Midnight Hour,” was the powerful drama about to be represented.While the gentleman with the never-failing lungs was addressing the yokels, a clown was going through some antics on another part of the platform.After this a brass band struck up playing the most discordant music it is very well possible to conceive.Mr. Wrench and his two companions ascended the steps which led to this temple of the drama, paid their money, and after waiting a considerable time in the interior of the booth had the satisfaction of witnessing the drama in question.When they came out after the performance they were asked by the gentleman on the platform how they liked it, and of course said they were very much pleased.Upon this the touter turned triumphantly to the gaping crowd below, and again shouted out, “Now’s your time, gentlemen and ladies—just going to begin!”The formula was gone through over and over again during the whole of the day.As to dwarfs and giants and giantesses they were innumerable, together with curiosities both natural and unnatural.An Irishman made up as a red Indian, and called “Yokoomana, the celebrated fire-eater,” undertook to put the end of a red-hot poker into his mouth, across his tongue, and on the soles of his naked feet.Then there were swings, roundabouts, gold gingerbread, gingerbread nuts, Wombwell’s brass band playing their loudest tunes, a horse with two heads and six legs, a mermaid, a wild man caught in the Black Forest, a learned pig, waxwork exhibitions, performing dogs and monkeys, acrobats, Mademoiselle Clotilda Favirini, the celebrated tight-rope dancer who had performed before most of the crowned heads of Europe, a sword-swallower, a Chinaman (hailing from Dublin), who threw sharp-painted swords at another Chinaman (hailing from Cork), the Cork Chinaman standing all the while with arms outstretched against a board against which the swords were thrown within the eighth of an inch of his body.Added to all these was the snapping of guns at the nut stalls, the artificial screams of the young women, and the hoarse guffaws of the young men.Peace and quietness were out of the question; throughout the livelong day there was a ceaseless row and clatter.The crowd was composed of three distinct classes—first those who came for amusement only.Smockfrocked bumpkins and gaily-dressed lasses, who had taken a fresh lease of servitude, and who had been permitted to enjoy a genuine holiday and witness sights which were only to be seen at fairs; clergymen and other professional men ofstatusand respectability, who walked awkward through the crowd, trying to look as if they were not enjoying themselves; a score or so of boys from an adjacent boarding school walking in couples like prisoners out for exercise, with the head gaoler in black trousers and blue spectacles, anxiously clearing a way before them; and above all a rosy-cheeked housemaid, who, having stolen half-an hour’s liberty under pretext of an errand, was taking a sip at those waters which Solomon affirmed to be so sweet.Some came only upon business.Mr. Wrench and his two companions were included in this category.Austere old maids, who scowled upon the circus, and sneered at the wild beasts; farmers and farmers’ wives; of the temperate-in-drink and intemperate-in-religion genus, who, like the Caliph Omar, deemed it necessary to make a hell of this world in order to merit the heaven of the next.A goodly sprinkling of pickpockets; a host of young persons with painted faces and comical smiles; and, let us add for the benefit of my small readers, all the people engaged in the various places of amusement, from the pretty girl who looked so happy as she danced on the tight rope, down to the red and white-faced clown, who said such funny things that you nearly split your sides with laughing.And there were a great many people who went to the fair both for business and pleasure.Farmers and their wives, of the true old Saxon sort, who went to hire their servants, and to spend their money, artful little hussies who intended to enjoy themselves, dancing in the booths, and to pick up fresh acquaintances, or to pull some irresolute swain over that matrimonial precipice, on the brink of which he had long been oscillating, and the great mass of boys and girls who had come, to use their own words, “to see the woild beasteses, and to get bound to the varmers.”It is incident to a fair that persons shall be free from being arrested in it for any other debt or contract than what was contracted in the same, or at least promised to be paid there.Fairs of this sort were generally held once or twice a year, and by statute they were not to be held longer than they ought.Also proclamations were to be made how long they were to continue, and no person was allowed to sell any goods after the time of the fair was ended, on forfeiture of double the value, one-fourth of which was to go to the prosecutor, and the rest to the king.That was a toll usually paid in fairs on the sale of goods, and for stullage, picage,&c.Fairs abroad are either free or charged with toll or impost.The privileges of free fairs consisted chiefly—first, in all the traders,&c., whether natives or foreigners, who were allowed to enter the kingdom, and who were, under royal protection, exempt from duties, tolls,&c.No.31.Illustration: CAPTURE OF GILES CHUDLEY.CAPTURE OF GILES CHUDLEY.They were established by letters patent from the prince.Fairs, particularly free fairs, make a very considerable article in the commerce of Europe, especially in the Mediterranean and the inland parts of Germany.The most celebrated fairs in Europe are those of Old Frankfort, held twice a year, in spring and autumn, the first commencing the Sunday before Palm Sunday, and the other on the Sunday before the 8th of Sept.They are famous for the sale of all kinds of commodities, but particularly for the immense quantity of curious books, nowhere else to be found, and from whence the booksellers throughout all Europe used to furnish themselves.Before each fair there is a catalogue of all the books to be sold thereat printed and dispersed, to call together the purchasers, though the learned complain of divers unfair practices therein, as factitious titles, names of books purely imaginary,&c., besides great faults in the names of the authors and the titles of the real books.The fairs of Leipsic are held thrice a year—one beginning on the first of January, another three weeks after Easter, and a third at Michaelmas.Besides these, there are a host of others held in various parts of the Continent.England was at one time famous for its fairs, and even in the present day there are numbers held annually.Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, was by far the greatest in Britain, and, perhaps, in the world. Bristol is next on the list.The only fishing fair in this country is the one held at Great Yarmouth.In addition to these there are fairs for butter at Ipswich; in Norfolk, for Scotch runts; at Bettford, for sheep; and a host of others in the leading towns of England.The place visited by Mr. Wrench and his two companions was, as we have already signified, a hiring fair.Those who offer themselves as grooms place a piece of sponge in their hat-bands; the shepherds, a tuft of wool; the carters, an inch of whipcord; and the boys of all work, a bunch of blue and green ribbons.When a farmer wishes to engage a man he finds out a strong-limbed, clear-eyed young fellow. When this has been done they haggle.Both fight hard for their money and their money’s worth, and will often separate after half an hour’s argument to look out for softer men.If a bargain is struck the farmer gives the man a shilling.This is called thefestin shilling, orGod’s penny; after receiving which the man is the pursuer’s slave, and should he not appear at the time appointed is liable to be sent to gaol.It is, however, by no means a rare practice for a man or boy to engage himself at a fair on Thursday for 6s.per week, we will say; at a neighbouring fair on the Friday for 8s.a week, and at another on the Saturday for 10s.a week; closing with three offers and only holding to the best.Farm servants are as hungry after money as the workmen in many of our manufacturing towns, and they are not the innocent creatures which novelists and dramatists would lead you to suppose.Mr. Wrench had kept his eyes open throughout the livelong day. He had, in company with Joe and Nell Fulford, visited most of the shows, but had not met with the man he was in search of, but he did not feel disposed to give up the search as hopeless.He partook of a substantial meal with his two friends in a small public-house, which stood just outside the fair.Night drew on apace, but the devotees to pleasure were not sated. They had come to see all that could be seen, and the village carnival was just as crowded after nightfall as it had been during the bright and sunny hours of the day.The quietly-disposed village folks retired to their beds. This was a mere matter of form, for the noise in the streets placed sleep out of the question.Now, indeed, the real fun of the fair commenced.Now the whole company of the very minor theatre were assembled upon the outer platform, and the man with the leathern-lunged voice was as vociferous as ever. He was a little hoarse with constant shouting, but this did not matter—he contrived to make himself heard.The company on the platform went through a wild pantomime, in which the clown was ill-treated by everybody.He was unmercifully whipped by a man in jackboots, but was heedless of the punishment which, to say the truth, did not appear to affect him in the slightest degree. He contented himself with making grimaces in revenge, at which the people laughed till they cried again.They had come to enjoy themselves, and it did not take much to move them to laughter.The external preliminaries having been concluded on the platform of Richardson’s celebrated booth, thedramatis personæretired behind the curtain, the man with the leathern lungs shouting out at the top of his voice—“Now’s your time, good people; walk up—walk up! You’d better by half come in at once, if you means coming; we are just going to begin. Grand spectacular romantic melodrama as ’ud move the heart of a stone. This way, gentlemen!”The harsh clang of unmusical instruments from within, the shaking of the tent, and the delighted shouts of the audience proved the interesting fact that there were still some spots in the world where theatrical announcements were not impostures.The wild beasts had been fed, Wombwell’s brass band had finished their last tune, and the shaven-cheeked, greasy-headed performers were packing up their instruments, chewing their sore lips, and stretching their cramped and weary limbs.Life and jollity now rolled towards the dancing booths, washing into its stream all those who had been shooting at the nut stalls, or who had been to see the calf with six legs, the wonderful donkey, or the live mermaid, or had been peeping in at the panorama of the “Orful Massacres in the Injees,” in which the artist, wisely sacrificing truth to effect, had painted the murderous Sepoys as black as saucepans, with blubber lips, frizzly hair, white waistcloths, and long spears, dripping with gore.Between two gingerbread stalls there was a brave battle between the crowds.CrowdNo.1 making for public-house, L.H.; crowdNo.2 pushing for dancing-booth, Op.Both crowds were composed of free Britons, who will never believe that retreats are sometimes judicious.Three men in particular might have been seen pushing first one way and then the other, as if they rather enjoyed the scramble than otherwise.This did not escape the observation of the others, who cried—“Now then, you sir, keep yer elbows to yerself. You aint everybody.”“You’re another!” cried a voice.“Don’t ee give me any o’ yer cheek, young man, or you may get a prop in the eye.”“Heigh, my Jack-o’-dandy, you’ll spile yer pretty govers if ye shove us common people about like this ’ere,” observed a rustic to a young swell.“Look at the old bloke with the green goggles, how uneasy he is to find himself somew’eres. Keep still, old gentleman—we’ll make it all right for you arter a bit.”“Order—silence! Where are you shoving to, yer fool?” cried a stout farmer. “Haven’t ye ever bin to a fair afore?”“Take care of your pockets!” cried a policeman, from the outside, “you as has got anything in ’em,” he added, with official sarcasm.“All right, bobby, we’re fly—all on us regularly up to the knocker.”“Don’t squeesh—don’t squeesh!” cried a Cockney costermonger, with the good humoured raillery of his class. “If there’s one thing as I hates more than another, it is to be squeeshed. The doctor says as how my constertootion won’t bear it.”“Oh, Bill!” murmured a female voice from the abyss.“Vell, you knows I can’t bear it, Sall,” returned the costermonger. “You knows as how I’ve a delecate constertootion.”“Bear up, old man—don’t ee gi’ way,” observed a rustic.“Oh, you big hulking beast,” screamed an old woman. “You’ve bin and torn my best dress by a treadin’ on it wi’ yer great hob-nailed boots.”“Mek him pay for ut, mother,” suggested a ploughman. “Give ’im in charge o’ the pleece.”“Pleece, pleece!” shouted out the old dame.“What’s the matter, marm?” said a constable.“Matter, indeed! this hulking fellow has torn my gownd from my back—that’s what be the matter.”“It can’t be helped. It was an accident, you ought to keep out of the crowd.”At this there was a roar of laughter.The old woman became furious.“You’re as bad as he is,” she exclaimed, shaking her umbrella at the constable. “What good are you? What are you paid for, I should like to know? You ought to be ashamed o’ yerself to let an honest woman be used in this way!”The policeman offered to conduct her out of the crowd, but she would not listen to him. She went on abusing the whole force in general and the luckless constable in particular.This little incident seemed to be interesting to the multitude, who pushed and shoved to their hearts’ content.It is impossible to say how long this contest might have lasted had not several persons cried out that they had been robbed, and called out to the police. The old woman declared that she had had her pockets picked.Three policemen now charged the crowd and knocked down an old man and two boys who had done nothing.After which they clumsily noted down the depositions of the plundered ones in their pocket-books, with looks of solemn authority and words of the obscurest promise.Half-an-hour passed, and the two crowds ceased their contest.Mr. Wrench and his two companions, who had become hemmed in, were now enabled to make their escape; they had been borne along by crowdNo.1, and during the rush they had no means of extricating themselves.When, however, they got clear of the mob of malcontents, they passed out of the fair with all convenient speed.At some short distance they discovered a small tavern, bearing the sign of the “Lord Cornwallis.”They made for this, to partake of some refreshment.A large flag, the Union Jack, was suspended over the front of the house, at the door of which stood three or four soldiers of that unwashed stamp which haunt the dens of Orchard-street and the purlieus of Birdcage-walk.There was an awe-stricken semicircle of rustics at a little distance, before whom stood an enlisting sergeant—his features bloated and reddened from beer and alcohol—beckoning with his naked sword in his hand.He had the gift of the gab, and the words he was giving utterance to fell glibly enough from his lips.“Now, my fine fellow,” he cried, in a thick husky voice, “don’t hesitate. A fine chance offers itself. Take the Queen’s money, and join our gallant comrades in the East. Now’s your time; but don’t all speak at once. Happy is the man who enlists in our crack regiment. We want a little help just now to thrash all them black-faced, black-headed scoundrels who’ve been butchering the poor women and children. You won’t have another such a chance, and so don’t hesitate—don’t hang back like a pack of curs. I see around me a fine lot of fellows. Come, now, you with the white dudley, we can’t get on without you. You know there isn’t such a pair of shoulders as yours in the whole army. You’re cut out for a sodger, and it’s a real sin for a handsome young fellow like you to be wasting your precious life following the plough when you might be making a fortune in Injia. There’s heaps of gold there, and you are sure to get promoted. Say the word. Take the Queen’s shilling, and you’ll come back a general with white stars on your breast, and a mahogany box full of yellow sovereigns. You won’t refuse—you’re not one of that sort. I’ve had my eye upon you, and you’ll thank me for making a man of you. What say you, comrade?”“Don’t ee do nothink o’ the sort, lad. Don’t ee listen to what ee ses,” cried a woman, standing by. “I know what he be. He only talks loike that cos he gets so much a head for every fresh fool he takes in. Take the Queen’s money, indeed! Let him keep it. If it was to a man’s good to go a sodgering, d’ye think they’d want to tempt him with a shilling? Go to the wars, and what will ee get for it? A bit o’ ribbon or an iron cross may be. It’s a hard world for humble folk. In war they does the fightin’, and others get the reward; in peace they does the hard work, and others collar the money. Don’t ee be kiddy kilted into it, my lad. They mek the gentlemen generals, not the private sodgers, and all the plunder goes to the government as stays at home, not to them as risks their lives for it abroad. He can talk and tell lies by the bushel, but don’t ee be gammoned by him—and don’t ee bleeve a word as he ses.”The rubicund face of the enlisting sergeant became redder than ever as he listened to the words which fell from the lips of the young woman.He was greatly incensed, and looked upon her with ineffable disgust.“You are an audacious impudent hussy!” he cried, with the fierce gestures of a Hamlet at the Bower Saloon, “and some wholesome chastisement would do you good, my lady. If you were a man, I’d give you something for yourself, but a British soldier never raises his hand against a woman.”Having delivered himself of this heroic declaration, he turned towards the rustics, and said, in a confidential tone—“You’ve got too much sense to take any heed of what a poor half-witted creature like her has to say. Anyone can see that she has not got her right change.”“You’ve got your change, old man, and no mistake,” returned the woman, giving him a playful push in the chest which sent him reeling against the wall. “Why, you’re screwed, old man,” and added, “You’re a nice sort of gineral, ain’t ye?”The clowns, who invariably join with the stronger side, hailed their hero’s discomfiture with loud shouts of derisive laughter, and closing fearlessly round him, chanted the cynical refrain—A sargint stepp’d up to me, and asked me for to ’list,I bid him stand back, and I showed him then my fist,Tooral rooral, tooral la.The sergeant was a big bulky man, but owing to sundry potations he was a little groggy on his pins. He, however, felt very much inclined to give his assailant a sharp box on the ear, but the chances were if he did so that he would raise the ire of the male portion of the assembled throng, and prudence directed him to pass the matter over as lightly and good-humouredly as possible.“A woman’s more than a match for the best of us, mates,” he said in a jocular manner. “My principle is to let them have their own way. I never argufy with ’em—am too old a soldier for that.”“That’s the way to serve out them ’listin’ sargents,” cried the woman, taking no heed of the last observations made by the gallant son of Mars. “They bring more sorrow and heartaches upon the poor than all the tax gatherers and squires’ stewards can do. Why, Willy, you ha’ got gay ribbons on to-day,” she ejaculated, catching sight of a young man who was known to her in the crowd. “Hast caught a master with all thy finery?”“Don’t you know the British colours, my girl?” said an old soldier, standing by. “Your Willy has enlisted.”Her countenance now wore a troubled expression.“Oh, Will,” she murmured, in a low, respectful voice, “and ha’ ye left your poor mother to starve or go to the House? But there, it’s no yoose talking now. Words can’t free a bound man, nor yet any money that she or you could find.”“Never fear,” said the young man. “I’ll come back rich and make her and you happy.”He said this in a faint voice, having but partially recovered from the quartern of gin, under the influence of which he had been imprudent enough to enlist. He now began to feel qualms as to his future welfare.“I should ha’ felt this more at one time,” murmured the woman. “For you’ve bin kind and good to me, Will, and it doant tak’ me long to count my frinds. But now I’ve only one thought in my head and one grief in my heart. I can’t think nor feel of anything but this sore trouble, for it be a trouble as will cling to me for many and many a long and weary day.”She ceased, and those around were at no loss to comprehend that the speaker’s heart was too full to admit of her saying more.The young man who had been called Will hung down his head, and but for very shame he would have sobbed; but situated as he was, surrounded by his companions, he bore up as best he could.The woman turned her back upon the young recruit, and went half-way down the tavern passage; it was blocked up by soldiers who appeared to be discussing the character of their acquaintances.“He’s got an oil bottle in his pocket,” were the first words she caught. “An’ so has your brave ’listing sergeant,” said the woman, “an’ bad luck to him an’ all such smooth-tongued varmints.”“Don’t you speak ill of the sergeant, young woman,” said a soldier. “He’s a dooty to perform.”“Has he?”“Yes, he’s right enough, but I don’t like a man as puts salt into his own beer and sugar in mine, at first sight too. “’Taint natural or seemly that he should.”“‘An who be that there,” inquired the woman.“Ah, no one as you knows,” returned a rustic.“But who be it, no matter whether it be my bis’ness or yourn?”“An old man, my dear, as has been pouring melted butter down our backs, and talking to us as if we were all field-marshals or generals.”“Ye sodgers want to keep all the blarney to your own mouths. But what sort of man be he?”“Short and dirty, like a winter’s day, with a green shade over his eyes.”“A green shade!” exclaimed Mr. Wrench, glancing at Joe Doughty. “An old man—eh, my friends?”“Well, he aint a young one—leastways, to judge from appearance.”“Appearances are sometimes deceptive,” observed the detective.“Well, that be true, guv’nor. We all on us find that out some time or another, but he aint no good.”“There’s some truth in what he said, though,” cried another of the soldiers—“that it’s us privates as wins all the battles, while the generals take good care to keep out of harm’s way.”“Ah, my lad,” said an old soldier, joining the group of idlers, “that’s all very well as far as it goes, but you might as well put a horse in a gig and tell him to drive himself up to London, as to set an army at an army without a general to hold the reins. And it wants a brave man to be general in a fight when the cannons are roaring, and the wounded are groaning, and the smoke is thickening. It’s hard work to keep one’s head cool to see what regiments want help and what regiments can do by themselves. I tell you it aint easy work either for the generals, the captains, or the privates. But here we are—sorry soldiers, to block up the passage in this fashion, and none offering to move to make room for a pretty girl to pass.”This last observation applied to Nell Fulford, who had silently and quickly drawn towards the entrance of the passage.“Now, then, soldiers, make yourselves a little less, and let this young woman pass.”Several of the men withdrew at once, and Mr. Wrench and Joe passed through and gained the public room beyond.“Keep quiet. Our business is to watch, but don’t either of you say anything till I address you,” whispered the detective, as they took their way along.The three entered the room, in a dark corner of which they seated themselves. Wrench ordered some beer and sandwiches, which were brought.They all three of them glanced round the room, and soon perceived the subject of the soldiers’ conversation. He was a bent, long-haired man, with a green shade over his eyes, and dressed in a kind of cloak with loose sleeves.At the next table, with a huge cheese before him, and glass of cold brandy and water at his side, sat a stalwart, broad-shouldered man, with a hard square cast of face.Near the window lolled a young gentleman, who was well dressed and be-jewelled, and who had a lighted cigar between his kid-gloved fingers.He must have wandered in there for a few moments from curiosity, unless he was one of those gentlemen by birth but not by breeding, who drink the dregs of society by preference.Mr. Wrench recognised these as the last-named two men who had been so energetic during the hustle.“Bring us a greybeard of Husser and Squencher,” said a rustic in a smock frock, who was seated near to the detective. (A greybeard is one of those jugs commonly used in ale-houses with the face of an old man on it. Husser and Squencher is a drain of gin and a quart of beer mixed).“That was a bad job,” observed a rustic, addressing the man in the green shade, “that ’ere job in Larchgrove-lane.”“I’ve not heerd on it,” said the man with the green shade; “what was it?”When Nell Fulford heard the man with the shade speak she gave a start, and half rose from her seat. Mr. Wrench placed his hand on her shoulder, and by a motion of his head signified that she was to remain quiet.She obeyed, and shrank back farther into the corner, behind a settle, and listened with gleaming eyes.Situated as she and her two companions were, they could not be seen by the man with the green shade.The rustic, who had already alluded to the tragedy, now gave a brief account of the same for the edification of those present.“These things are most horrible,” exclaimed the young swell with the cigar. “Most terrible. What motive had the scoundrel? I suppose plunder.”“Noa, it warn’t that,” said the countryman. “Leastways, I think not,” he added, drinking from his mug and setting it down upon the table with a bang. “It warn’t done for money, measter—’cos ye see the young farmer hadn’t bin robbed, so I’ve bin tould.”“No doubt it were done out o’ spite or revenge.”“Like enough somethink o’ that sort,” observed the man with the shade, who, after this last observation, appeared to fall into a reverie.“And be you a stranger in these parts, measter?” asked the countryman, with provincial curiosity. “If it be a fair question, leastways?”“Yes, I only came here this morning. I wan’t, if I can, to get——”Nell Fulford could not remain longer passive. She bounded like a panther across the room and sprang upon the man with a horrible shriek, which rang through the apartment with appalling distinctness.“Wretch! murdering villain! We’ve found you at last,” she cried, clasping him by the neck with superhuman force. “It be he,” she shouted, in a voice of triumph, “it be Giles Chudley!”The room was filled in an instant.“The woman’s mad,” exclaimed one of the newcomers, dragging her from the man.“Mad!” she cried, and with inconceivable strength she broke from the man’s grasp, and darted upon the murderer of her sweetheart.She tore off his wig, which she flung upon the floor.The company assembled in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis” saw before them a man with fluttering, conscience-stricken eyes, and hands clasped imploringly towards them.“I am innocent!” he exclaimed. “Take her away.”Joe Doughty rushed forward, overset one of the tables as he went along, and sprang at the throat of Chudley.“I’ll ha’ yer heart’s blood!” he yelled, in a voice of concentrated passion.He caught the affrighted man by the throat with both hands, and pressed him against the wall.Chudley’s face became purple, and it was evident that he was undergoing the process of strangulation.“Leave go your hold,” cried a soldier at the further end of the room. “Do you want to kill the man.”“I’ll ha’ his life, if I die for it!”By this time the utmost disorder prevailed. Mr. Wrench came forward and besought Joe Doughty to release the culprit.“I’ll not let ’im go for you, nor no man!” cried Joe.“We won’t see murder committed,” said several rustics. “Forward to the rescue!”“Doughty, do as I bid you—let go your hold.”His first paroxysm of passion now having in a measure subsided, Joe released his man, upon whom Mr. Wrench had already slipped a pair of handcuffs.“I did not do it!” exclaimed the prisoner.“Did not do what?” said Joe Doughty, thrusting his fist within an inch of the pallid, mottled face. “Lying won’t sarve you new; you’re nabbed, and the hangman’s rope is ready for you.”“He says he did not murder Mr. Philip Jamblin,” cried Nell Fulford.“You see he knows what he is charged with, although he’s never been in these parts afore this morning.”The landlord of the “Lord Cornwallis” now entered the room. He was in a great state of flustration, and became seriously concerned as he beheld a terror-stricken man upon whom the eyes of all those present were intently fixed.“What is the matter, gentlemen?” inquired Boniface.“Murder’s the matter; that’s all, my friend,” answered Mr. Wrench. “And this man is my prisoner.”“Prisoner! Are you in the force?”“I am a detective from Scotland-yard. I know my duty; let that suffice.”“Well, this is a pretty business,” exclaimed the landlord. “Never had such a thing as this occur in my house. I can’t make it out rightly.”“It will be made pretty clear very shortly, I expect; but that does not much matter as far as you are concerned.”“It’s no business of mine, that be sartin,” said the landlord, “but I wish it had taken place any where but here. Howsomever, it can’t be helped.”“What be goin’ to do wi’ yer man, measter?” cried a countryman.“What do you suppose, you silly fellow,” answered Wrench; take him to the lock-up, to be sure. Doughty, just go outside and bring in a policeman or two.”“Ah, ah! that is if ye can find ’em,” observed the countryman. “They’re seldom in the way when they be wanted.”At this sally many of the rustics who were present burst out in a loud guffaw.The landlord and one of his barmen proceeded to replace the table which had been overturned, and picked up the shattered glasses which lay upon the floor.A dead calm succeeded the storm and tumult which had been raging but a few minutes before.Joe returned with two policemen, who promptly obeyed the orders given by Wrench, who handed his prisoner over to them, and he was forthwith marched off to the village lock-up.“Dall it all,” cried the countryman, “but this be but a sorry ending to the fair.”The young gentleman with the flowing locks and kid gloves had quietly withdrawn from the scene immediately after Nell had sprung upon Chudley—he was followed by the man who sat with the huge lump of cheese before him.Their sudden flight struck Mr. Wrench as being a little singular; he, however, did not make any remark in reference to the same.Everybody in the room seemed all at once to becomr, serious, and reflective. The noise of many voices had ceased.The soldiers were as stiff and formal as on a parade day, and those in the parlour who had partaken a little too freely of strong drinks appeared to be sobered, by the sight they had witnessed.For the remainder of the night there was little else talked about in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis” but the capture of the wretched man who was arrested, upon the grave charge of murder.
When Mr. Wrench made his appearance in the public room of the “Dun Cow,” Joe, after a little circumlocution, explained to his chief his adventures of the previous night.
As the latter listened to the account of the stranger in the vagrants’ lodging-house, and his sudden departure, his countenance was irradiated with a smile.
“And this fellow went away without saying a word to anybody?” said Wrench.
“He never so much as opened his ugly mouth,” returned Doughty.
“Ah, who knows, but he might be the man of whom we are in search?”
“He warn’t a morsel loike ’im.”
“He wasn’t?”
“Noa, not a morsel, ’xcept his walk, and that war a goodish bit arter the style of Giles Chudley’s.”
“All right, Doughty, I don’t think you have spent a night in the lodging-house in vain; but you must be hungry. We’ll have breakfast, and then make the best of our way to the fair.”
Breakfast was ordered and served. Nell Fulford joined her two companions, and did the honours of the table.
While partaking of their morning’s meal the detective and his two companions observed throngs of persons passing the window, rushing even at that early hour to the fair.
“They are taking time by the forelock, Miss Fulford,” said the detective, looking towards the window of the parlour.
“Oh, yes; it be always loike this at fair time. People coom from all parts, far and near.”
“There is one thing I wish to impress on both of you,” observed Wrench, “and that is to keep as quiet as possible. We’ll see all that’s to be seen, but we won’t appear to be looking for any one. We are only here to enjoy the fun of the fair—that’s all.”
“Fun!” cried Nelly, with a sigh.
“I don’t expect for one moment, Miss Fulford, that you, or indeed any one of us, will have much enjoyment, but as far as that is concerned it is quite a secondary consideration; but we must appear to be attracted hither for amusement. Let us hope something more important will follow.”
His female companion inclined her head in tacit acquiescence, and Joe said he’d have nuffin’ to say to anybody.
The fair was held at a small market town, which was built on the banks of a river. As far as architectural beauty was concerned, it was not much to boast of, for the streets rivalled those of Cairo, which are said to be the narrowest and dirtiest in the world, and central is the market-place.
In this market-place the fair was held, though many of the booths and canvas-covered stalls extended down the Egyptian thoroughfares, choking them with impassability.
For one hour or so after breakfast the occupants of the parlour of the “Dun Cow” contented themselves with watching the passengers in the road from the bay window of their snug little apartment.
Mr. Wrench had letters to answer which were sent from Scotland-yard. There was one also from Lord Ethalwood, in which the writer besought him to do his best to discover the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin.
A detective’s life is both an anxious and an arduous one, make the best of it.
The earl’s letter, of course, had to be answered by return of post. Mr. Wrench had little or nothing to communicate at present, but he deemed it expedient to write off and inform his lordship that his injunctions would not be disregarded.
When he had finished his correspondence, which was necessarily very brief, the detective informed his two companions that he was ready to accompany them to the fair.
Many of our readers are doubtless very well acquainted with the most noticeable features of a country fair. When held in a picturesque locality it is a sight worth seeing.
Fairs and wakes are of Saxon origin, and date back for many hundreds of years. The former were instituted in England by Alfred, in the year 886.
Wakes were established by order of GregoryVII.in 1049, and termedFeriæ, at which the monks celebrated the festival of their patron saints.
Fairs were established in France about 800 by Charlemagne, and encouraged in England about 1071 by William the Conqueror.
They may be said to be identified with the history of our country.
It was early in the day when Mr. Wrench arrived at the fair with his two companions, but nevertheless crowds of persons were already assembled.
As they joined the body of the people the noise was almost deafening, but a noise so like that of people enjoying themselves that he must have been a flinty philosopher who could get out of temper with it.
No gathering of this sort was complete without Richardson’s celebrated show, in which a melodrama of a most touching nature was enacted in the brief space of twenty minutes, or from that to half an hour.
Richardson himself at this time was gathered to his fathers.
He was a dumpy, pock-marked man, with a red face and a long brown coat.
Reading and writing were not included in his accomplishments, but he was a kindly-disposed, persevering, honest little man, much given to dirt and the drama, who contrived by praiseworthy industry to amass a large fortune.
It was his boast that some of our most celebrated actors and actresses were, at one time or another, included in his troupe.
The late Edmund Kean in his early career acted at Richardson’s show.
The great Mrs. Pritchard, who played with David Garrick, began life as a performer at fairs.
Numbers of similar instances could be cited of other distinguished members of the theatrical profession who were wont to strut their hour upon the stage at shows and booths.
Although Richardson had passed away the booth in the fair still bore his name, albeit it was in other hands.
“Walk up, ladies and gentlemen—just going to begin!” shouted out a leather-lunged individual on the platform of the show.
“The Bleeding Nun; or, the Midnight Hour,” was the powerful drama about to be represented.
While the gentleman with the never-failing lungs was addressing the yokels, a clown was going through some antics on another part of the platform.
After this a brass band struck up playing the most discordant music it is very well possible to conceive.
Mr. Wrench and his two companions ascended the steps which led to this temple of the drama, paid their money, and after waiting a considerable time in the interior of the booth had the satisfaction of witnessing the drama in question.
When they came out after the performance they were asked by the gentleman on the platform how they liked it, and of course said they were very much pleased.
Upon this the touter turned triumphantly to the gaping crowd below, and again shouted out, “Now’s your time, gentlemen and ladies—just going to begin!”
The formula was gone through over and over again during the whole of the day.
As to dwarfs and giants and giantesses they were innumerable, together with curiosities both natural and unnatural.
An Irishman made up as a red Indian, and called “Yokoomana, the celebrated fire-eater,” undertook to put the end of a red-hot poker into his mouth, across his tongue, and on the soles of his naked feet.
Then there were swings, roundabouts, gold gingerbread, gingerbread nuts, Wombwell’s brass band playing their loudest tunes, a horse with two heads and six legs, a mermaid, a wild man caught in the Black Forest, a learned pig, waxwork exhibitions, performing dogs and monkeys, acrobats, Mademoiselle Clotilda Favirini, the celebrated tight-rope dancer who had performed before most of the crowned heads of Europe, a sword-swallower, a Chinaman (hailing from Dublin), who threw sharp-painted swords at another Chinaman (hailing from Cork), the Cork Chinaman standing all the while with arms outstretched against a board against which the swords were thrown within the eighth of an inch of his body.
Added to all these was the snapping of guns at the nut stalls, the artificial screams of the young women, and the hoarse guffaws of the young men.
Peace and quietness were out of the question; throughout the livelong day there was a ceaseless row and clatter.
The crowd was composed of three distinct classes—first those who came for amusement only.
Smockfrocked bumpkins and gaily-dressed lasses, who had taken a fresh lease of servitude, and who had been permitted to enjoy a genuine holiday and witness sights which were only to be seen at fairs; clergymen and other professional men ofstatusand respectability, who walked awkward through the crowd, trying to look as if they were not enjoying themselves; a score or so of boys from an adjacent boarding school walking in couples like prisoners out for exercise, with the head gaoler in black trousers and blue spectacles, anxiously clearing a way before them; and above all a rosy-cheeked housemaid, who, having stolen half-an hour’s liberty under pretext of an errand, was taking a sip at those waters which Solomon affirmed to be so sweet.
Some came only upon business.
Mr. Wrench and his two companions were included in this category.
Austere old maids, who scowled upon the circus, and sneered at the wild beasts; farmers and farmers’ wives; of the temperate-in-drink and intemperate-in-religion genus, who, like the Caliph Omar, deemed it necessary to make a hell of this world in order to merit the heaven of the next.
A goodly sprinkling of pickpockets; a host of young persons with painted faces and comical smiles; and, let us add for the benefit of my small readers, all the people engaged in the various places of amusement, from the pretty girl who looked so happy as she danced on the tight rope, down to the red and white-faced clown, who said such funny things that you nearly split your sides with laughing.
And there were a great many people who went to the fair both for business and pleasure.
Farmers and their wives, of the true old Saxon sort, who went to hire their servants, and to spend their money, artful little hussies who intended to enjoy themselves, dancing in the booths, and to pick up fresh acquaintances, or to pull some irresolute swain over that matrimonial precipice, on the brink of which he had long been oscillating, and the great mass of boys and girls who had come, to use their own words, “to see the woild beasteses, and to get bound to the varmers.”
It is incident to a fair that persons shall be free from being arrested in it for any other debt or contract than what was contracted in the same, or at least promised to be paid there.
Fairs of this sort were generally held once or twice a year, and by statute they were not to be held longer than they ought.
Also proclamations were to be made how long they were to continue, and no person was allowed to sell any goods after the time of the fair was ended, on forfeiture of double the value, one-fourth of which was to go to the prosecutor, and the rest to the king.
That was a toll usually paid in fairs on the sale of goods, and for stullage, picage,&c.
Fairs abroad are either free or charged with toll or impost.
The privileges of free fairs consisted chiefly—first, in all the traders,&c., whether natives or foreigners, who were allowed to enter the kingdom, and who were, under royal protection, exempt from duties, tolls,&c.
No.31.
Illustration: CAPTURE OF GILES CHUDLEY.CAPTURE OF GILES CHUDLEY.
CAPTURE OF GILES CHUDLEY.
They were established by letters patent from the prince.
Fairs, particularly free fairs, make a very considerable article in the commerce of Europe, especially in the Mediterranean and the inland parts of Germany.
The most celebrated fairs in Europe are those of Old Frankfort, held twice a year, in spring and autumn, the first commencing the Sunday before Palm Sunday, and the other on the Sunday before the 8th of Sept.
They are famous for the sale of all kinds of commodities, but particularly for the immense quantity of curious books, nowhere else to be found, and from whence the booksellers throughout all Europe used to furnish themselves.
Before each fair there is a catalogue of all the books to be sold thereat printed and dispersed, to call together the purchasers, though the learned complain of divers unfair practices therein, as factitious titles, names of books purely imaginary,&c., besides great faults in the names of the authors and the titles of the real books.
The fairs of Leipsic are held thrice a year—one beginning on the first of January, another three weeks after Easter, and a third at Michaelmas.
Besides these, there are a host of others held in various parts of the Continent.
England was at one time famous for its fairs, and even in the present day there are numbers held annually.
Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, was by far the greatest in Britain, and, perhaps, in the world. Bristol is next on the list.
The only fishing fair in this country is the one held at Great Yarmouth.
In addition to these there are fairs for butter at Ipswich; in Norfolk, for Scotch runts; at Bettford, for sheep; and a host of others in the leading towns of England.
The place visited by Mr. Wrench and his two companions was, as we have already signified, a hiring fair.
Those who offer themselves as grooms place a piece of sponge in their hat-bands; the shepherds, a tuft of wool; the carters, an inch of whipcord; and the boys of all work, a bunch of blue and green ribbons.
When a farmer wishes to engage a man he finds out a strong-limbed, clear-eyed young fellow. When this has been done they haggle.
Both fight hard for their money and their money’s worth, and will often separate after half an hour’s argument to look out for softer men.
If a bargain is struck the farmer gives the man a shilling.
This is called thefestin shilling, orGod’s penny; after receiving which the man is the pursuer’s slave, and should he not appear at the time appointed is liable to be sent to gaol.
It is, however, by no means a rare practice for a man or boy to engage himself at a fair on Thursday for 6s.per week, we will say; at a neighbouring fair on the Friday for 8s.a week, and at another on the Saturday for 10s.a week; closing with three offers and only holding to the best.
Farm servants are as hungry after money as the workmen in many of our manufacturing towns, and they are not the innocent creatures which novelists and dramatists would lead you to suppose.
Mr. Wrench had kept his eyes open throughout the livelong day. He had, in company with Joe and Nell Fulford, visited most of the shows, but had not met with the man he was in search of, but he did not feel disposed to give up the search as hopeless.
He partook of a substantial meal with his two friends in a small public-house, which stood just outside the fair.
Night drew on apace, but the devotees to pleasure were not sated. They had come to see all that could be seen, and the village carnival was just as crowded after nightfall as it had been during the bright and sunny hours of the day.
The quietly-disposed village folks retired to their beds. This was a mere matter of form, for the noise in the streets placed sleep out of the question.
Now, indeed, the real fun of the fair commenced.
Now the whole company of the very minor theatre were assembled upon the outer platform, and the man with the leathern-lunged voice was as vociferous as ever. He was a little hoarse with constant shouting, but this did not matter—he contrived to make himself heard.
The company on the platform went through a wild pantomime, in which the clown was ill-treated by everybody.
He was unmercifully whipped by a man in jackboots, but was heedless of the punishment which, to say the truth, did not appear to affect him in the slightest degree. He contented himself with making grimaces in revenge, at which the people laughed till they cried again.
They had come to enjoy themselves, and it did not take much to move them to laughter.
The external preliminaries having been concluded on the platform of Richardson’s celebrated booth, thedramatis personæretired behind the curtain, the man with the leathern lungs shouting out at the top of his voice—
“Now’s your time, good people; walk up—walk up! You’d better by half come in at once, if you means coming; we are just going to begin. Grand spectacular romantic melodrama as ’ud move the heart of a stone. This way, gentlemen!”
The harsh clang of unmusical instruments from within, the shaking of the tent, and the delighted shouts of the audience proved the interesting fact that there were still some spots in the world where theatrical announcements were not impostures.
The wild beasts had been fed, Wombwell’s brass band had finished their last tune, and the shaven-cheeked, greasy-headed performers were packing up their instruments, chewing their sore lips, and stretching their cramped and weary limbs.
Life and jollity now rolled towards the dancing booths, washing into its stream all those who had been shooting at the nut stalls, or who had been to see the calf with six legs, the wonderful donkey, or the live mermaid, or had been peeping in at the panorama of the “Orful Massacres in the Injees,” in which the artist, wisely sacrificing truth to effect, had painted the murderous Sepoys as black as saucepans, with blubber lips, frizzly hair, white waistcloths, and long spears, dripping with gore.
Between two gingerbread stalls there was a brave battle between the crowds.
CrowdNo.1 making for public-house, L.H.; crowdNo.2 pushing for dancing-booth, Op.
Both crowds were composed of free Britons, who will never believe that retreats are sometimes judicious.
Three men in particular might have been seen pushing first one way and then the other, as if they rather enjoyed the scramble than otherwise.
This did not escape the observation of the others, who cried—
“Now then, you sir, keep yer elbows to yerself. You aint everybody.”
“You’re another!” cried a voice.
“Don’t ee give me any o’ yer cheek, young man, or you may get a prop in the eye.”
“Heigh, my Jack-o’-dandy, you’ll spile yer pretty govers if ye shove us common people about like this ’ere,” observed a rustic to a young swell.
“Look at the old bloke with the green goggles, how uneasy he is to find himself somew’eres. Keep still, old gentleman—we’ll make it all right for you arter a bit.”
“Order—silence! Where are you shoving to, yer fool?” cried a stout farmer. “Haven’t ye ever bin to a fair afore?”
“Take care of your pockets!” cried a policeman, from the outside, “you as has got anything in ’em,” he added, with official sarcasm.
“All right, bobby, we’re fly—all on us regularly up to the knocker.”
“Don’t squeesh—don’t squeesh!” cried a Cockney costermonger, with the good humoured raillery of his class. “If there’s one thing as I hates more than another, it is to be squeeshed. The doctor says as how my constertootion won’t bear it.”
“Oh, Bill!” murmured a female voice from the abyss.
“Vell, you knows I can’t bear it, Sall,” returned the costermonger. “You knows as how I’ve a delecate constertootion.”
“Bear up, old man—don’t ee gi’ way,” observed a rustic.
“Oh, you big hulking beast,” screamed an old woman. “You’ve bin and torn my best dress by a treadin’ on it wi’ yer great hob-nailed boots.”
“Mek him pay for ut, mother,” suggested a ploughman. “Give ’im in charge o’ the pleece.”
“Pleece, pleece!” shouted out the old dame.
“What’s the matter, marm?” said a constable.
“Matter, indeed! this hulking fellow has torn my gownd from my back—that’s what be the matter.”
“It can’t be helped. It was an accident, you ought to keep out of the crowd.”
At this there was a roar of laughter.
The old woman became furious.
“You’re as bad as he is,” she exclaimed, shaking her umbrella at the constable. “What good are you? What are you paid for, I should like to know? You ought to be ashamed o’ yerself to let an honest woman be used in this way!”
The policeman offered to conduct her out of the crowd, but she would not listen to him. She went on abusing the whole force in general and the luckless constable in particular.
This little incident seemed to be interesting to the multitude, who pushed and shoved to their hearts’ content.
It is impossible to say how long this contest might have lasted had not several persons cried out that they had been robbed, and called out to the police. The old woman declared that she had had her pockets picked.
Three policemen now charged the crowd and knocked down an old man and two boys who had done nothing.
After which they clumsily noted down the depositions of the plundered ones in their pocket-books, with looks of solemn authority and words of the obscurest promise.
Half-an-hour passed, and the two crowds ceased their contest.
Mr. Wrench and his two companions, who had become hemmed in, were now enabled to make their escape; they had been borne along by crowdNo.1, and during the rush they had no means of extricating themselves.
When, however, they got clear of the mob of malcontents, they passed out of the fair with all convenient speed.
At some short distance they discovered a small tavern, bearing the sign of the “Lord Cornwallis.”
They made for this, to partake of some refreshment.
A large flag, the Union Jack, was suspended over the front of the house, at the door of which stood three or four soldiers of that unwashed stamp which haunt the dens of Orchard-street and the purlieus of Birdcage-walk.
There was an awe-stricken semicircle of rustics at a little distance, before whom stood an enlisting sergeant—his features bloated and reddened from beer and alcohol—beckoning with his naked sword in his hand.
He had the gift of the gab, and the words he was giving utterance to fell glibly enough from his lips.
“Now, my fine fellow,” he cried, in a thick husky voice, “don’t hesitate. A fine chance offers itself. Take the Queen’s money, and join our gallant comrades in the East. Now’s your time; but don’t all speak at once. Happy is the man who enlists in our crack regiment. We want a little help just now to thrash all them black-faced, black-headed scoundrels who’ve been butchering the poor women and children. You won’t have another such a chance, and so don’t hesitate—don’t hang back like a pack of curs. I see around me a fine lot of fellows. Come, now, you with the white dudley, we can’t get on without you. You know there isn’t such a pair of shoulders as yours in the whole army. You’re cut out for a sodger, and it’s a real sin for a handsome young fellow like you to be wasting your precious life following the plough when you might be making a fortune in Injia. There’s heaps of gold there, and you are sure to get promoted. Say the word. Take the Queen’s shilling, and you’ll come back a general with white stars on your breast, and a mahogany box full of yellow sovereigns. You won’t refuse—you’re not one of that sort. I’ve had my eye upon you, and you’ll thank me for making a man of you. What say you, comrade?”
“Don’t ee do nothink o’ the sort, lad. Don’t ee listen to what ee ses,” cried a woman, standing by. “I know what he be. He only talks loike that cos he gets so much a head for every fresh fool he takes in. Take the Queen’s money, indeed! Let him keep it. If it was to a man’s good to go a sodgering, d’ye think they’d want to tempt him with a shilling? Go to the wars, and what will ee get for it? A bit o’ ribbon or an iron cross may be. It’s a hard world for humble folk. In war they does the fightin’, and others get the reward; in peace they does the hard work, and others collar the money. Don’t ee be kiddy kilted into it, my lad. They mek the gentlemen generals, not the private sodgers, and all the plunder goes to the government as stays at home, not to them as risks their lives for it abroad. He can talk and tell lies by the bushel, but don’t ee be gammoned by him—and don’t ee bleeve a word as he ses.”
The rubicund face of the enlisting sergeant became redder than ever as he listened to the words which fell from the lips of the young woman.
He was greatly incensed, and looked upon her with ineffable disgust.
“You are an audacious impudent hussy!” he cried, with the fierce gestures of a Hamlet at the Bower Saloon, “and some wholesome chastisement would do you good, my lady. If you were a man, I’d give you something for yourself, but a British soldier never raises his hand against a woman.”
Having delivered himself of this heroic declaration, he turned towards the rustics, and said, in a confidential tone—
“You’ve got too much sense to take any heed of what a poor half-witted creature like her has to say. Anyone can see that she has not got her right change.”
“You’ve got your change, old man, and no mistake,” returned the woman, giving him a playful push in the chest which sent him reeling against the wall. “Why, you’re screwed, old man,” and added, “You’re a nice sort of gineral, ain’t ye?”
The clowns, who invariably join with the stronger side, hailed their hero’s discomfiture with loud shouts of derisive laughter, and closing fearlessly round him, chanted the cynical refrain—
A sargint stepp’d up to me, and asked me for to ’list,I bid him stand back, and I showed him then my fist,Tooral rooral, tooral la.
A sargint stepp’d up to me, and asked me for to ’list,I bid him stand back, and I showed him then my fist,Tooral rooral, tooral la.
A sargint stepp’d up to me, and asked me for to ’list,
I bid him stand back, and I showed him then my fist,
Tooral rooral, tooral la.
The sergeant was a big bulky man, but owing to sundry potations he was a little groggy on his pins. He, however, felt very much inclined to give his assailant a sharp box on the ear, but the chances were if he did so that he would raise the ire of the male portion of the assembled throng, and prudence directed him to pass the matter over as lightly and good-humouredly as possible.
“A woman’s more than a match for the best of us, mates,” he said in a jocular manner. “My principle is to let them have their own way. I never argufy with ’em—am too old a soldier for that.”
“That’s the way to serve out them ’listin’ sargents,” cried the woman, taking no heed of the last observations made by the gallant son of Mars. “They bring more sorrow and heartaches upon the poor than all the tax gatherers and squires’ stewards can do. Why, Willy, you ha’ got gay ribbons on to-day,” she ejaculated, catching sight of a young man who was known to her in the crowd. “Hast caught a master with all thy finery?”
“Don’t you know the British colours, my girl?” said an old soldier, standing by. “Your Willy has enlisted.”
Her countenance now wore a troubled expression.
“Oh, Will,” she murmured, in a low, respectful voice, “and ha’ ye left your poor mother to starve or go to the House? But there, it’s no yoose talking now. Words can’t free a bound man, nor yet any money that she or you could find.”
“Never fear,” said the young man. “I’ll come back rich and make her and you happy.”
He said this in a faint voice, having but partially recovered from the quartern of gin, under the influence of which he had been imprudent enough to enlist. He now began to feel qualms as to his future welfare.
“I should ha’ felt this more at one time,” murmured the woman. “For you’ve bin kind and good to me, Will, and it doant tak’ me long to count my frinds. But now I’ve only one thought in my head and one grief in my heart. I can’t think nor feel of anything but this sore trouble, for it be a trouble as will cling to me for many and many a long and weary day.”
She ceased, and those around were at no loss to comprehend that the speaker’s heart was too full to admit of her saying more.
The young man who had been called Will hung down his head, and but for very shame he would have sobbed; but situated as he was, surrounded by his companions, he bore up as best he could.
The woman turned her back upon the young recruit, and went half-way down the tavern passage; it was blocked up by soldiers who appeared to be discussing the character of their acquaintances.
“He’s got an oil bottle in his pocket,” were the first words she caught. “An’ so has your brave ’listing sergeant,” said the woman, “an’ bad luck to him an’ all such smooth-tongued varmints.”
“Don’t you speak ill of the sergeant, young woman,” said a soldier. “He’s a dooty to perform.”
“Has he?”
“Yes, he’s right enough, but I don’t like a man as puts salt into his own beer and sugar in mine, at first sight too. “’Taint natural or seemly that he should.”
“‘An who be that there,” inquired the woman.
“Ah, no one as you knows,” returned a rustic.
“But who be it, no matter whether it be my bis’ness or yourn?”
“An old man, my dear, as has been pouring melted butter down our backs, and talking to us as if we were all field-marshals or generals.”
“Ye sodgers want to keep all the blarney to your own mouths. But what sort of man be he?”
“Short and dirty, like a winter’s day, with a green shade over his eyes.”
“A green shade!” exclaimed Mr. Wrench, glancing at Joe Doughty. “An old man—eh, my friends?”
“Well, he aint a young one—leastways, to judge from appearance.”
“Appearances are sometimes deceptive,” observed the detective.
“Well, that be true, guv’nor. We all on us find that out some time or another, but he aint no good.”
“There’s some truth in what he said, though,” cried another of the soldiers—“that it’s us privates as wins all the battles, while the generals take good care to keep out of harm’s way.”
“Ah, my lad,” said an old soldier, joining the group of idlers, “that’s all very well as far as it goes, but you might as well put a horse in a gig and tell him to drive himself up to London, as to set an army at an army without a general to hold the reins. And it wants a brave man to be general in a fight when the cannons are roaring, and the wounded are groaning, and the smoke is thickening. It’s hard work to keep one’s head cool to see what regiments want help and what regiments can do by themselves. I tell you it aint easy work either for the generals, the captains, or the privates. But here we are—sorry soldiers, to block up the passage in this fashion, and none offering to move to make room for a pretty girl to pass.”
This last observation applied to Nell Fulford, who had silently and quickly drawn towards the entrance of the passage.
“Now, then, soldiers, make yourselves a little less, and let this young woman pass.”
Several of the men withdrew at once, and Mr. Wrench and Joe passed through and gained the public room beyond.
“Keep quiet. Our business is to watch, but don’t either of you say anything till I address you,” whispered the detective, as they took their way along.
The three entered the room, in a dark corner of which they seated themselves. Wrench ordered some beer and sandwiches, which were brought.
They all three of them glanced round the room, and soon perceived the subject of the soldiers’ conversation. He was a bent, long-haired man, with a green shade over his eyes, and dressed in a kind of cloak with loose sleeves.
At the next table, with a huge cheese before him, and glass of cold brandy and water at his side, sat a stalwart, broad-shouldered man, with a hard square cast of face.
Near the window lolled a young gentleman, who was well dressed and be-jewelled, and who had a lighted cigar between his kid-gloved fingers.
He must have wandered in there for a few moments from curiosity, unless he was one of those gentlemen by birth but not by breeding, who drink the dregs of society by preference.
Mr. Wrench recognised these as the last-named two men who had been so energetic during the hustle.
“Bring us a greybeard of Husser and Squencher,” said a rustic in a smock frock, who was seated near to the detective. (A greybeard is one of those jugs commonly used in ale-houses with the face of an old man on it. Husser and Squencher is a drain of gin and a quart of beer mixed).
“That was a bad job,” observed a rustic, addressing the man in the green shade, “that ’ere job in Larchgrove-lane.”
“I’ve not heerd on it,” said the man with the green shade; “what was it?”
When Nell Fulford heard the man with the shade speak she gave a start, and half rose from her seat. Mr. Wrench placed his hand on her shoulder, and by a motion of his head signified that she was to remain quiet.
She obeyed, and shrank back farther into the corner, behind a settle, and listened with gleaming eyes.
Situated as she and her two companions were, they could not be seen by the man with the green shade.
The rustic, who had already alluded to the tragedy, now gave a brief account of the same for the edification of those present.
“These things are most horrible,” exclaimed the young swell with the cigar. “Most terrible. What motive had the scoundrel? I suppose plunder.”
“Noa, it warn’t that,” said the countryman. “Leastways, I think not,” he added, drinking from his mug and setting it down upon the table with a bang. “It warn’t done for money, measter—’cos ye see the young farmer hadn’t bin robbed, so I’ve bin tould.”
“No doubt it were done out o’ spite or revenge.”
“Like enough somethink o’ that sort,” observed the man with the shade, who, after this last observation, appeared to fall into a reverie.
“And be you a stranger in these parts, measter?” asked the countryman, with provincial curiosity. “If it be a fair question, leastways?”
“Yes, I only came here this morning. I wan’t, if I can, to get——”
Nell Fulford could not remain longer passive. She bounded like a panther across the room and sprang upon the man with a horrible shriek, which rang through the apartment with appalling distinctness.
“Wretch! murdering villain! We’ve found you at last,” she cried, clasping him by the neck with superhuman force. “It be he,” she shouted, in a voice of triumph, “it be Giles Chudley!”
The room was filled in an instant.
“The woman’s mad,” exclaimed one of the newcomers, dragging her from the man.
“Mad!” she cried, and with inconceivable strength she broke from the man’s grasp, and darted upon the murderer of her sweetheart.
She tore off his wig, which she flung upon the floor.
The company assembled in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis” saw before them a man with fluttering, conscience-stricken eyes, and hands clasped imploringly towards them.
“I am innocent!” he exclaimed. “Take her away.”
Joe Doughty rushed forward, overset one of the tables as he went along, and sprang at the throat of Chudley.
“I’ll ha’ yer heart’s blood!” he yelled, in a voice of concentrated passion.
He caught the affrighted man by the throat with both hands, and pressed him against the wall.
Chudley’s face became purple, and it was evident that he was undergoing the process of strangulation.
“Leave go your hold,” cried a soldier at the further end of the room. “Do you want to kill the man.”
“I’ll ha’ his life, if I die for it!”
By this time the utmost disorder prevailed. Mr. Wrench came forward and besought Joe Doughty to release the culprit.
“I’ll not let ’im go for you, nor no man!” cried Joe.
“We won’t see murder committed,” said several rustics. “Forward to the rescue!”
“Doughty, do as I bid you—let go your hold.”
His first paroxysm of passion now having in a measure subsided, Joe released his man, upon whom Mr. Wrench had already slipped a pair of handcuffs.
“I did not do it!” exclaimed the prisoner.
“Did not do what?” said Joe Doughty, thrusting his fist within an inch of the pallid, mottled face. “Lying won’t sarve you new; you’re nabbed, and the hangman’s rope is ready for you.”
“He says he did not murder Mr. Philip Jamblin,” cried Nell Fulford.
“You see he knows what he is charged with, although he’s never been in these parts afore this morning.”
The landlord of the “Lord Cornwallis” now entered the room. He was in a great state of flustration, and became seriously concerned as he beheld a terror-stricken man upon whom the eyes of all those present were intently fixed.
“What is the matter, gentlemen?” inquired Boniface.
“Murder’s the matter; that’s all, my friend,” answered Mr. Wrench. “And this man is my prisoner.”
“Prisoner! Are you in the force?”
“I am a detective from Scotland-yard. I know my duty; let that suffice.”
“Well, this is a pretty business,” exclaimed the landlord. “Never had such a thing as this occur in my house. I can’t make it out rightly.”
“It will be made pretty clear very shortly, I expect; but that does not much matter as far as you are concerned.”
“It’s no business of mine, that be sartin,” said the landlord, “but I wish it had taken place any where but here. Howsomever, it can’t be helped.”
“What be goin’ to do wi’ yer man, measter?” cried a countryman.
“What do you suppose, you silly fellow,” answered Wrench; take him to the lock-up, to be sure. Doughty, just go outside and bring in a policeman or two.”
“Ah, ah! that is if ye can find ’em,” observed the countryman. “They’re seldom in the way when they be wanted.”
At this sally many of the rustics who were present burst out in a loud guffaw.
The landlord and one of his barmen proceeded to replace the table which had been overturned, and picked up the shattered glasses which lay upon the floor.
A dead calm succeeded the storm and tumult which had been raging but a few minutes before.
Joe returned with two policemen, who promptly obeyed the orders given by Wrench, who handed his prisoner over to them, and he was forthwith marched off to the village lock-up.
“Dall it all,” cried the countryman, “but this be but a sorry ending to the fair.”
The young gentleman with the flowing locks and kid gloves had quietly withdrawn from the scene immediately after Nell had sprung upon Chudley—he was followed by the man who sat with the huge lump of cheese before him.
Their sudden flight struck Mr. Wrench as being a little singular; he, however, did not make any remark in reference to the same.
Everybody in the room seemed all at once to becomr, serious, and reflective. The noise of many voices had ceased.
The soldiers were as stiff and formal as on a parade day, and those in the parlour who had partaken a little too freely of strong drinks appeared to be sobered, by the sight they had witnessed.
For the remainder of the night there was little else talked about in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis” but the capture of the wretched man who was arrested, upon the grave charge of murder.