CHAPTERLXXII.CHARLES PEACE LEAVES DARTMOOR.We must now return to our hero, who, probably many of our readers may think has been left too long unnoticed; but it will be remembered that we left him in good hands. He was well looked after, and month after month wore sadly away, until at length the time approached upon which Peace was to regain his liberty.He had been very diligent and well behaved, and had earned the requisite number of marks.Discharges take place in various ways, but Peace was not at all particular about the method or manner of his liberation, provided he left the cheerless walls of Dartmoor.As we have stated in a preceding chapter, when a man is first of all convicted, his clothing is confiscated, and on his discharge the prison authorities give him other garments in place of those which have been taken from him.This is part of the prison arrangements that requires reform, and which, doubtless, will be seen before long.At the present time two courses are adopted.If a man joins the Prisoners’ Aid Society, he has a small sum allowed to him, which is handed over to the society to purchase clothing; but if he does not, an outfit is given him, but this bears upon it unmistakable evidence that the man has been a convict.This is neither fair nor just.It is true the clothes men leave Dartmoor in are cut well, made well, and in most instances are tolerably good fits, but the material is of the very worst quality, being a shoddy imitation of tweed, with a twill or pattern printed on it, and any one would be at no loss to know where it came from, for there is nothing like it made outside the walls of a prison, and such stuff is hardly worth making up into garments, for it is rotten, and will bear no time.A good serviceable material might be obtained at a trifling more cost, and the discharged prisoner would then have a rough suit of clothes which he would not be ashamed of wearing.It is ridiculous to measure a man, and spend skilled labour in cutting and making well-fitting garments which will not hang together for a month.The under clothes there is very little to find fault with, the stocking and flannels are as good as need be. The materials of the boots in general are of a good quality, and the workmanship excellent.As far as the hat is concerned nothing can be much worse.But taken altogether the rig out is most unsatisfactory, indeed; so worthless is it, that if a man were to go straight from prison to Monmouth-street or Petticoat-lane, and is lucky enough not to be caught in the rain, the dealers in new and second-hand clothes will allow him the magnificent sum of six, or at the most, seven shillings for the whole turn-out of coat, vest, trousers, hat, and handkerchiefs.They are sent abroad, as no one in this country will buy such rubbish.Due attention has not been given to this subject by the executive.Men when they leave prison should have every possible inducement for them to return to an honest course of life.The prisoner who goes to the Prisoners’ Aid Society in London is not compelled to accept the clothes which the gaol officials provide.He is sent up to town for discharge, and the society, out of the funds at their disposal, buy him some decent garments, which he is not ashamed of appearing in.Peace, however, did not belong to any society of this nature.When he was discharged from Dartmoor he had, therefore, no alternative than to leave the prison in the clothes furnished him by the authorities.When he was about to leave he was informed by the governor that a letter had reached the prison, which was addressed to him. It contained an enclosure (a Bank of England note for twenty pounds).The letter was singularly short and ambiguous. It was as follows:—“Accept the enclosed from an old friend and companion. Turn from your evil courses, and take heed of the future.”Peace was surprised at the contents of the epistle, and still more so at the enclosure. He could not divine from whom it had come. At first he was under the impression that Earl Ethalwood had sent it, but upon second consideration he dismissed the thought from his mind. The earl would not have been so secret—there was no reason for his being so.It must have been sent by some friend; possibly Laura Stanbridge had forwarded him the amount, which was, of course, most welcome and acceptable.In this, however, he was mistaken. The letter and enclosure had been forwarded by his quondam companion, Bessie Dalton, who had, however, at this time changed her name as well as her mode of life. We shall have to refer to her in a future chapter.Peace was, as a matter of course, greatly delighted at being so suddenly and unexpectedly put in possession of the sum, which would suffice for his more immediate necessaries.He asked one of the warders if he could get the note changed for him before leaving Dartmoor.The warder mentioned the matter to the governor, who gave Peace gold for the note.And shortly after this our hero bid farewell to his prison associates, and was conducted with several others to the station by two warders.Two of his companions were bound to London. Men who have been convicted in the metropolis are sent there for discharge. If they are Prisoners’ Aid Society’s men they travel up in convict’s dress, and one or more warders go with them, as the case may be. And, strange to say, a marked difference is made in the treatment of the discharged prisoners.Those who are convicted in the provinces leave Dartmoor without handcuffs, and with the hands and limbs free, as Peace did on this occasion. Those who have to be taken to London for discharge are manacled and handcuffed, as if fresh caught. Why is this?No man going up to London for discharge is likely to run away from a warder; he would be a fool if he did, for until he is completely discharged he has no licence, and if he did abscond he would be liable to arrest as a convict at liberty without leave.All the convicts know this, and it is not at all likely they would infringe the rules when they were within a few hours of liberty.The handcuffing of a man under such circumstances is quite unnecessary. It is worse than this, being in short an indignity which is at once cruel and useless. So long as he has any time to serve, and there is any inducement for him to run away, chains and fetters are perhaps needful; as a convict in a convict’s dress few would recognise him.When he goes to London on his discharge journey he has grown his hair, beard, and whiskers.He travels with other people who are also bound for the metropolis, who, seeing him with the darbies on, know very well that his ornamental bracelets are not the insignia of honour.The chances are that they may take particular notice of the man, and one may possibly see him at work a week or two afterwards, and view him with repugnance, if not with disgust; anyway they would look upon him as a person to be studiously avoided.This is hardly fair to the discharged prisoner, who should certainly, upon regaining his liberty, be permitted to have a fair start in life, and every facility should be offered him to return to an honest course.Before leaving Dartmoor every prisoner has his photograph taken, and his carte-de-visite is supplied to the various police offices he has to go to for report.On Wednesday all the prisoners for discharge that week have arrived in London, and in the morning a number of detectives come and take stock of them. The men stand in a row, and the detectives from Scotland-yard and Old Jewry, together with policemen from other stations, come and make themselves fully acquainted with the men who are to be let loose in their districts.Each man is compared with his photograph and the written description of him. Of some men the police take no notice, or very little; others they take special care to become thoroughly acquainted with in every particular, and examine them most carefully. They know perfectly well who are likely to be in their hands again.This ceremony, until very recently, took place in the Queen’s Bench Prison in the Borough—that old-fashioned prison for debtors, Chancery victims, and first-class misdemeanants; the prison from which Johnson, the celebrated smuggler, escaped; the place of which Sheridan said no man’s education was completed until he had been in the Bench; but the place around the walls of which so many associations cling, is now a thing of the past; its final doom was determined on some time back, and, like Temple Bar, it will live only in the remembrance of the public through the agency of contemporary chroniclers.For a long time before its final doom it had undergone a remarkable change; it was neglected, forlorn, and its old glories had passed away.No.37.Illustration: PEACE VISITS A CLOTHIER.PEACE PAYS A VISIT TO A JEW CLOTHIER.No longer were its walls marked out with racquet courts—in the olden days the imprisoned debtor could not have lived without the racquet court—but debtors and Chancery victims were no longer confined there.After the abolishment of the Imprisonment for Debt Act, it was abandoned, and shorn of all its former attractions—for it had attractions without doubt. It was used as a soldiers’ prison, and so it continued for some time, until at length that was discontinued, and the poor old Bench fell further into decay; it was merely used as a place from whence to discharge convicts.Men leaving Dartmoor on Monday night arrived at the Bench, or Queen’s Bench, on Tuesday morning, where they remain, doing nothing, till the day of their discharge, which takes place one day during the same week.Prisoners on licence, generally termed ticket-of-leave men, have to report themselves once every month at the police-station of the district where they reside, and to show how they are earning their living.As a matter of course it is not at all likely any of them will pronounce themselves thieves by trade or profession; and everyone has what is termed a “stall,” that is, he professes to be some handicraft or trade by which to designate himself, and which, in most cases, is mere subterfuge—a blind or stall to his real proceedings.The police are well aware that the pretext is a shallow one, and that in all probability the man has returned to the dishonest course of life which he followed before conviction, but the farce has to be gone through.If a man moves from one district in London to another he must within four-and-twenty hours of his arrival report himself at the nearest police station, so that watch and ward may be kept over him.The stoppage of transportation brought the administration of criminal justice to a dead lock. To meet the difficulty the Ministry prepared and passed with all speed a measure, since known as the first Penal Servitude Act.As a final acknowledgment that it was England’s duty to consume her own criminality, and for the sanction which it gave to various important principles, this Act (which became law in the autumn of 1853) has, notwithstanding, many serious flaws, very valuable provisions.In the course of execution, however, it was stultified into complete failure.Altogether the first Penal Servitude Act was a complete failure, and in the session of 1856 it was found necessary to reconsider the whole question. The session was too far advanced to allow the report presented to be transformed into an Act that year, but when Parliament met again in February, 1857, the requisite bill was the first ministerial measure introduced, and in spite of the Chinese wrangle and the dissolution it became law before the end of June.There is little fault to be found with the second Penal Servitude Act.To lengthen the sentences according to the old scale, to make some portion remittable, to permit the issue of licences, was all required from the measure, and all this the measure accomplished.The notion that prevails at the English Home Office is, that a discharged prisoner’s best chance is to obtain a situation under false pretences.That he could never obtain employment if his felonious antecedents were known, and that his dismissal from any place he had procured under a false character would be the immediate result of their discovery, is taken for granted; and perhaps, while the English convict prisons remain what they are, and the public distrust of their reformatory power continues in consequence unabated, this belief is well grounded.It is probably true, therefore, that the acknowledged ticket-of-leave and the avowed police surveillance might possibly impede a man’s return to honesty.As far as Peace was concerned, however, it was a matter of no moment.He had numberless opportunities afforded him to pursue an honest course of life, but it was not in his nature to be otherwise than a hardened criminal.There is no question about this; albeit his character in other ways is of a most indefinite and contradictory nature.Though Peace has given evidence of having a thorough contempt for human suffering, it is asserted that “he could not kill a mouse” if he had been requested to do so.He further declared that if he had to kill his meat he should have to go without it all his life. Whether from curiosity or interest he had studied carefully the major portion of the Scriptural writings, and read opinions on them, and manifested much skill in controversy on theological questions. One afternoon, when Peace lived in Brocco, he had a long conversation with theRev.Dr. Poller on religious topics.On the departure of the vicar ofSt.Luke’s Peace thus summed up his ideas on the subject—“I believe in God and I believe in the devil, but I don’t fear either.”Peace took his standpoint on this that “man was the creature of circumstances,” and supported his argument by quoting authorities on the subject.From his youth upwards he had been fond of curiosities.He regularly visited the Museum, and as each addition was made to it he inspected the new object of interest with care. Anything with carving upon it came in for a large share of his attention.But he revelled among the models most, and if there was one branch more than another in which he excelled it was the making of models of cathedrals and monuments in cardboad, which he embossed and traced with a variety of patterns.There is one at the present time in Sheffield—a memento of the deaths of four members of his family.It is about a yard in height, and made of cardboard, the outlines of the embossed work on it being traced with silver.It represents a monument after an ecclesiastical design, like the main turret in Gloucester Cathedral, and has every pinnacle cut as cleanly as though carved in ivory.It is mounted on a slab, approached on all four sides by steps—these and the slab being covered with black velvet.There are four tablets sunk in the lower squares of the monument, one on each side, and on these are placed the names of the relatives deceased.As a speciman of workmanship, it is without equal in its line in Yorkshire.Peace expressed his intention of adding to the attractions in the Sheffield museum.He decided on constructing one of these “monuments,” and of presenting it for exhibition in that institution.Those whose memories it was to perpetuate were theRev.Canon Sale, the Misses Harrison, and the “Christian poet,” Montgomery, whose names he would have engraved on tablets to be placed in the sides of the structure as already described.He actually commenced the work, and would have completed it, had he not taken to other courses.After receiving his discharge Peace made the best of his way to London.One reason for this was that he was not so well known in the metropolis as at Sheffield, and before returning to his native town he was desirous of making a change in his costume; the other reason was that he had for his companions two convicts who were discharged at the same time as himself. One of these was the housebreaker who had been convicted at Manchester for burglary; the other was a regular London thief, whose acquaintance Peace had made in the parade ground of Dartmoor—the last named was a cheery gossiping gentleman, who appeared to be on good terms with himself and everybody else.“Well, we’ve all done our dose,” said the London thief, whose name was Baxter, “and are glad enough to leave that blooming place. I hope neither on us ’ill see its dark walls again, and bad luck to it. I think it’s the worst prison as ever I was in. Why Millbank’s a king to it.”“Ah! I never was at Millbank,” said Peace.“Oh, no, s’pose not—you aint a London man, and may be that this is your first lagging. Ye see I’ve had some ’xperience—been to all sorts of places. Lord, a bloke gets used to it in time. I did a seven year stretch before this, and was at the Gib three out of it.”“At where?” inquired Peace.“At Gibraltar.”“Ah! indeed. How did you like that?”“Oh! got on there like a ’ouse a’fire. Bless you, that is somethin’ like a stab. Why I was as jolly and ’appy as a sandboy; had it pretty much my own way. Why they serves you out bacca there regularly every week, and precious good stuff it is, and no mistake; but, ye see, I was fortunate, I was,” said the speaker, in a more confidential tone—“very fortunate. I was servant to one of the officers, and a right-down good chap he was. I was as right as the mail till the cholera came; then it went ’ard with a good many, me amongst the rest.”“The cholera, eh?” exclaimed Raynton, the burglar.“Yes, an’ a blooming time I ’ad of it. Ugh, it makes my blood run cold to think on it now; Ye see, it aint like no other disease—it’s down upon you like a thousand of bricks afore you know where you are. It don’t give a fellow no time, and I tell ye I was that frightened at the sights I seed that I didn’t know whether I stood on my ’ead or my ’eels—it’s a fact. You’ve no idea what it is like at the Gib. I’m told it was bad enough here, but it couldn’t be anything to compare to what it was there. I never seed anything like it. Why I’ve stood next to a bloke in the morning at early muster, and helped to bury him the same night.”“Oh, gammon and all,” cried Raynton.“No gammon about it, old man. I’ll take my Bible oath on it. You don’t understand it. Don’t yer know that the place is so blooming hot that a chap won’t keep, and what’s the consekence? He’s got to be buried at once.”“And were you an officer’s servant all the time? inquired Peace.“No, not all the time. You see, the cholera cleared off a lot of the prisoners—they died like rotten sheep. And not only the convicts but the sojers as well; and so as my guv’nor couldn’t find any one else he took me. Ah! he was a good sort, surely. I was precious sorry when the time came for me to leave the island. Before I was an officer’s servant I worked in the galleries a making casements for the guns, and precious hard work it was; but it was better than the work at the quarries at Dartmoor; besides, there wasn’t that strictness and cursed ceremony. At the Gib a fellow could say his soul’s his own, and that’s more than he can say at Dartmoor. At Gibraltar we also made great tanks to ’old the water. Some of the boys couldn’t stand the wet, but I didn’t so much mind it.“It certainly was owdacious at times, but you see we warnt dressed in different sort of togs; we had white canvas jumpers and trousers.”“Ah,” said Peace, “and you needed a costume of that sort, I dare say; but did anyone ever manage to escape?”“Did anyone? I should just think they did too. You see the Spaniards were very good as far as lay in their power; they’d always help a bloke if he was once over the lines. Say what ye like about the foreigners, they’re a jolly sight better than our people in many ways—a precious sight. They aint like the blarney fellows about this place who pounce upon a poor devil, and give ’im up directly for the sake of a paltry five quid that the Government gives ’im. It’s every man for hisself and God for us all in this country. Still Dartmoor is better than Chatham.”“I thought you said it was the worst place you were ever in,” observed Raynton.“It’s the worst place I’ve been in for a goodish while, but when I said that I forgot Chatham. It certainly aint so bad as that—leastways, not to my thinking. There’s many a bloke there as is druv to suicide—it’s such a ’ell upon earth. I hope I shan’t have to go there again. One chap, while I was at Chatham, threw hisself down in front of the engine as works the trucks of earth out of the new dock, and was cut in two. Poor fellow, he’d been bashed (flogged) twice, and the warder had been going on at him so that he couldn’t stand it any longer, and so he ups with his pick and chucks it straight at him on the shoulder. Just as he’d done this he sees an engine coming, so he saved ’em the trouble of ‘bashing’ him again. He chucked himself in front of it, and in a second or so all was over. Poor fellow, he was not half so bad as they tried to make him out, but he was nervous and irritable, and couldn’t stand being jawed at during the whole of the day. Ye see many of the men at Chatham are drove into being regular devils by being constantly nagged at by the blooming officers. It aint in the nature of man to stand being continually bullied, as some of the poor devils are. Them as ’as got pluck in ’em turns savage, and small blame to ’em; but them as ’aven’t knocks under, and does the meek and mild bisness, same as I did. But it’s hard lines, either way—precious hard lines—and no mistake; and lots ov ’em die, and it is considered to be a ’appy release; but lor, I don’t expect either of you two know the ins and outs of prison life as yet,” said the loquacious Mr. Baxter.“We neither of us profess to have the experience that you appear to possess,” returned Raynton. “Have you ever been to Portland?”“Have I? I should rather think I had! Well, let me tell you. Portland is a precious deal better than Chatham, though Portland aint altogether what you may call an inviting sort of place—far from that.”Peace and the burglar, or the other burglar we ought to say, smiled at this last observation. The speaker’s manner was sonaïve, there was a careless, free-and-easy, confidential tone assumed throughout his discourse, which was rather amusing than otherwise.The fellow was as callous, and as utterly devoid of all moral principle as it is well possible to conceive. He talked of the crimes he had committed, and of the various terms of punishment he had undergone, as a soldier might tell of his escapes on the battle-field, or the wounds he had received in the service.He was but one of many of the same type to be found at Dartmoor, Spike Island, Portland, and other convict establishments.It is true men of this class, while undergoing penal servitude, have the benefit of the ministration of the chaplain, who in most cases does his best to impress upon them the error of their ways, but it is a sad reflection that many, and indeed most, of these wretches are beyond the reach of moral or religious influence.At Millbank there is a service, or rather was—for the prison is now no longer in use—of the Holy Communion once every three months.At Dartmoor there is a Communion regularly every Sunday, and the prisoners take it in turns.Every man was invited to join by the chaplain, who no doubt meant well, but it is very questionable whether his beating up for recruits in the way he did was judicious, as many men attended with the idea of currying favour by so doing.Peace, who throughout his life professed to be a religious man, was most constant in his attendance; he affected to be remarkably devout. The hypocrisy of the man formed a very large element in his strange and diversified character.The conduct and language of many of the other convicts gave evidence that they had no real or sincere appreciation of the solemn and sacred service they took part in. Indeed, most of them were in entire ignorance of its nature, and were like a set of puppets going through a performance.Disgraceful scenes frequently occurred, even in chapel, but it would be in no way edifying to the reader for us to give a detailed account.Of them it will suffice to note that there are at Dartmoor and other convict prisons in this country wretches, monsters in human form, who seem to be of a different organisation to ordinary men.The outside world and inexperienced in matters of this nature can have no notion of the barbarous nature of some of the prisoners, who are mere brutes in mind and demons in heart.To describe them and their crimes when at large and their conversation and acts within the prison walls would so disgust the reader that he would throw aside this work with horror and disgust.Neither is it necessary or proper to pollute the minds of our readers by entering more fully into a subject which is both painful and depressing to dwell upon.There are, of course, degrees of morality, or rather immorality, even in the most depraved, but it is pretty generally acknowledged by prison officials that the worst characters generally belong to the class known asroughs, and the worst of all are theLondon roughs.Their language, habits, and mode of life are so radically bad that they may be pronounced irreclaimable, and for this reason: they were debased and utterly lost before they reached man’s estate.They are literally wild beasts, whose animal instincts predominate to the almost total exclusion of any intellectual or moral feeling, and with them kind words or good counsel must necessarily be thrown away.There is but one mode of effectually dealing with them—brutes they are, and as brutes only can they be punished and coerced, and that is by the lash.We have strong objections to flogging in the army and navy, but consider it to be the only efficient way in dealing with garrotters and ruffians who commit savage assaults upon either man or woman; in short, it is the only punishment that they dread, or that can exercise any influence as a preventive for crimes of this nature.The man Baxter had passed through almost every gradation of crime; he had been a thief from his childhood, and so he remained upon reaching man’s estate.He was, however, not an unmitigated ruffian.To say the truth, there was more of the sneak about him than the ruffian. As to moral principle, he had none.His favourite “lay” was pocketpicking, and this he had practised to an extent which might be said to be almost unlimited.He was very communicative to Peace and Raynton, the three companions in crime being the only occupants of the carriage.“Well, old man,” said Raynton, “you’ll be a little more careful how you ‘sling your hook’ after this dose, I expect.”“I shall be as careful as possible, but lor bless ye, a cove may be as careful and artful as blazes, but he’s bound to be ‘pinched’ sooner or later. Can’t be helped, it’s part of the business.”“That’s right enough,” remarked Peace; “but what places do you work as a general rule?”“I used to do all sorts of places, but my ‘lay’ lately has been chiefly in the churches or chapels. I used to tog myself up in black with a white ‘squeeze’ on Sunday, and go to two or three different places of worship. I dare say you’ll be a little surprised when I tell ye that I’ve ’eard all the crack preachers in London, and, except when the May meetings were on at Exeter Hall I never went crooked any other day but Sunday. I used to do a bit in the smashing line; that was when I had a clever partner—but she’s dead and gone now.”“She! Did you have a woman for a partner?” said Raynton.“Why, of course; I’ve had several. I never had nothing to do with any ‘Moll’ who couldn’t cut her own grass” (earn her own living).“Oh, I see.”“But after she turned me up—which she did long afore she died—I stuck to the light-fingered business. You see, every man has his own particular ‘lay.’ Some go to public meetings, to races, fairs, and such like, but I always stuck to the churches and chapels, and did a quiet respectable business. A cove does better in the high church, where there’s a lot of show and singing. The people there have got plenty of money, but I took precious good care not to go to one place twice within a month; but then you see there’s plenty of them, and so there’s no call to be too hard upon one establishment. But you must have a crowded congregation, else it’s not a morsel of good trying to work it; besides it aint safe.”“Safe or not,” said the burglar, “it seems you got ‘pinched’ in one of your pet places.”“Well, in course I did; but blokes have been ‘pinched’ everywhere and anywhere. As I told yer before, we can none on us guard against that. A cove makes a great haul sometimes at a race-course or railway-station a deal more than he might do in a church, but he runs greater risks, unless he’s very fly indeed; but guess both of you have been working on a different ‘lay.’ I never succeeded in ‘cracking a crib;’ it’s out of my line. Haven’t got the nerve for it I s’pose.”Peace and Raynton exchanged glances. They were neither of them bright specimens of human nature, far from it; but still it seemed to strike them both at the same moment that they had been listening to a man who spoke of pocket picking and earning a living at it as if it were a recognised and legitimate trade.They both smiled, after which the conversation appeared to lag.It was presently brought to an end, or rather turned into a different channel by two passengers who entered the carriage upon the arrival of the train at the next station.Upon the three discharged prisoners reaching the metropolis they repaired to the nearest and most inviting-looking hostelry about.They drank each other’s health in a most cordial and convivial manner, which was quite touching to behold.Mr. Baxter was most profuse in his protestations of friendship and good fellowship, and said he hoped as how they were not going to part for good and for all, but that he hoped to meet them, not on the Rialto, but at some of the accustomed haunts where gentlemen of his profession were wont to congregate.Peace and Raynton both declared that they hoped to have the pleasure of meeting with Mr. Baxter on a future occasion.That gentleman thereupon said that he might be able to put them up to a dodge or two, and that if he could it would afford him great pleasure to be of any service to both of them.At length they succeeded in shaking him off.Peace and Raynton walked on together for some little distance—they were chums or cronies who understood each other pretty well; a sort of friendship, if it could be dignified by such a term, had sprung up between them.“Which way are you going?” said Raynton—“eastwards or westwards?”“Westwards,” returned Peace.“Ah, just so, the very opposite direction to the one I am about to take. Well, old man, we’ve borne our ’prisonment together, and have been on pretty good terms, all things considered. I suppose you are like myself, not quite certain as to your future course of action, but I suppose you don’t mean to turn me up—cast me on one side now that you are a free man?”“Certainly not, Raynton, far from that.”“Well, then, before we part I’ll just give you my address, or rather one where a letter will be sure to reach me. If you do write, be careful how you word it, for I’ve a wife and two kids to look after, and it’s as well to keep the missus in the dark as to where we first met.”“All right,” returned Peace, “you needn’t be afraid of my saying anything—that is, anything you don’t want me to say.”Raynton wrote down the address, which he handed to his companion, after which they repaired to another house, where they had a parting glass, and wishing each other better luck for the future they separated.Peace, as we have already seen, had ample means at his command for his immediate wants.He now began to reflect a little, that he might determine how to shape his course.He glanced at the suit of clothes which had been furnished him; then he shook his head. He did not like them, and the first thing therefore was to get a new rig out.He walked rapidly on in the direction of a new and second-hand clothes shop, kept by a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion.He knew the shop perfectly well; it was about a mile from the spot where he had parted with Raynton.But it was rather late, and possibly it might be closed. There would, however, be no harm in seeing.He hastened on, and in the due course of time arrived in front of the shop, which was open.Peace entered. An old Jew poked his head out of a small back room in the rear of the shop, and upon observing Peace came forward.“Vat can I do thish evening for you, my friend? Coat, vest, troushers, or vat?”“I want a suit—a regular rig out,” said Peace; “and you must give me what you can for the suit I’ve got on.”The Jew placed his hand on the collar of the coat Peace wore, and then made a face.“Yes, I know; that will do,” said our hero. “See what you’ve got. I want, in the first place, a black frock coat.”“New, or second-hand?”“New, if you’ve got one to fit me.”“Ve alvays manage to fit our customers. Got something to suit everybody.”“Well—look sharp.”Peace tried on one garment after another until he succeeded in finding one that fitted him.The same process had to be gone through with trousers and vest, for the accomplishment of which he was conducted into the private room.“There,” cried the Jew, in a tone of triumph—“couldn’t be better if they’d been made for you. Never saw a better fit; you look quite the gentleman.”“Stow that! I don’t want any of your gammon,” cried Peace. “I’m not going to give you three pound ten for duffing things like these, so don’t you think it.”“S’help me goodness they were never made for the money!” said the Israelite. “I shan’t get five shillings out of the bargain. No—I wouldn’t deceive you—not five shillings.”“Get out! I shall give you two pound ten and the suit I’ve taken off.”“Vat, theshe! they’re not vorth carrying avay. Shoddy, nothing but shoddy. Never saw such rubbish in the whole course of my life.”“You know where they have come from, I suppose?”“Oh, yes, I think I can guess. Her Majesty made you a present of them.”“Right you are, and that’s why I want you to have them. Now then, don’t keep tossing them about. What are you going to allow me for them?”“Five shillings—not a penny more, and then I shall be loser. Not a farthing more than five bob. Oh, they are not vorth puying at any price; only, as you’re a customer—and——”“There, that’ll do; shut up. Will you take the two pound ten or not.”“I can’t—pishness is pishness; but, at the shame time, one mush live.”“I’ll take two pound fifteen—there!”“Peace buttoned up his coat, looked at himself in the glass, and felt that he cut a respectable figure; so, without further haggling, he gave the Jew the required sum, and strode into the shop.”“You look all the gentleman except——”“Except what?” exclaimed our hero, freely. “None of your nonsense—except what?”“The hat.”“Ah, that’s true. Have you got one?”“Yes. A pot hat or a pilly cock?”“A pot hat.”When Peace was fitted with a hat he strode out of the shop with all the airs and graces of a man of fashion.
We must now return to our hero, who, probably many of our readers may think has been left too long unnoticed; but it will be remembered that we left him in good hands. He was well looked after, and month after month wore sadly away, until at length the time approached upon which Peace was to regain his liberty.
He had been very diligent and well behaved, and had earned the requisite number of marks.
Discharges take place in various ways, but Peace was not at all particular about the method or manner of his liberation, provided he left the cheerless walls of Dartmoor.
As we have stated in a preceding chapter, when a man is first of all convicted, his clothing is confiscated, and on his discharge the prison authorities give him other garments in place of those which have been taken from him.
This is part of the prison arrangements that requires reform, and which, doubtless, will be seen before long.
At the present time two courses are adopted.
If a man joins the Prisoners’ Aid Society, he has a small sum allowed to him, which is handed over to the society to purchase clothing; but if he does not, an outfit is given him, but this bears upon it unmistakable evidence that the man has been a convict.
This is neither fair nor just.
It is true the clothes men leave Dartmoor in are cut well, made well, and in most instances are tolerably good fits, but the material is of the very worst quality, being a shoddy imitation of tweed, with a twill or pattern printed on it, and any one would be at no loss to know where it came from, for there is nothing like it made outside the walls of a prison, and such stuff is hardly worth making up into garments, for it is rotten, and will bear no time.
A good serviceable material might be obtained at a trifling more cost, and the discharged prisoner would then have a rough suit of clothes which he would not be ashamed of wearing.
It is ridiculous to measure a man, and spend skilled labour in cutting and making well-fitting garments which will not hang together for a month.
The under clothes there is very little to find fault with, the stocking and flannels are as good as need be. The materials of the boots in general are of a good quality, and the workmanship excellent.
As far as the hat is concerned nothing can be much worse.
But taken altogether the rig out is most unsatisfactory, indeed; so worthless is it, that if a man were to go straight from prison to Monmouth-street or Petticoat-lane, and is lucky enough not to be caught in the rain, the dealers in new and second-hand clothes will allow him the magnificent sum of six, or at the most, seven shillings for the whole turn-out of coat, vest, trousers, hat, and handkerchiefs.
They are sent abroad, as no one in this country will buy such rubbish.
Due attention has not been given to this subject by the executive.
Men when they leave prison should have every possible inducement for them to return to an honest course of life.
The prisoner who goes to the Prisoners’ Aid Society in London is not compelled to accept the clothes which the gaol officials provide.
He is sent up to town for discharge, and the society, out of the funds at their disposal, buy him some decent garments, which he is not ashamed of appearing in.
Peace, however, did not belong to any society of this nature.
When he was discharged from Dartmoor he had, therefore, no alternative than to leave the prison in the clothes furnished him by the authorities.
When he was about to leave he was informed by the governor that a letter had reached the prison, which was addressed to him. It contained an enclosure (a Bank of England note for twenty pounds).
The letter was singularly short and ambiguous. It was as follows:—
“Accept the enclosed from an old friend and companion. Turn from your evil courses, and take heed of the future.”
Peace was surprised at the contents of the epistle, and still more so at the enclosure. He could not divine from whom it had come. At first he was under the impression that Earl Ethalwood had sent it, but upon second consideration he dismissed the thought from his mind. The earl would not have been so secret—there was no reason for his being so.
It must have been sent by some friend; possibly Laura Stanbridge had forwarded him the amount, which was, of course, most welcome and acceptable.
In this, however, he was mistaken. The letter and enclosure had been forwarded by his quondam companion, Bessie Dalton, who had, however, at this time changed her name as well as her mode of life. We shall have to refer to her in a future chapter.
Peace was, as a matter of course, greatly delighted at being so suddenly and unexpectedly put in possession of the sum, which would suffice for his more immediate necessaries.
He asked one of the warders if he could get the note changed for him before leaving Dartmoor.
The warder mentioned the matter to the governor, who gave Peace gold for the note.
And shortly after this our hero bid farewell to his prison associates, and was conducted with several others to the station by two warders.
Two of his companions were bound to London. Men who have been convicted in the metropolis are sent there for discharge. If they are Prisoners’ Aid Society’s men they travel up in convict’s dress, and one or more warders go with them, as the case may be. And, strange to say, a marked difference is made in the treatment of the discharged prisoners.
Those who are convicted in the provinces leave Dartmoor without handcuffs, and with the hands and limbs free, as Peace did on this occasion. Those who have to be taken to London for discharge are manacled and handcuffed, as if fresh caught. Why is this?
No man going up to London for discharge is likely to run away from a warder; he would be a fool if he did, for until he is completely discharged he has no licence, and if he did abscond he would be liable to arrest as a convict at liberty without leave.
All the convicts know this, and it is not at all likely they would infringe the rules when they were within a few hours of liberty.
The handcuffing of a man under such circumstances is quite unnecessary. It is worse than this, being in short an indignity which is at once cruel and useless. So long as he has any time to serve, and there is any inducement for him to run away, chains and fetters are perhaps needful; as a convict in a convict’s dress few would recognise him.
When he goes to London on his discharge journey he has grown his hair, beard, and whiskers.
He travels with other people who are also bound for the metropolis, who, seeing him with the darbies on, know very well that his ornamental bracelets are not the insignia of honour.
The chances are that they may take particular notice of the man, and one may possibly see him at work a week or two afterwards, and view him with repugnance, if not with disgust; anyway they would look upon him as a person to be studiously avoided.
This is hardly fair to the discharged prisoner, who should certainly, upon regaining his liberty, be permitted to have a fair start in life, and every facility should be offered him to return to an honest course.
Before leaving Dartmoor every prisoner has his photograph taken, and his carte-de-visite is supplied to the various police offices he has to go to for report.
On Wednesday all the prisoners for discharge that week have arrived in London, and in the morning a number of detectives come and take stock of them. The men stand in a row, and the detectives from Scotland-yard and Old Jewry, together with policemen from other stations, come and make themselves fully acquainted with the men who are to be let loose in their districts.
Each man is compared with his photograph and the written description of him. Of some men the police take no notice, or very little; others they take special care to become thoroughly acquainted with in every particular, and examine them most carefully. They know perfectly well who are likely to be in their hands again.
This ceremony, until very recently, took place in the Queen’s Bench Prison in the Borough—that old-fashioned prison for debtors, Chancery victims, and first-class misdemeanants; the prison from which Johnson, the celebrated smuggler, escaped; the place of which Sheridan said no man’s education was completed until he had been in the Bench; but the place around the walls of which so many associations cling, is now a thing of the past; its final doom was determined on some time back, and, like Temple Bar, it will live only in the remembrance of the public through the agency of contemporary chroniclers.
For a long time before its final doom it had undergone a remarkable change; it was neglected, forlorn, and its old glories had passed away.
No.37.
Illustration: PEACE VISITS A CLOTHIER.PEACE PAYS A VISIT TO A JEW CLOTHIER.
PEACE PAYS A VISIT TO A JEW CLOTHIER.
No longer were its walls marked out with racquet courts—in the olden days the imprisoned debtor could not have lived without the racquet court—but debtors and Chancery victims were no longer confined there.
After the abolishment of the Imprisonment for Debt Act, it was abandoned, and shorn of all its former attractions—for it had attractions without doubt. It was used as a soldiers’ prison, and so it continued for some time, until at length that was discontinued, and the poor old Bench fell further into decay; it was merely used as a place from whence to discharge convicts.
Men leaving Dartmoor on Monday night arrived at the Bench, or Queen’s Bench, on Tuesday morning, where they remain, doing nothing, till the day of their discharge, which takes place one day during the same week.
Prisoners on licence, generally termed ticket-of-leave men, have to report themselves once every month at the police-station of the district where they reside, and to show how they are earning their living.
As a matter of course it is not at all likely any of them will pronounce themselves thieves by trade or profession; and everyone has what is termed a “stall,” that is, he professes to be some handicraft or trade by which to designate himself, and which, in most cases, is mere subterfuge—a blind or stall to his real proceedings.
The police are well aware that the pretext is a shallow one, and that in all probability the man has returned to the dishonest course of life which he followed before conviction, but the farce has to be gone through.
If a man moves from one district in London to another he must within four-and-twenty hours of his arrival report himself at the nearest police station, so that watch and ward may be kept over him.
The stoppage of transportation brought the administration of criminal justice to a dead lock. To meet the difficulty the Ministry prepared and passed with all speed a measure, since known as the first Penal Servitude Act.
As a final acknowledgment that it was England’s duty to consume her own criminality, and for the sanction which it gave to various important principles, this Act (which became law in the autumn of 1853) has, notwithstanding, many serious flaws, very valuable provisions.
In the course of execution, however, it was stultified into complete failure.
Altogether the first Penal Servitude Act was a complete failure, and in the session of 1856 it was found necessary to reconsider the whole question. The session was too far advanced to allow the report presented to be transformed into an Act that year, but when Parliament met again in February, 1857, the requisite bill was the first ministerial measure introduced, and in spite of the Chinese wrangle and the dissolution it became law before the end of June.
There is little fault to be found with the second Penal Servitude Act.
To lengthen the sentences according to the old scale, to make some portion remittable, to permit the issue of licences, was all required from the measure, and all this the measure accomplished.
The notion that prevails at the English Home Office is, that a discharged prisoner’s best chance is to obtain a situation under false pretences.
That he could never obtain employment if his felonious antecedents were known, and that his dismissal from any place he had procured under a false character would be the immediate result of their discovery, is taken for granted; and perhaps, while the English convict prisons remain what they are, and the public distrust of their reformatory power continues in consequence unabated, this belief is well grounded.
It is probably true, therefore, that the acknowledged ticket-of-leave and the avowed police surveillance might possibly impede a man’s return to honesty.
As far as Peace was concerned, however, it was a matter of no moment.
He had numberless opportunities afforded him to pursue an honest course of life, but it was not in his nature to be otherwise than a hardened criminal.
There is no question about this; albeit his character in other ways is of a most indefinite and contradictory nature.
Though Peace has given evidence of having a thorough contempt for human suffering, it is asserted that “he could not kill a mouse” if he had been requested to do so.
He further declared that if he had to kill his meat he should have to go without it all his life. Whether from curiosity or interest he had studied carefully the major portion of the Scriptural writings, and read opinions on them, and manifested much skill in controversy on theological questions. One afternoon, when Peace lived in Brocco, he had a long conversation with theRev.Dr. Poller on religious topics.
On the departure of the vicar ofSt.Luke’s Peace thus summed up his ideas on the subject—
“I believe in God and I believe in the devil, but I don’t fear either.”
Peace took his standpoint on this that “man was the creature of circumstances,” and supported his argument by quoting authorities on the subject.
From his youth upwards he had been fond of curiosities.
He regularly visited the Museum, and as each addition was made to it he inspected the new object of interest with care. Anything with carving upon it came in for a large share of his attention.
But he revelled among the models most, and if there was one branch more than another in which he excelled it was the making of models of cathedrals and monuments in cardboad, which he embossed and traced with a variety of patterns.
There is one at the present time in Sheffield—a memento of the deaths of four members of his family.
It is about a yard in height, and made of cardboard, the outlines of the embossed work on it being traced with silver.
It represents a monument after an ecclesiastical design, like the main turret in Gloucester Cathedral, and has every pinnacle cut as cleanly as though carved in ivory.
It is mounted on a slab, approached on all four sides by steps—these and the slab being covered with black velvet.
There are four tablets sunk in the lower squares of the monument, one on each side, and on these are placed the names of the relatives deceased.
As a speciman of workmanship, it is without equal in its line in Yorkshire.
Peace expressed his intention of adding to the attractions in the Sheffield museum.
He decided on constructing one of these “monuments,” and of presenting it for exhibition in that institution.
Those whose memories it was to perpetuate were theRev.Canon Sale, the Misses Harrison, and the “Christian poet,” Montgomery, whose names he would have engraved on tablets to be placed in the sides of the structure as already described.
He actually commenced the work, and would have completed it, had he not taken to other courses.
After receiving his discharge Peace made the best of his way to London.
One reason for this was that he was not so well known in the metropolis as at Sheffield, and before returning to his native town he was desirous of making a change in his costume; the other reason was that he had for his companions two convicts who were discharged at the same time as himself. One of these was the housebreaker who had been convicted at Manchester for burglary; the other was a regular London thief, whose acquaintance Peace had made in the parade ground of Dartmoor—the last named was a cheery gossiping gentleman, who appeared to be on good terms with himself and everybody else.
“Well, we’ve all done our dose,” said the London thief, whose name was Baxter, “and are glad enough to leave that blooming place. I hope neither on us ’ill see its dark walls again, and bad luck to it. I think it’s the worst prison as ever I was in. Why Millbank’s a king to it.”
“Ah! I never was at Millbank,” said Peace.
“Oh, no, s’pose not—you aint a London man, and may be that this is your first lagging. Ye see I’ve had some ’xperience—been to all sorts of places. Lord, a bloke gets used to it in time. I did a seven year stretch before this, and was at the Gib three out of it.”
“At where?” inquired Peace.
“At Gibraltar.”
“Ah! indeed. How did you like that?”
“Oh! got on there like a ’ouse a’fire. Bless you, that is somethin’ like a stab. Why I was as jolly and ’appy as a sandboy; had it pretty much my own way. Why they serves you out bacca there regularly every week, and precious good stuff it is, and no mistake; but, ye see, I was fortunate, I was,” said the speaker, in a more confidential tone—“very fortunate. I was servant to one of the officers, and a right-down good chap he was. I was as right as the mail till the cholera came; then it went ’ard with a good many, me amongst the rest.”
“The cholera, eh?” exclaimed Raynton, the burglar.
“Yes, an’ a blooming time I ’ad of it. Ugh, it makes my blood run cold to think on it now; Ye see, it aint like no other disease—it’s down upon you like a thousand of bricks afore you know where you are. It don’t give a fellow no time, and I tell ye I was that frightened at the sights I seed that I didn’t know whether I stood on my ’ead or my ’eels—it’s a fact. You’ve no idea what it is like at the Gib. I’m told it was bad enough here, but it couldn’t be anything to compare to what it was there. I never seed anything like it. Why I’ve stood next to a bloke in the morning at early muster, and helped to bury him the same night.”
“Oh, gammon and all,” cried Raynton.
“No gammon about it, old man. I’ll take my Bible oath on it. You don’t understand it. Don’t yer know that the place is so blooming hot that a chap won’t keep, and what’s the consekence? He’s got to be buried at once.”
“And were you an officer’s servant all the time? inquired Peace.
“No, not all the time. You see, the cholera cleared off a lot of the prisoners—they died like rotten sheep. And not only the convicts but the sojers as well; and so as my guv’nor couldn’t find any one else he took me. Ah! he was a good sort, surely. I was precious sorry when the time came for me to leave the island. Before I was an officer’s servant I worked in the galleries a making casements for the guns, and precious hard work it was; but it was better than the work at the quarries at Dartmoor; besides, there wasn’t that strictness and cursed ceremony. At the Gib a fellow could say his soul’s his own, and that’s more than he can say at Dartmoor. At Gibraltar we also made great tanks to ’old the water. Some of the boys couldn’t stand the wet, but I didn’t so much mind it.
“It certainly was owdacious at times, but you see we warnt dressed in different sort of togs; we had white canvas jumpers and trousers.”
“Ah,” said Peace, “and you needed a costume of that sort, I dare say; but did anyone ever manage to escape?”
“Did anyone? I should just think they did too. You see the Spaniards were very good as far as lay in their power; they’d always help a bloke if he was once over the lines. Say what ye like about the foreigners, they’re a jolly sight better than our people in many ways—a precious sight. They aint like the blarney fellows about this place who pounce upon a poor devil, and give ’im up directly for the sake of a paltry five quid that the Government gives ’im. It’s every man for hisself and God for us all in this country. Still Dartmoor is better than Chatham.”
“I thought you said it was the worst place you were ever in,” observed Raynton.
“It’s the worst place I’ve been in for a goodish while, but when I said that I forgot Chatham. It certainly aint so bad as that—leastways, not to my thinking. There’s many a bloke there as is druv to suicide—it’s such a ’ell upon earth. I hope I shan’t have to go there again. One chap, while I was at Chatham, threw hisself down in front of the engine as works the trucks of earth out of the new dock, and was cut in two. Poor fellow, he’d been bashed (flogged) twice, and the warder had been going on at him so that he couldn’t stand it any longer, and so he ups with his pick and chucks it straight at him on the shoulder. Just as he’d done this he sees an engine coming, so he saved ’em the trouble of ‘bashing’ him again. He chucked himself in front of it, and in a second or so all was over. Poor fellow, he was not half so bad as they tried to make him out, but he was nervous and irritable, and couldn’t stand being jawed at during the whole of the day. Ye see many of the men at Chatham are drove into being regular devils by being constantly nagged at by the blooming officers. It aint in the nature of man to stand being continually bullied, as some of the poor devils are. Them as ’as got pluck in ’em turns savage, and small blame to ’em; but them as ’aven’t knocks under, and does the meek and mild bisness, same as I did. But it’s hard lines, either way—precious hard lines—and no mistake; and lots ov ’em die, and it is considered to be a ’appy release; but lor, I don’t expect either of you two know the ins and outs of prison life as yet,” said the loquacious Mr. Baxter.
“We neither of us profess to have the experience that you appear to possess,” returned Raynton. “Have you ever been to Portland?”
“Have I? I should rather think I had! Well, let me tell you. Portland is a precious deal better than Chatham, though Portland aint altogether what you may call an inviting sort of place—far from that.”
Peace and the burglar, or the other burglar we ought to say, smiled at this last observation. The speaker’s manner was sonaïve, there was a careless, free-and-easy, confidential tone assumed throughout his discourse, which was rather amusing than otherwise.
The fellow was as callous, and as utterly devoid of all moral principle as it is well possible to conceive. He talked of the crimes he had committed, and of the various terms of punishment he had undergone, as a soldier might tell of his escapes on the battle-field, or the wounds he had received in the service.
He was but one of many of the same type to be found at Dartmoor, Spike Island, Portland, and other convict establishments.
It is true men of this class, while undergoing penal servitude, have the benefit of the ministration of the chaplain, who in most cases does his best to impress upon them the error of their ways, but it is a sad reflection that many, and indeed most, of these wretches are beyond the reach of moral or religious influence.
At Millbank there is a service, or rather was—for the prison is now no longer in use—of the Holy Communion once every three months.
At Dartmoor there is a Communion regularly every Sunday, and the prisoners take it in turns.
Every man was invited to join by the chaplain, who no doubt meant well, but it is very questionable whether his beating up for recruits in the way he did was judicious, as many men attended with the idea of currying favour by so doing.
Peace, who throughout his life professed to be a religious man, was most constant in his attendance; he affected to be remarkably devout. The hypocrisy of the man formed a very large element in his strange and diversified character.
The conduct and language of many of the other convicts gave evidence that they had no real or sincere appreciation of the solemn and sacred service they took part in. Indeed, most of them were in entire ignorance of its nature, and were like a set of puppets going through a performance.
Disgraceful scenes frequently occurred, even in chapel, but it would be in no way edifying to the reader for us to give a detailed account.
Of them it will suffice to note that there are at Dartmoor and other convict prisons in this country wretches, monsters in human form, who seem to be of a different organisation to ordinary men.
The outside world and inexperienced in matters of this nature can have no notion of the barbarous nature of some of the prisoners, who are mere brutes in mind and demons in heart.
To describe them and their crimes when at large and their conversation and acts within the prison walls would so disgust the reader that he would throw aside this work with horror and disgust.
Neither is it necessary or proper to pollute the minds of our readers by entering more fully into a subject which is both painful and depressing to dwell upon.
There are, of course, degrees of morality, or rather immorality, even in the most depraved, but it is pretty generally acknowledged by prison officials that the worst characters generally belong to the class known asroughs, and the worst of all are theLondon roughs.
Their language, habits, and mode of life are so radically bad that they may be pronounced irreclaimable, and for this reason: they were debased and utterly lost before they reached man’s estate.
They are literally wild beasts, whose animal instincts predominate to the almost total exclusion of any intellectual or moral feeling, and with them kind words or good counsel must necessarily be thrown away.
There is but one mode of effectually dealing with them—brutes they are, and as brutes only can they be punished and coerced, and that is by the lash.
We have strong objections to flogging in the army and navy, but consider it to be the only efficient way in dealing with garrotters and ruffians who commit savage assaults upon either man or woman; in short, it is the only punishment that they dread, or that can exercise any influence as a preventive for crimes of this nature.
The man Baxter had passed through almost every gradation of crime; he had been a thief from his childhood, and so he remained upon reaching man’s estate.
He was, however, not an unmitigated ruffian.
To say the truth, there was more of the sneak about him than the ruffian. As to moral principle, he had none.
His favourite “lay” was pocketpicking, and this he had practised to an extent which might be said to be almost unlimited.
He was very communicative to Peace and Raynton, the three companions in crime being the only occupants of the carriage.
“Well, old man,” said Raynton, “you’ll be a little more careful how you ‘sling your hook’ after this dose, I expect.”
“I shall be as careful as possible, but lor bless ye, a cove may be as careful and artful as blazes, but he’s bound to be ‘pinched’ sooner or later. Can’t be helped, it’s part of the business.”
“That’s right enough,” remarked Peace; “but what places do you work as a general rule?”
“I used to do all sorts of places, but my ‘lay’ lately has been chiefly in the churches or chapels. I used to tog myself up in black with a white ‘squeeze’ on Sunday, and go to two or three different places of worship. I dare say you’ll be a little surprised when I tell ye that I’ve ’eard all the crack preachers in London, and, except when the May meetings were on at Exeter Hall I never went crooked any other day but Sunday. I used to do a bit in the smashing line; that was when I had a clever partner—but she’s dead and gone now.”
“She! Did you have a woman for a partner?” said Raynton.
“Why, of course; I’ve had several. I never had nothing to do with any ‘Moll’ who couldn’t cut her own grass” (earn her own living).
“Oh, I see.”
“But after she turned me up—which she did long afore she died—I stuck to the light-fingered business. You see, every man has his own particular ‘lay.’ Some go to public meetings, to races, fairs, and such like, but I always stuck to the churches and chapels, and did a quiet respectable business. A cove does better in the high church, where there’s a lot of show and singing. The people there have got plenty of money, but I took precious good care not to go to one place twice within a month; but then you see there’s plenty of them, and so there’s no call to be too hard upon one establishment. But you must have a crowded congregation, else it’s not a morsel of good trying to work it; besides it aint safe.”
“Safe or not,” said the burglar, “it seems you got ‘pinched’ in one of your pet places.”
“Well, in course I did; but blokes have been ‘pinched’ everywhere and anywhere. As I told yer before, we can none on us guard against that. A cove makes a great haul sometimes at a race-course or railway-station a deal more than he might do in a church, but he runs greater risks, unless he’s very fly indeed; but guess both of you have been working on a different ‘lay.’ I never succeeded in ‘cracking a crib;’ it’s out of my line. Haven’t got the nerve for it I s’pose.”
Peace and Raynton exchanged glances. They were neither of them bright specimens of human nature, far from it; but still it seemed to strike them both at the same moment that they had been listening to a man who spoke of pocket picking and earning a living at it as if it were a recognised and legitimate trade.
They both smiled, after which the conversation appeared to lag.
It was presently brought to an end, or rather turned into a different channel by two passengers who entered the carriage upon the arrival of the train at the next station.
Upon the three discharged prisoners reaching the metropolis they repaired to the nearest and most inviting-looking hostelry about.
They drank each other’s health in a most cordial and convivial manner, which was quite touching to behold.
Mr. Baxter was most profuse in his protestations of friendship and good fellowship, and said he hoped as how they were not going to part for good and for all, but that he hoped to meet them, not on the Rialto, but at some of the accustomed haunts where gentlemen of his profession were wont to congregate.
Peace and Raynton both declared that they hoped to have the pleasure of meeting with Mr. Baxter on a future occasion.
That gentleman thereupon said that he might be able to put them up to a dodge or two, and that if he could it would afford him great pleasure to be of any service to both of them.
At length they succeeded in shaking him off.
Peace and Raynton walked on together for some little distance—they were chums or cronies who understood each other pretty well; a sort of friendship, if it could be dignified by such a term, had sprung up between them.
“Which way are you going?” said Raynton—“eastwards or westwards?”
“Westwards,” returned Peace.
“Ah, just so, the very opposite direction to the one I am about to take. Well, old man, we’ve borne our ’prisonment together, and have been on pretty good terms, all things considered. I suppose you are like myself, not quite certain as to your future course of action, but I suppose you don’t mean to turn me up—cast me on one side now that you are a free man?”
“Certainly not, Raynton, far from that.”
“Well, then, before we part I’ll just give you my address, or rather one where a letter will be sure to reach me. If you do write, be careful how you word it, for I’ve a wife and two kids to look after, and it’s as well to keep the missus in the dark as to where we first met.”
“All right,” returned Peace, “you needn’t be afraid of my saying anything—that is, anything you don’t want me to say.”
Raynton wrote down the address, which he handed to his companion, after which they repaired to another house, where they had a parting glass, and wishing each other better luck for the future they separated.
Peace, as we have already seen, had ample means at his command for his immediate wants.
He now began to reflect a little, that he might determine how to shape his course.
He glanced at the suit of clothes which had been furnished him; then he shook his head. He did not like them, and the first thing therefore was to get a new rig out.
He walked rapidly on in the direction of a new and second-hand clothes shop, kept by a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion.
He knew the shop perfectly well; it was about a mile from the spot where he had parted with Raynton.
But it was rather late, and possibly it might be closed. There would, however, be no harm in seeing.
He hastened on, and in the due course of time arrived in front of the shop, which was open.
Peace entered. An old Jew poked his head out of a small back room in the rear of the shop, and upon observing Peace came forward.
“Vat can I do thish evening for you, my friend? Coat, vest, troushers, or vat?”
“I want a suit—a regular rig out,” said Peace; “and you must give me what you can for the suit I’ve got on.”
The Jew placed his hand on the collar of the coat Peace wore, and then made a face.
“Yes, I know; that will do,” said our hero. “See what you’ve got. I want, in the first place, a black frock coat.”
“New, or second-hand?”
“New, if you’ve got one to fit me.”
“Ve alvays manage to fit our customers. Got something to suit everybody.”
“Well—look sharp.”
Peace tried on one garment after another until he succeeded in finding one that fitted him.
The same process had to be gone through with trousers and vest, for the accomplishment of which he was conducted into the private room.
“There,” cried the Jew, in a tone of triumph—“couldn’t be better if they’d been made for you. Never saw a better fit; you look quite the gentleman.”
“Stow that! I don’t want any of your gammon,” cried Peace. “I’m not going to give you three pound ten for duffing things like these, so don’t you think it.”
“S’help me goodness they were never made for the money!” said the Israelite. “I shan’t get five shillings out of the bargain. No—I wouldn’t deceive you—not five shillings.”
“Get out! I shall give you two pound ten and the suit I’ve taken off.”
“Vat, theshe! they’re not vorth carrying avay. Shoddy, nothing but shoddy. Never saw such rubbish in the whole course of my life.”
“You know where they have come from, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, I think I can guess. Her Majesty made you a present of them.”
“Right you are, and that’s why I want you to have them. Now then, don’t keep tossing them about. What are you going to allow me for them?”
“Five shillings—not a penny more, and then I shall be loser. Not a farthing more than five bob. Oh, they are not vorth puying at any price; only, as you’re a customer—and——”
“There, that’ll do; shut up. Will you take the two pound ten or not.”
“I can’t—pishness is pishness; but, at the shame time, one mush live.”
“I’ll take two pound fifteen—there!”
“Peace buttoned up his coat, looked at himself in the glass, and felt that he cut a respectable figure; so, without further haggling, he gave the Jew the required sum, and strode into the shop.”
“You look all the gentleman except——”
“Except what?” exclaimed our hero, freely. “None of your nonsense—except what?”
“The hat.”
“Ah, that’s true. Have you got one?”
“Yes. A pot hat or a pilly cock?”
“A pot hat.”
When Peace was fitted with a hat he strode out of the shop with all the airs and graces of a man of fashion.