CHAPTERLXXV.PEACE AND THE TRAVELLING SHOWMAN—THE COMPANY AT THE “BLUE DOLPHIN”—THE SHOWMAN’S LEGEND.Peace had not gone very far before he came up with a travelling caravan.The vehicle in question was going at a slow pace, it was heavy and cumbersome, being, in fact, a sort of wooden home on wheels.Peace could not at first quite make out what it was, but upon closer inspection he came to the conclusion that it was a show, such as one sees at fairs. The driver was seated in front of the vehicle trolling a merry ditty.“Good night, my friend,” said Peace.“An’ good night to you,” returned the driver. “Bedad, but this is not the most lively road for a man to thravel.”“No,” said Peace, “it is not; but you have the advantage of me. I have many miles to travel on foot, and I am as tired as a dog. You couldn’t give a chap a lift, I suppose? I’ll pay for the accommodation.”“Faith, and may be I could; but who and what are you?”“A traveller—a poor hawker.”“Och! Sure now, I aint the man to refuse a favour o’ that sort. Which way are you going?”“Anyway, as long as I can get a lodging for the night.”“You seem a quiet, dacent, sort of man, and, as the saying is, any company is better than none, so jump up—you can ride by the side of me.”“I am sure, you are very kind,” cried Peace.The caravan driver brought his vehicle to a halt, and Peace was but too thankful to avail himself of the offer.When he had taken his seat the lumbering wooden house was again set in motion.“An’ sure it’s not much room there is for the dhriver and his frinds on this mighty big machine. But there’s good reason for that—the room is wanted for the inside passengers.”“Inside passengers!”“By the powers ofSt.Patrick, yes! and not much to spare, either.”“What have you got inside, then?”“What! why great natheral coorosities—sarpints, kangaroos, a baboon, and a few monkeys. Oh, they are amoosing crathurs, an’ as sinsible as Christhins.”“Oh, I dare say.”“The guv’ has gone on in the other caravans to the fair, which is to take place—bedad, I don’t know rightly where it’s to take place, but I’m to be there some time to-morrow.”“Oh, you’re in the travelling show line, are you?”“The guv’nor is—I’m only an ondherstrapper, as you may call it—a sort of handy man. But there’s a power of work to get through in one way and another.”“Then where are you now bound for?”“Is it where I am goin’ you mane?”“Yes.”“Och, sure, but it’s at a bit of a roadside house I’m afther making for—‘The Blue Dolphin.’”“And where is that situated?”“Where? Sure, now, an’ it’ll be about a mile or so this side of Pocklington.”“Ah,” said Peace, remembering the name of Pocklington but too well.It was a Mrs. Pocklington who prosecuted him for attempted burglary, and who had committed such a ferocious assault on him with a house broom.“But may be you don’t know the place. The name is not familiar to you.”“Ah! but it is most familiar,” returned Peace; “and if they can accommodate me, I think I will put up at the ‘Blue Dolphin.’”“Ah! bedad, but they must accommodate you. They’re dacent people enough, and aint particular at all, at all.”The two chatted familiarly during the whole of the journey, and the conversation did not flag or come to a conclusion till the house in question was reached.Mr. Dennis Macarty—that was the name of its driver—who was, it is perhaps needless to say, a native of the “Emerald Isle”—took good care to see his animals safely housed for the night, and after this had been done he joined Peace in the snug little parlour of the establishment.Mr. Macarty seemed to be well known to the landlord the landlady, as well as the frequenters of the house, all of whom addressed him in a familiar and friendly manner.“And how’s business, Mr. Macarty?” inquired a sedate-looking little man in the public room.“Och, murdher, it’s mighty bad, intirely, aud has bin so for a goodish while. We’ve got some of the most intherestin’ natheral coorosities, but they don’t dhraw as they ought. May be we do a roaring business in wan town or at wan fair, but the next two or three places are, bad luck to ’em, that bad that we dhrop a power of money. Och, by Jabers, things are not what they used to be.”“And you’ve seen a goodish bit in your time?” said another of the guests.“Bin all over the world—no, I don’t quite mane that, but I’ve bin everywhere in the United Kingdom. But people seem to have lost heart.”“That’s true enough—we all find that out,” cried Peace; “at least I find it so in my line.”“An’ what might that be, if it’s a fair question?” said the sedate little man.“An’ sure it’s in the hawkin’ line that our frind is,” returned Macarty.As the steaming glasses of whiskey and water went round, the company became loquacious and assumed a festive character.Mr. Macarty was full of anecdote. He had stories to tell which elicited roars of laughter, and was voted a most genial companion, which, to say the truth, he most unquestionably was.After treating them with several amusing anecdotes, he all at once came to a halt, and said sharply—“Och, sure now, did I ever tell ye about the biggest man in all Ireland?”“No, never!” cried several.“I never did?”“No.”“Then, bedad, I’ll tell it ye now.”“Ah, do, Macarty; let’s have it.”It’s a sort of legend, and may be ye never heard anything of the kind. It’s all about Jack Grady and the joiant. First and foremost ye must know Jack was mighty proud ov his size, and ov bein’, as he used to say, the greatest man in all Ireland, an’ sure enough he was tremendious big. He was more nor seven feet in hoigth, so I’ve been tould, and had a carcass on him like an eighteen-gallon kag.“Oh, draw it mild!”Ah, but I wouldn’t desave you, it’s thrue for him. Well, one day when Jack comes thrampin’ down into Leenane, to get himself measured for a pair of brogues, for he was mighty savin’ upon shoe leather, by raison of his weight, he goes into the shop of the brogue maker, wan Farrell by name, a little atom of a man, wid a sharp tongue of his own, who used to take grate divarsion out of big Jack, by gibin’ him an’ makin’ all sorts of dhroll collusions to his bulk and diminsions.“Top of the mornin’ to you, Jack,” says Farrell.“I think you might say Misther Grady to yer betthers,” returns Jack.“My bethers! What d’ye say?” cries the little man. “And for why, now? Is it becase yer big and bulky, and ate more bacon for yer breakfast than would kape a family for a week? Arrah! what good are ye at all, at all, except in filling house room? And, for the mathter of that, I saw a biggar man than you are only yesterday, an’ he hadn’t half your consate.”“That’s a big lie, anyhow,” says Jack—“a regular whopper. Botheration, but everyone knows that I’m the biggest man in all Ireland.”“Devil a lie,” cried the other. “There’s a biggar and finer man than you in Ballinrobe this minnit, and what do you think they are doin’ wid him? Why, they are showin’ him to the people for twopence in a raree show, just as they do wid the wild bastes. Bedad, if you are wise you’ll go and show yourself for twopence. It’s all you are good for.”“You dirthy spalpeen. BySt.Patrick, but I’ll dust yer jacket for your impidence,” and with these words Jack makes a wipe at him wid a bit of a stick he used to carry—it was like the mast of a Galway hooker was that same switch.But ye see, my friends, the little brogue maker was as nimble as a bounding acrobat, an’ he skipped away just in time, an’ Jack almost knocked out the wall of the cabin wid the whack he gave.Well, he knew of ould there was no ketchin’ Farrell to gi’ him a basting, so he made it up wid him, for, to give him his jew, he never bore malice, and was a grate dacent sort of man.“Och, look here, now, I don’t want any more of your mighty big lies, so kape your tongue betwane yer teeth, and measure me for the brogues.”Farrell obeyed, and his customer left, but he was mighty unasy in his mind about the man at Ballinrobe.“What ails you?” said his wife, upon his return. “Ye don’t same yerself at all at all.”“Don’t consarn yerself about me,” cried Jack. “I’m right enough.”But his wife knew betther. She axed him to sit down to supper, but he refused—and he refused also to take a shaugh at his pipe, he was that heavy in his heart.“Maybe he’s fallen in love wid some forward jade he’s met wid,” murmured his wife.Jack was quiet, silent, and a bit thoughtful—an’ whin he turned into bed, he says, “Waken me airly for I’ve got a thransaction at Ballinrobe,” and wid that he goes to slape, detarmined to make a complate discovery of the whole matther before he was a day oulder.In the mornin’ he set off for Ballinrobe; but as bad luck would have it, when he got there, the carrywan wid the joiant was gone and all that they could tell him was that it tuk the Castlebar road.Off goes our frind post haste widout waitin’ to take bite or sup, and at last about six miles out of the town he sees the carrywan standin’ by the roadside.It was a big yalla chay made in the shape of a house, wid an illigant hall door and glass windies to it, and “O’Shannasey’s Pavilion” wrote in big letthers over them, an’ the people belongin’ to it was sittin’ on the grass by the side of the road aitin’ their dinner aff the top of the big dhrum, an’ sure now I was one of those, for I first larnt my business wid old O’Shannasey.The guv’nor was there as well, and a mighty clever fellow he was, too. He used to do thricks wid knives and forks, and crumple a large buck rabbit quite small and put it in his wesket pocket.“Oh, I say,” cried one of the audience.Oh, divil a bit am I afther spaking ony unthruth. He done it as asy as anythin’, and there was a north countryman wid one leg, who was mighty handy at a Highland fling, which was a bit of a cooriosity for a cripple, you’ll all acknowledge.“Ah, yes, certainly,” exclaimed several. “Anybody else?”Sartinly. There was a young woman who used to dance in throusors wid frills to them, and take the money in a tambourine when the people went to see the show. An’ people did go to see shows in those days. Besides all thase there was the joiant, but the moment they saw Jack Grady comin’ puffin’ down the road, they made him lave off actin’, and crawl into the carywan, not likin’ to let him be seen too chape.“Health and prosperity to ye all,” says Grady.“And bedad the same to ye, sir, an’ the top of the mornin’ to ye,” cried the showman.“An’ sure now I’ve bin tould that ye have a joiant in yer show. If this be so, might one jest ha’ a look at ’im?”“By the powers, you’re a bit of a joiant yerself I’m afther thinkin’,” says a young woman, laughing at him quite pleasant.“Them’s my raisons, my darl——, that’s to say miss,” says Grady, very respectfully, for he was struck intirely wid her, never seeing the like afore. She was a weeshy little crathur, dressed out wid fine ribbons, wid a sallow face, and a spot ov ruddle on each cheek like a poppy in a corn field. But then she had a purty nate foot, and them was faymale accomplishments Jack was mighty partial to.Well, my frinds, to make a long story short, when they hard he had come all that way to see the joiant they agreed to let him have a look for a bob, tuppence being the regular price on show days, but this was a private view, and cheap at a bob.So the long man was brought out, an’ he an’ Jack stud up beside aich other, an’ sure enough, Grady wasn’t within a head of him, but then he wasn’t within three feet as big round the body as Jack, and when they came to talk of sthrength and fell a wrastling, Jack threw him on his back with the greatest aise.Jack was quite plazed at overcomin’ the tall un—so much so, indeed, that he got quite friendly wid the whole ov us, more especially wid the young woman, and when the one-legged man pulled out a pack of cards and proposed a game he went in, as good manners dictated, and av coorse got rooked most awful.No wondher; he was wake as wather when girls was present, and instead of mindin’ his play he was carryin’ on wid the young woman, and she encouragin’ him, all to spite the long un, who was by way of courtin’ her. While this was goin’ on the showman was eyein’ Jack, and remarkin’ “how thunderin’ big he was.”“He’d make a mighty good property,” says he to the one-legged man.“That he would, sir, and no mistake,” says I.“The other fellow won’t last long,” said O’Shannasey. “He’s gettin’ quite wake on his legs.”“He niver was sthrong on thim,” says the cripple; “but he says it comes from lyin’ doubled up in the carywan.”“That’s all blather,” says O’Shannasey; “it’s goin’ he is. I wish we had this chap in his place, so as not to be left widout a joiant at all.”“I wondher could we coax him to jine us?” says Wan Leg.“I much doubt it,” returned the showman.“See,” says I “how Biddy is puttin’ the comether on him. Suppose we give her a hint. She’s the divil for deludhering, anyhow.”“You see what ye can do wid her.”Upon the first opportunity I took Biddy aside, and made her sinsible, and explained my maning to her, and then the cards was put away, and a dhrop of the “crathur” brought out, and they all fell to dhrinkin’.“I don’t know if any ov you here have remarked that big men never stand the dhrink.”“I have often remarked it,” cried Peace. “They seldom do.”Well, then, he was no exception, but the rason must be that he’d bin fastin’, not forgettin’ also that the young woman never let his glass stand empty. Jack was very soon obfusticated.Then they all got into the carrywan, Jack hooraing like anything.Then they had some more of the “crathur,” until Jack tumbles on the floor speechless.“You gev him too much,” says the showman.“Devil a bit,” says Biddy; “you lave him to me.”So they doubled up Jack and crammed him into a part of the carrywan that was made for the great say sarpint, and put a stuffed mermaid under his head for a pillow.When they got into Castlebar Jack was sleepin’ beautiful, so they left him quiet and paceable where he was; and in the morning, when the people began to clusther round the consarn to see the coorosities he was sleeping still.Well, there was no cause to rouse him, for the say sarpint he was lying with couldn’t be exhibited in regard to being bruk to pieces by the joultin’ of the machine over the bad roads.So the showman began callin’ the people to step up and see the great Portugee joiant an’ the Injin jugglar (maynin’ himself—the ould imposther!), and the grate rowling picther of the goold diggins, and the rest of the wondherful things, every wan of them lies, more or less.“Plenty of the more, and very little of the less,” said Peace.“Oh, bedad, that’s thrue enough,” returned Mr. Macarty. Well, the wan-legged man took to futtin’ it in the Highland fling, and pounding away like a pavior on his wooden leg, and Biddy all the time turnin’ the handle of a machine like a young winnowing machine, and gettin’ illigant music out of the same. It wasn’t long before the people began to step up in earnest. First one and two, then in bunches, till the intarior of the carrywan was nigh thronged. I wish they’d do the same thing now. But the wan-legged man every now and then would quit dancin’ and come inside and pack them like pickled herrins, to make room for more; puttin’ all the tall ones in the back, an’ all the short ones in front. Well, while they wor waitin’, an’ the showman outside screechin’ always that he was just goin’ to begin, whether it was the trampin’ an’ the talkin’ that woke him, I dunna, but anyhow Jack began to mutter to himself, an’ snore that sthrong that the whole convaniency thrimbled.“My, oh,” says the people, “what’s that?”An’ some said it was the Injin juggler; an’ more said it was some other wild baste roarin’.“I’m fearful,” says one.“I’ll not stay,” says another.“Here, misther, let me out,” says another.“What’s the matther?” says the showman.Whin they tould him, he was fairly amplushed, not knowin’ how to get out of it, for he was afeard of ruinin’ the characther of the show, eyther by lettin’ them go in a fright, or lettin’ on that it was only a dhrunken man.“Lave it to me,” says the wan-legged man in a whisper.“Leedies an’ jintlemin,” says he, “reshume yer pleeces. There’s no call for alarum at all at all,” says he.“What is it?” says they.“The Royal Bingal tigyer,” says he.That was enough for some of them.“Here, give us back our money,” says they, “an’ let us get shut of the roarin’ baste.”“There’s no money returned,” says he.“Well, we won’t stay to be ate for the lucre of tuppence,” says they.“He won’t ate ye,” says he.“For why not?” says they.“Beca’se he’s a studdy, responsible baste,” says he. “I tell you,” says he, “he’s the royal Bingal tigyer prisinted to the Queen by the Imperor of Chany, an’ our propriethur is now taking him home to her Majesty, an’ he’s confined wid six big goolden chains an’ a padlock.”Well, whin they heard that an’ about the chains they wor tuck wid a curiosity to see him. But no, sorrow a sight would wan-leg give them.“It ud be high thrayson,” says he, “to make a show of a baste that’s the Royal property, and av it kem to the Lord Leftinint’s ears he might cut the head off the propriethur;” and in coorse this made them all the more rampagious to get a look at the baste.How and however, at last he purtinded to come round.“I durstn’t show him to yez,” says he, “but there’s a chink here convanient to the door, and if any lady or gintleman gives me tuppence more ov coorse I can’t purwint them from peeping through it;” the cunning bla-guard knowin’ well in his heart that all they could see by raison of the darkness was the tip of Jack’s nose and the knees of his small-clothes as he lay doubled up foreninst them.As ye may guess, the tuppences kem in middlin’ lively, and the people was five deep at the chink in a brace of shakes.“Oh, dear, oh!” says one, “do ye mind his eye. It’s as red as a coal o’ fiyer.”“Hut, man, that’s his nose,” says another.“An’ the big legs he has of his own!” says another.“Are they sthriped?” says one in the back, “I’m told tigyers is sthriped all over.”“Bedad, they are,” says the other, “for all the world like cordheroy.”An’ so they wint on, the crathurs, though sorrow a much could they see barrin’ a big lump of somethin’ gruntin’ in a corner. But they didn’t like lettin’ on to one another that they hadn’t got the worth of their money.Maintime the news flew like wildfiyer through the town, an’ man, woman, an’ child, gentle an’ simple, kem crowdin’ up to look at the royal Bingal tigyer, and wid them kem one Mullins, a grate ould miser of a chap.To be sure he began castin’ about for some way of seein’ the tigyer chape, so what does he do but when no one was lookin’ he creeps in undher the wheels of the carrywan, and begins thryin’ for a chink of his own, and as good luck would have it he finds a hole where a boult had fallen out of the boords, just convanient to Jack’s ear.As he was looking through this he hears Jack talkin’ an’ grumblin’ to himself in his sleep. So he cocks his ear and listens. “Faix,” says he, “you’re a dhroll Bengal tigyer. May I never if it isn’t Irish he’s spaking.” And with that he takes a bit of a sthraw and prods Jack in the jaw. “Ow!” says Jack. “That was a grate roar,” says the people inside.“What are ye, at all?” says Mullins in a whisper.“I’m the greatest man in all Ireland,” says Jack, dhrowsy-like.“Throth, then, ye don’t take up much room av ye are,” says Mullins.“Thrue for ye,” says Jack, “I’m bint double like a cod in a pot, wid my heels in my mouth a’most.”“An’ what brought ye there?” says Mullins.“Erra, how do I know?” says Jack, goin aff to sleep again.“Do you know where ye are, avick?” says Mullins.“Sorra a know I know,” says Jack; “may be it’s in Purgathory I am, for my head is shplittin’ in two halves, an’ I’m a’most desthroyed wid a pain in the small o’ my back. Moreover, my tongue’s as dhry as the flure of a lime-kiln. Av it’s in Abraham’s bosom ye are there, give us a dhrink o’ wather an’ I’ll be obleeged to ye.”“Sure, it’s a mighty big mishtake you’re a making,” says Mullins. “You’re not in glory. Aren’t ye in O’Shannasey’s Pavilion, and aint the people a-lookin’ at ye for tuppence a head?”Well, my frinds, when the mention of that an’ the tuppence sthruck Jack’s ear, he remimbered all of a suddint all about it, an’ how little Farrell was gibin’ him wid bein’ only fit for a peep-show.An’ wid that he lets wan roar out of him ye’d have hard at the other ind o’ the barony, an’ sthraitened himself powerful.The timbers of the carrywan wasn’t over sthrong, an’ they shplit an’ cracked wid a noise like tundher, an’ the dacent people begins screechin’ “The tigyer—the tigyer!” an’ goes rowlin’ and tumblin’ down the stips for all the world like pitatees spilt out of a creel. Sich murdher never was seen since Castlebar was a town, wid the hurry they were in.An’ maybe the showman wasn’t in as big a fright as any of them, for all he knew it was a Christin an’ no tigyer; an’ faix he tuk to runnin’ as well as the rest of them.And so did Wan-leg, but in his hurry he druv his wooden leg into the dhrum, which delayed him.Whin Jack got himself loose, the first thing he done was to go and bate the jiant, for, as he said aftherwards, it was all along of him that he got into the shcrape at all. An’ he bate him that wicked that it’s my belief he’d be batin’ him this minnit av it wasn’t for the young woman that wint down on her two binded knees to him not to kill him all out.So he wint at the wan-legged man, but he being a cripple, an’ more betoken entangled wid the dhrum, there was no glory in batin’ him; so Jack threw him an’ dhrum body an’ bones into the sthreet, and wint ragin’ afther the propriethur to bate him.Well, the end o’ the matther was that Jack had to go before the magisthrates that was sittin’ at petty sisshins that same day for assault and batthery, and ruinin’ the property of Mr. O’Shannasey; but the magisthrates said sarve him right, an’ if he summonsed Jack for tattherin’ his consarn Jack might summons him for false imprisonment—so it was even betune them, an’ dismissed the case.But Jack was never the same man afther. It tuck all the pride out of him to be made a tuppenny raree-show. And many a time aftherwards he used to say, in the bittherness of his heart, that was all a big man was good for nowadays, when there was no fightin’ or any other divarshin going on.The occupants of the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” were greatly amused at the story told by the loquacious and genial Mr. Macarty, who, to say the truth, had no inconsiderable amount of ability in giving effect to a humorous narrative.“But did it really occur?” inquired one of the company.“Did it? Why, ov coorse,” returned Macarty. “Do you think I’d be afther invintin’ a pack of lies? Sure I was there at the time myself, an’ remember it as if it tuk place only yistherdy.”“You must draw a line of course,” remarked the little man.“Och, but we niver dhraw a line in our business, divil a bit,” said the showman. “I don’t suppose any ov yez have the slightest idaya of the devices and fakements we have to resort to. Why a legitimate an’ genuine article in many cases does not atthract half as well as a ‘fake.’ Every exhibitor knows that. Faith, you may draw a line as much as you plaze, but a man who undherstands his business will soon jump over it, or else bedad he’ll have to starve. It’s the same in iverythin’.”“That’s right enough,” said Peace. “A ‘fake’ will do more than a legitimate thing. I’ll just give you a case in point. My father was a showman, or rather head man to one. He was a tamer of wild beasts.”“Your father! Ochone, I thought you were a boy after my own heart when I first met you,” cried Macarty. “Bedad, we must have a friendly glass together at my expinse.”Glasses were ordered.Peace proceeded.When my father was travelling with Kensett’s menagerie, and the proprietor was doing a good business in most of the provincial towns, business began to drop off in consequence of an opposition show visiting the same places as Kensett’s. There was not room enough for both at the same time, and Mr. Kensett as a natural consequence was greatly annoyed. At one town the opposition shop (Barlow’s menagerie), as it was termed, carried everything before them, the reason for this being that they had one of the largest ourang-outangs that had ever been brought to this country. The creature was said to bear a remarkable resemblance to the human species, and crowds upon crowds were to be seen daily making their way to Barlow’s establishment. Kensett shifted his quarters, and moved on to the next town, under cover of the night. He had not, however, been many hours there before Barlow made his appearance. Poor man, he was perfectly furious when he found that a similar course was adopted by his rival at other towns. Business fell off painfully, and the question was what was to be done under these perplexing circumstances. The ourang-outang was the central point of attraction.One evening, after a wretched day’s business, my father was smoking his pipe with Mr. Kensett, who was at this time down in the dumps—and, as you may imagine, my father was not in the best of spirits. He had been performing with his wild animals to comparatively empty benches.“He’s potted us—knocked us out of time, that’s quite certain,” said Mr. Kensett.“He carries all before him,” returned my father, “and why? because he’s got an ugly brute—the ugliest I ever saw—of the monkey tribe. One never knows how to deal with the public. They are so capricious and uncertain.”“Uncertain be d——d!” shouted Kensett, “there’s no mistake about the matter! they are pretty certain to desert me for my rival—that is, as far as we can see at present.”“Luck may change, sir,” says my father.“It may and it may not—more of the latter than the former. Ah, it’s a bad look-out for the remainder of this tour.”The two companions lapsed into silence for some little time after this, and puffed away at their pipes.Presently Kensett said, in a reflective manner—“How about Old Jemmy?”“About what, sir?” inquired my father.“Old Jemmy.”“I don’t know anything about him further than what you know.”Mr. Kensett struck his knee in a self-satisfactory manner.“I have it, old man,” he exclaimed. “A bright idea has occurred to me. I have it. We will be down upon this Barlow, and take the wind out of his sails, please the pigs.”“I only wish we could,” says my father.“But we will. Listen, you must transmogrify old Jemmy. He’ll do well enough for a Pongo, or wild man of the woods, just arrived from Africa.“We’ll work the oracle, and double up Barlow.”“How’s it to be done?” says my father.“Shave his haunches, then colour them, encase the upper portion of his body with long hair, shave his face and colour it in the most hideous manner it is possible to conceive. I will get out large bills announcing the arrival of a savage monster in this country, which is exhibited now for the first time. ‘The missing link.’ Don’t you see? Now I’ve given you the hint, and it only remains for you to carry it out. No one so well adapted to manipulate a case of this sort. You’ll be able to make something of him. Do your best, old man, and upset the opposition shop.”My father tumbled to the proposition at once.“It shall be done, sir,” he said emphatically, “and we’ll take our chance.”Well, with that, on the following day he set to work.Poor old Jemmy was a venerable specimen of the ape species, he had been in the show for years, and was as tame and harmless as a kitten, and would let you do anything with him.The hair was shaved off his posteriors, a long, shaggy coat of dark-brown hair was sewn round the upper portion of his body, the hair on the lower portion of his face was clipped quite close, then his face was coloured, and he was so completely metamorphosed that his own mother would not have known him.Taken altogether his appearance was at once extraordinary, and like nothing that had ever been seen before or since, I think I may add.A collar was put round his neck, to which a strong chain was attached, and the end of the chain was attached to an iron bar running across the back of the cage. By this means poor old Jemmy was kept in an upright position and compelled to walk on his hind legs.It was, no doubt, a sad trial to the poor brute, who, however, bore it complacently enough. When all was in readiness Mr. Kensett shifted his quarters to the next town, having previously beplastered its walls with gigantic posters announcing the arrival of a large Pongo or wild man of the woods, who was so fierce that visitors were cautioned not to approach too near the bars of the cage.Such a monster was surely never seen before. Jemmy was the very personification of ugliness and ferocity.Kensett’s show was thronged with visitors all day long, and there was a perfectfurorewith the populace, who expressed themselves immensly pleased with the great natural zoological curiosity.A history of the animal, how it was caught, the nature of its food and general habits was given in a hand-bill presented to each visitor as they entered the menagerie.It was related how, in a visit of a British man-of-war to the island of Borneo, a party of the sailors were permitted on shore, and entered one of the dense forests which abound in that island.After some time spent in the search for fruit the party came upon an open glade, and right opposite them, where the forest again commenced, they saw a tree violently shaken.They rushed forward to ascertain the cause, and saw what they thought was a native woman leap lightly from the tree and disappear in the forest.But a hairy monster remained in the tree, and seemed in a furious passion, which was redoubled when he saw the sailors.Breaking a branch from the tree, the wild man (for this was what he was) bounded to the earth, faced the strangers, and then turned to run.But the tars had been too smart for him, and having surrounded him, he was brought to bay and captured, after a sturdy use of the branch of the tree.The “history” went down very well with the women folks, for the writer averred that when the wild man was first seen he was busy belabouring his wife, and thus suffered capture.Barlow came upon the scene of action and advertised his ourang outang, which was really a fine specimen, but the creature paled before the effulgence of his painted rival, and Kensett’s counterfoil brute fairly eclipsed the one in the opposition shop. Barlow was furious.He denounced Kensett as an impostor, and the rival showman had a set-to in the market-place to the infinite diversion of the town’s folk; but all was of no use—the “wild man of the woods,” “the missing link,” as Kensett termed him, carried everything before him, and Barlow’s show was comparatively deserted.“Is it possible that people could be so silly as to be taken in with such a barefaced imposture?” said one of the company.“My dear sir,” returned Peace, “in this world are found people silly enough for anything. But it was a barefaced imposture, I admit, seeing that old Jemmy’s face had been shorn of its hair.”“Och, by the powers!” cried Macarty, “people like to be humbugged and imposed upon. Bedad it was a mighty clane thrick, and desarved to sucsade.”The good folks in the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” had perhaps never in their whole lives learned so much about the doings of showmen, and, as a natural consequence, the evening passed away pleasantly enough.After some further conversation the party broke up, and Peace and Mr. Macarty repaired to their respective rooms.Our hero, upon first entering the house, had requested to be shown into the bedroom he was to occupy, saying that he wished to have a wash; his real object, however, was to secrete the bag containing the valuables he had purloined in some quiet corner.He found in the room a chest of drawers, most of which were empty; into one of these he placed his bag, then he closed the drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.When this had been done he felt tolerably secure. It was not likely that any person would break open the drawer for the purpose of inspecting the contents of his bag.He therefore returned to the public room, where he passed the evening in the convivial manner already described.Upon retiring for the night, he opened the drawer, and found his bag in precisely the same position as he had left it.He therefore tumbled into bed and slept soundly till the morning.Upon proceeding downstairs he found, upon inquiry, that his picked-up friend Macarty had risen some hour or so before.He was at this time in the stable, attending to the inmates of his wooden house.He greeted our hero in a most cordial manner, and after his animals and reptiles had been fed, returned to the breakfast-room of the establishment with Peace.“We gave our friends a good dose of jaw last night,” said our hero, with a smile.“Och, sure it’s just as well to kape the game alive. I make it a rule to be friendly and familiar wid all people. There’s no tellin’ what one may want, and a good word from the natives of a town or village may be of sarvice to men of my kidney—but see, breakfast is ready, let’s fall to.”A very substantial repast had been provided by the hostess of the “Blue Dolphin,” to which the hungry travellers did justice to.When the meal was over, Mr. Macarty, who was evidently a man of business, made preparations to start on his journey.“You are in a great hurry to be off, my friend,” said Peace. “Have you far to go?”“Arrah, an’ it’s not far; but the governor doesn’t like to be kept waitin’; besides we’ve a power of work to do before we let in the British public—that is, if they will come in, an’ bad luck to them.”“Good luck to you and yours,” cried Peace; “and may you prosper, as I am sure you deserve to do. Any way, I have to return you my most heartfelt thanks for your kindness—to say nothing of your company.”“By jabers, you’re puttin’ the pot on in the blarney line, anyhow,” returned Macarty; “but we undherstand each other intirely, and good luck to you, and many on ’em.”Peace laughed, and said—“Well, I’m sorry to part with you, but there is, I suppose, no help for it?”“Faix, an’ there is,” returned Macarty. “You can make shift wid the same sate ye had last night, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more on your journey when you raich Pocklington.”“Pocklington!”“Ah, shure. I don’t know where ye are bhound for, but maybe one place is as good as another to a hawker.”“Oh it don’t much matter which road I travel for the matter of that, and since you are so pressing I’ll accept your kind offer.”“An’ its welcome ye are—as welcome as the flowers in May.”The caravan was by this time in front of the “Blue Dolphin.” It looked bright and radiant by the light of the early morning sun, the brass knocker on the door had an extra polish, the horse was well groomed, and taken altogether it was a most respectable turn out.“There!” said Macarty, pointing to the yellow machine. “It’s fit for a prince, bedad; it’s as clane as a new pin, and as bright as a newly-polished silver tankard.”“And its driver?”No.40.Illustration: PEACE VISITED BY A DETECTIVE.PEACE VISITED BY A DETECTIVE.“Aisy, now, aisy. Well, its dhriver is as sharp as a steel thrap. Now then, are you ready?”“Quite ready; but wait a bit, I must fetch my luggage and pay the reckoning. When this has been done I am at your service.”Peace went into the house, settled with the landlord, and returned with his bag, which he had made into a parcel with brown paper and string. He got up in front of the caravan, which was driven off by the good-natured Mr. McCarty.Peace felt perfectly well assured that he was safe from the prying eyes of the police while he sat beside his newly-made friend McCarty, who evidently believed him to be a hawker, never for a moment suspecting the depredations he had been committing.The Irishman drove his yellow house or caravan direct on to Pocklington, and upon his arrival at the last-named place he introduced our hero to his governor.Peace made himself very agreeable, and entered freely into conversation with the showman, who was greatly taken with him.He conducted him into all the caravans of which he was proprietor, and expatiated upon the interesting nature of their contents, and wound up by placing before him a cold collation, with some bottled ale and wine, and insisted upon his partaking of his hospitality.Peace was nothing loth, and expressed himself particularly grateful for the attention shown him.After remaining for an hour or so with the proprietor of the shows, he took his departure and made his way to the nearest railway station, booked for Sheffield, and in due course of time found himself once more in his native town.He had but little difficulty in disposing of the property he had possessed himself of in the palatial mansion at Leeds, but as he had had a very narrow chance of being detected he deemed it advisable to leave that town alone for awhile.Upon his return to Sheffield he worked industriously at his business for some weeks, and those who were in the habit of seeing him during this time were under the full impression that he was a sober, well-conducted man.So to all outward appearance he was, and it is likely enough that, had he chosen to pursue an honest calling for the future, he would have done well and prospered.But it was not in the nature of the man to continue long without having recourse to his evil practices.His house was very respectably furnished. His partner, the mistress of the domicile, did not thwart him, but strove as best she could to make her husband’s home as comfortable as possible.He had a goat (which he had taught to perform many tricks), a monkey, two dogs, some guinea pigs, and a cat or two—he had always displayed throughout his career a great partiality for animals—and he was an adept in taming them, and putting them through various performances for the amusement of himself, family, and friends.Indeed he might have succeeded very well as a trainer of animals for performing purposes; as we have already signified he was clever in many ways, but his abilities, such as they were, went for nothing. They were over-shadowed and submerged by his passion for criminal pursuits.Nevertheless, those who knew him best, and were in the constant habit of seeing, have declared that it was difficult, nay almost next to impossible, for any one to believe him to be a lawless and unprincipled ruffian, which was afterwards but too plainly proved.He played at this time in the evenings at various public-houses in Sheffield. He had taught his goat to stand on its hind legs and dance to the sound of his violin.This little animal is said to have been a most docile and amusing creature, and Peace made a considerable amount of money by its antics.He was always welcomed at the public-houses he was accustomed to visit, and made a great many friends, but he lost them as soon as made, for there was nothing reliable in the man, and it was, therefore, impossible for any one to place much faith in him.
Peace had not gone very far before he came up with a travelling caravan.
The vehicle in question was going at a slow pace, it was heavy and cumbersome, being, in fact, a sort of wooden home on wheels.
Peace could not at first quite make out what it was, but upon closer inspection he came to the conclusion that it was a show, such as one sees at fairs. The driver was seated in front of the vehicle trolling a merry ditty.
“Good night, my friend,” said Peace.
“An’ good night to you,” returned the driver. “Bedad, but this is not the most lively road for a man to thravel.”
“No,” said Peace, “it is not; but you have the advantage of me. I have many miles to travel on foot, and I am as tired as a dog. You couldn’t give a chap a lift, I suppose? I’ll pay for the accommodation.”
“Faith, and may be I could; but who and what are you?”
“A traveller—a poor hawker.”
“Och! Sure now, I aint the man to refuse a favour o’ that sort. Which way are you going?”
“Anyway, as long as I can get a lodging for the night.”
“You seem a quiet, dacent, sort of man, and, as the saying is, any company is better than none, so jump up—you can ride by the side of me.”
“I am sure, you are very kind,” cried Peace.
The caravan driver brought his vehicle to a halt, and Peace was but too thankful to avail himself of the offer.
When he had taken his seat the lumbering wooden house was again set in motion.
“An’ sure it’s not much room there is for the dhriver and his frinds on this mighty big machine. But there’s good reason for that—the room is wanted for the inside passengers.”
“Inside passengers!”
“By the powers ofSt.Patrick, yes! and not much to spare, either.”
“What have you got inside, then?”
“What! why great natheral coorosities—sarpints, kangaroos, a baboon, and a few monkeys. Oh, they are amoosing crathurs, an’ as sinsible as Christhins.”
“Oh, I dare say.”
“The guv’ has gone on in the other caravans to the fair, which is to take place—bedad, I don’t know rightly where it’s to take place, but I’m to be there some time to-morrow.”
“Oh, you’re in the travelling show line, are you?”
“The guv’nor is—I’m only an ondherstrapper, as you may call it—a sort of handy man. But there’s a power of work to get through in one way and another.”
“Then where are you now bound for?”
“Is it where I am goin’ you mane?”
“Yes.”
“Och, sure, but it’s at a bit of a roadside house I’m afther making for—‘The Blue Dolphin.’”
“And where is that situated?”
“Where? Sure, now, an’ it’ll be about a mile or so this side of Pocklington.”
“Ah,” said Peace, remembering the name of Pocklington but too well.
It was a Mrs. Pocklington who prosecuted him for attempted burglary, and who had committed such a ferocious assault on him with a house broom.
“But may be you don’t know the place. The name is not familiar to you.”
“Ah! but it is most familiar,” returned Peace; “and if they can accommodate me, I think I will put up at the ‘Blue Dolphin.’”
“Ah! bedad, but they must accommodate you. They’re dacent people enough, and aint particular at all, at all.”
The two chatted familiarly during the whole of the journey, and the conversation did not flag or come to a conclusion till the house in question was reached.
Mr. Dennis Macarty—that was the name of its driver—who was, it is perhaps needless to say, a native of the “Emerald Isle”—took good care to see his animals safely housed for the night, and after this had been done he joined Peace in the snug little parlour of the establishment.
Mr. Macarty seemed to be well known to the landlord the landlady, as well as the frequenters of the house, all of whom addressed him in a familiar and friendly manner.
“And how’s business, Mr. Macarty?” inquired a sedate-looking little man in the public room.
“Och, murdher, it’s mighty bad, intirely, aud has bin so for a goodish while. We’ve got some of the most intherestin’ natheral coorosities, but they don’t dhraw as they ought. May be we do a roaring business in wan town or at wan fair, but the next two or three places are, bad luck to ’em, that bad that we dhrop a power of money. Och, by Jabers, things are not what they used to be.”
“And you’ve seen a goodish bit in your time?” said another of the guests.
“Bin all over the world—no, I don’t quite mane that, but I’ve bin everywhere in the United Kingdom. But people seem to have lost heart.”
“That’s true enough—we all find that out,” cried Peace; “at least I find it so in my line.”
“An’ what might that be, if it’s a fair question?” said the sedate little man.
“An’ sure it’s in the hawkin’ line that our frind is,” returned Macarty.
As the steaming glasses of whiskey and water went round, the company became loquacious and assumed a festive character.
Mr. Macarty was full of anecdote. He had stories to tell which elicited roars of laughter, and was voted a most genial companion, which, to say the truth, he most unquestionably was.
After treating them with several amusing anecdotes, he all at once came to a halt, and said sharply—
“Och, sure now, did I ever tell ye about the biggest man in all Ireland?”
“No, never!” cried several.
“I never did?”
“No.”
“Then, bedad, I’ll tell it ye now.”
“Ah, do, Macarty; let’s have it.”
It’s a sort of legend, and may be ye never heard anything of the kind. It’s all about Jack Grady and the joiant. First and foremost ye must know Jack was mighty proud ov his size, and ov bein’, as he used to say, the greatest man in all Ireland, an’ sure enough he was tremendious big. He was more nor seven feet in hoigth, so I’ve been tould, and had a carcass on him like an eighteen-gallon kag.
“Oh, draw it mild!”
Ah, but I wouldn’t desave you, it’s thrue for him. Well, one day when Jack comes thrampin’ down into Leenane, to get himself measured for a pair of brogues, for he was mighty savin’ upon shoe leather, by raison of his weight, he goes into the shop of the brogue maker, wan Farrell by name, a little atom of a man, wid a sharp tongue of his own, who used to take grate divarsion out of big Jack, by gibin’ him an’ makin’ all sorts of dhroll collusions to his bulk and diminsions.
“Top of the mornin’ to you, Jack,” says Farrell.
“I think you might say Misther Grady to yer betthers,” returns Jack.
“My bethers! What d’ye say?” cries the little man. “And for why, now? Is it becase yer big and bulky, and ate more bacon for yer breakfast than would kape a family for a week? Arrah! what good are ye at all, at all, except in filling house room? And, for the mathter of that, I saw a biggar man than you are only yesterday, an’ he hadn’t half your consate.”
“That’s a big lie, anyhow,” says Jack—“a regular whopper. Botheration, but everyone knows that I’m the biggest man in all Ireland.”
“Devil a lie,” cried the other. “There’s a biggar and finer man than you in Ballinrobe this minnit, and what do you think they are doin’ wid him? Why, they are showin’ him to the people for twopence in a raree show, just as they do wid the wild bastes. Bedad, if you are wise you’ll go and show yourself for twopence. It’s all you are good for.”
“You dirthy spalpeen. BySt.Patrick, but I’ll dust yer jacket for your impidence,” and with these words Jack makes a wipe at him wid a bit of a stick he used to carry—it was like the mast of a Galway hooker was that same switch.
But ye see, my friends, the little brogue maker was as nimble as a bounding acrobat, an’ he skipped away just in time, an’ Jack almost knocked out the wall of the cabin wid the whack he gave.
Well, he knew of ould there was no ketchin’ Farrell to gi’ him a basting, so he made it up wid him, for, to give him his jew, he never bore malice, and was a grate dacent sort of man.
“Och, look here, now, I don’t want any more of your mighty big lies, so kape your tongue betwane yer teeth, and measure me for the brogues.”
Farrell obeyed, and his customer left, but he was mighty unasy in his mind about the man at Ballinrobe.
“What ails you?” said his wife, upon his return. “Ye don’t same yerself at all at all.”
“Don’t consarn yerself about me,” cried Jack. “I’m right enough.”
But his wife knew betther. She axed him to sit down to supper, but he refused—and he refused also to take a shaugh at his pipe, he was that heavy in his heart.
“Maybe he’s fallen in love wid some forward jade he’s met wid,” murmured his wife.
Jack was quiet, silent, and a bit thoughtful—an’ whin he turned into bed, he says, “Waken me airly for I’ve got a thransaction at Ballinrobe,” and wid that he goes to slape, detarmined to make a complate discovery of the whole matther before he was a day oulder.
In the mornin’ he set off for Ballinrobe; but as bad luck would have it, when he got there, the carrywan wid the joiant was gone and all that they could tell him was that it tuk the Castlebar road.
Off goes our frind post haste widout waitin’ to take bite or sup, and at last about six miles out of the town he sees the carrywan standin’ by the roadside.
It was a big yalla chay made in the shape of a house, wid an illigant hall door and glass windies to it, and “O’Shannasey’s Pavilion” wrote in big letthers over them, an’ the people belongin’ to it was sittin’ on the grass by the side of the road aitin’ their dinner aff the top of the big dhrum, an’ sure now I was one of those, for I first larnt my business wid old O’Shannasey.
The guv’nor was there as well, and a mighty clever fellow he was, too. He used to do thricks wid knives and forks, and crumple a large buck rabbit quite small and put it in his wesket pocket.
“Oh, I say,” cried one of the audience.
Oh, divil a bit am I afther spaking ony unthruth. He done it as asy as anythin’, and there was a north countryman wid one leg, who was mighty handy at a Highland fling, which was a bit of a cooriosity for a cripple, you’ll all acknowledge.
“Ah, yes, certainly,” exclaimed several. “Anybody else?”
Sartinly. There was a young woman who used to dance in throusors wid frills to them, and take the money in a tambourine when the people went to see the show. An’ people did go to see shows in those days. Besides all thase there was the joiant, but the moment they saw Jack Grady comin’ puffin’ down the road, they made him lave off actin’, and crawl into the carywan, not likin’ to let him be seen too chape.
“Health and prosperity to ye all,” says Grady.
“And bedad the same to ye, sir, an’ the top of the mornin’ to ye,” cried the showman.
“An’ sure now I’ve bin tould that ye have a joiant in yer show. If this be so, might one jest ha’ a look at ’im?”
“By the powers, you’re a bit of a joiant yerself I’m afther thinkin’,” says a young woman, laughing at him quite pleasant.
“Them’s my raisons, my darl——, that’s to say miss,” says Grady, very respectfully, for he was struck intirely wid her, never seeing the like afore. She was a weeshy little crathur, dressed out wid fine ribbons, wid a sallow face, and a spot ov ruddle on each cheek like a poppy in a corn field. But then she had a purty nate foot, and them was faymale accomplishments Jack was mighty partial to.
Well, my frinds, to make a long story short, when they hard he had come all that way to see the joiant they agreed to let him have a look for a bob, tuppence being the regular price on show days, but this was a private view, and cheap at a bob.
So the long man was brought out, an’ he an’ Jack stud up beside aich other, an’ sure enough, Grady wasn’t within a head of him, but then he wasn’t within three feet as big round the body as Jack, and when they came to talk of sthrength and fell a wrastling, Jack threw him on his back with the greatest aise.
Jack was quite plazed at overcomin’ the tall un—so much so, indeed, that he got quite friendly wid the whole ov us, more especially wid the young woman, and when the one-legged man pulled out a pack of cards and proposed a game he went in, as good manners dictated, and av coorse got rooked most awful.
No wondher; he was wake as wather when girls was present, and instead of mindin’ his play he was carryin’ on wid the young woman, and she encouragin’ him, all to spite the long un, who was by way of courtin’ her. While this was goin’ on the showman was eyein’ Jack, and remarkin’ “how thunderin’ big he was.”
“He’d make a mighty good property,” says he to the one-legged man.
“That he would, sir, and no mistake,” says I.
“The other fellow won’t last long,” said O’Shannasey. “He’s gettin’ quite wake on his legs.”
“He niver was sthrong on thim,” says the cripple; “but he says it comes from lyin’ doubled up in the carywan.”
“That’s all blather,” says O’Shannasey; “it’s goin’ he is. I wish we had this chap in his place, so as not to be left widout a joiant at all.”
“I wondher could we coax him to jine us?” says Wan Leg.
“I much doubt it,” returned the showman.
“See,” says I “how Biddy is puttin’ the comether on him. Suppose we give her a hint. She’s the divil for deludhering, anyhow.”
“You see what ye can do wid her.”
Upon the first opportunity I took Biddy aside, and made her sinsible, and explained my maning to her, and then the cards was put away, and a dhrop of the “crathur” brought out, and they all fell to dhrinkin’.
“I don’t know if any ov you here have remarked that big men never stand the dhrink.”
“I have often remarked it,” cried Peace. “They seldom do.”
Well, then, he was no exception, but the rason must be that he’d bin fastin’, not forgettin’ also that the young woman never let his glass stand empty. Jack was very soon obfusticated.
Then they all got into the carrywan, Jack hooraing like anything.
Then they had some more of the “crathur,” until Jack tumbles on the floor speechless.
“You gev him too much,” says the showman.
“Devil a bit,” says Biddy; “you lave him to me.”
So they doubled up Jack and crammed him into a part of the carrywan that was made for the great say sarpint, and put a stuffed mermaid under his head for a pillow.
When they got into Castlebar Jack was sleepin’ beautiful, so they left him quiet and paceable where he was; and in the morning, when the people began to clusther round the consarn to see the coorosities he was sleeping still.
Well, there was no cause to rouse him, for the say sarpint he was lying with couldn’t be exhibited in regard to being bruk to pieces by the joultin’ of the machine over the bad roads.
So the showman began callin’ the people to step up and see the great Portugee joiant an’ the Injin jugglar (maynin’ himself—the ould imposther!), and the grate rowling picther of the goold diggins, and the rest of the wondherful things, every wan of them lies, more or less.
“Plenty of the more, and very little of the less,” said Peace.
“Oh, bedad, that’s thrue enough,” returned Mr. Macarty. Well, the wan-legged man took to futtin’ it in the Highland fling, and pounding away like a pavior on his wooden leg, and Biddy all the time turnin’ the handle of a machine like a young winnowing machine, and gettin’ illigant music out of the same. It wasn’t long before the people began to step up in earnest. First one and two, then in bunches, till the intarior of the carrywan was nigh thronged. I wish they’d do the same thing now. But the wan-legged man every now and then would quit dancin’ and come inside and pack them like pickled herrins, to make room for more; puttin’ all the tall ones in the back, an’ all the short ones in front. Well, while they wor waitin’, an’ the showman outside screechin’ always that he was just goin’ to begin, whether it was the trampin’ an’ the talkin’ that woke him, I dunna, but anyhow Jack began to mutter to himself, an’ snore that sthrong that the whole convaniency thrimbled.
“My, oh,” says the people, “what’s that?”
An’ some said it was the Injin juggler; an’ more said it was some other wild baste roarin’.
“I’m fearful,” says one.
“I’ll not stay,” says another.
“Here, misther, let me out,” says another.
“What’s the matther?” says the showman.
Whin they tould him, he was fairly amplushed, not knowin’ how to get out of it, for he was afeard of ruinin’ the characther of the show, eyther by lettin’ them go in a fright, or lettin’ on that it was only a dhrunken man.
“Lave it to me,” says the wan-legged man in a whisper.
“Leedies an’ jintlemin,” says he, “reshume yer pleeces. There’s no call for alarum at all at all,” says he.
“What is it?” says they.
“The Royal Bingal tigyer,” says he.
That was enough for some of them.
“Here, give us back our money,” says they, “an’ let us get shut of the roarin’ baste.”
“There’s no money returned,” says he.
“Well, we won’t stay to be ate for the lucre of tuppence,” says they.
“He won’t ate ye,” says he.
“For why not?” says they.
“Beca’se he’s a studdy, responsible baste,” says he. “I tell you,” says he, “he’s the royal Bingal tigyer prisinted to the Queen by the Imperor of Chany, an’ our propriethur is now taking him home to her Majesty, an’ he’s confined wid six big goolden chains an’ a padlock.”
Well, whin they heard that an’ about the chains they wor tuck wid a curiosity to see him. But no, sorrow a sight would wan-leg give them.
“It ud be high thrayson,” says he, “to make a show of a baste that’s the Royal property, and av it kem to the Lord Leftinint’s ears he might cut the head off the propriethur;” and in coorse this made them all the more rampagious to get a look at the baste.
How and however, at last he purtinded to come round.
“I durstn’t show him to yez,” says he, “but there’s a chink here convanient to the door, and if any lady or gintleman gives me tuppence more ov coorse I can’t purwint them from peeping through it;” the cunning bla-guard knowin’ well in his heart that all they could see by raison of the darkness was the tip of Jack’s nose and the knees of his small-clothes as he lay doubled up foreninst them.
As ye may guess, the tuppences kem in middlin’ lively, and the people was five deep at the chink in a brace of shakes.
“Oh, dear, oh!” says one, “do ye mind his eye. It’s as red as a coal o’ fiyer.”
“Hut, man, that’s his nose,” says another.
“An’ the big legs he has of his own!” says another.
“Are they sthriped?” says one in the back, “I’m told tigyers is sthriped all over.”
“Bedad, they are,” says the other, “for all the world like cordheroy.”
An’ so they wint on, the crathurs, though sorrow a much could they see barrin’ a big lump of somethin’ gruntin’ in a corner. But they didn’t like lettin’ on to one another that they hadn’t got the worth of their money.
Maintime the news flew like wildfiyer through the town, an’ man, woman, an’ child, gentle an’ simple, kem crowdin’ up to look at the royal Bingal tigyer, and wid them kem one Mullins, a grate ould miser of a chap.
To be sure he began castin’ about for some way of seein’ the tigyer chape, so what does he do but when no one was lookin’ he creeps in undher the wheels of the carrywan, and begins thryin’ for a chink of his own, and as good luck would have it he finds a hole where a boult had fallen out of the boords, just convanient to Jack’s ear.
As he was looking through this he hears Jack talkin’ an’ grumblin’ to himself in his sleep. So he cocks his ear and listens. “Faix,” says he, “you’re a dhroll Bengal tigyer. May I never if it isn’t Irish he’s spaking.” And with that he takes a bit of a sthraw and prods Jack in the jaw. “Ow!” says Jack. “That was a grate roar,” says the people inside.
“What are ye, at all?” says Mullins in a whisper.
“I’m the greatest man in all Ireland,” says Jack, dhrowsy-like.
“Throth, then, ye don’t take up much room av ye are,” says Mullins.
“Thrue for ye,” says Jack, “I’m bint double like a cod in a pot, wid my heels in my mouth a’most.”
“An’ what brought ye there?” says Mullins.
“Erra, how do I know?” says Jack, goin aff to sleep again.
“Do you know where ye are, avick?” says Mullins.
“Sorra a know I know,” says Jack; “may be it’s in Purgathory I am, for my head is shplittin’ in two halves, an’ I’m a’most desthroyed wid a pain in the small o’ my back. Moreover, my tongue’s as dhry as the flure of a lime-kiln. Av it’s in Abraham’s bosom ye are there, give us a dhrink o’ wather an’ I’ll be obleeged to ye.”
“Sure, it’s a mighty big mishtake you’re a making,” says Mullins. “You’re not in glory. Aren’t ye in O’Shannasey’s Pavilion, and aint the people a-lookin’ at ye for tuppence a head?”
Well, my frinds, when the mention of that an’ the tuppence sthruck Jack’s ear, he remimbered all of a suddint all about it, an’ how little Farrell was gibin’ him wid bein’ only fit for a peep-show.
An’ wid that he lets wan roar out of him ye’d have hard at the other ind o’ the barony, an’ sthraitened himself powerful.
The timbers of the carrywan wasn’t over sthrong, an’ they shplit an’ cracked wid a noise like tundher, an’ the dacent people begins screechin’ “The tigyer—the tigyer!” an’ goes rowlin’ and tumblin’ down the stips for all the world like pitatees spilt out of a creel. Sich murdher never was seen since Castlebar was a town, wid the hurry they were in.
An’ maybe the showman wasn’t in as big a fright as any of them, for all he knew it was a Christin an’ no tigyer; an’ faix he tuk to runnin’ as well as the rest of them.
And so did Wan-leg, but in his hurry he druv his wooden leg into the dhrum, which delayed him.
Whin Jack got himself loose, the first thing he done was to go and bate the jiant, for, as he said aftherwards, it was all along of him that he got into the shcrape at all. An’ he bate him that wicked that it’s my belief he’d be batin’ him this minnit av it wasn’t for the young woman that wint down on her two binded knees to him not to kill him all out.
So he wint at the wan-legged man, but he being a cripple, an’ more betoken entangled wid the dhrum, there was no glory in batin’ him; so Jack threw him an’ dhrum body an’ bones into the sthreet, and wint ragin’ afther the propriethur to bate him.
Well, the end o’ the matther was that Jack had to go before the magisthrates that was sittin’ at petty sisshins that same day for assault and batthery, and ruinin’ the property of Mr. O’Shannasey; but the magisthrates said sarve him right, an’ if he summonsed Jack for tattherin’ his consarn Jack might summons him for false imprisonment—so it was even betune them, an’ dismissed the case.
But Jack was never the same man afther. It tuck all the pride out of him to be made a tuppenny raree-show. And many a time aftherwards he used to say, in the bittherness of his heart, that was all a big man was good for nowadays, when there was no fightin’ or any other divarshin going on.
The occupants of the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” were greatly amused at the story told by the loquacious and genial Mr. Macarty, who, to say the truth, had no inconsiderable amount of ability in giving effect to a humorous narrative.
“But did it really occur?” inquired one of the company.
“Did it? Why, ov coorse,” returned Macarty. “Do you think I’d be afther invintin’ a pack of lies? Sure I was there at the time myself, an’ remember it as if it tuk place only yistherdy.”
“You must draw a line of course,” remarked the little man.
“Och, but we niver dhraw a line in our business, divil a bit,” said the showman. “I don’t suppose any ov yez have the slightest idaya of the devices and fakements we have to resort to. Why a legitimate an’ genuine article in many cases does not atthract half as well as a ‘fake.’ Every exhibitor knows that. Faith, you may draw a line as much as you plaze, but a man who undherstands his business will soon jump over it, or else bedad he’ll have to starve. It’s the same in iverythin’.”
“That’s right enough,” said Peace. “A ‘fake’ will do more than a legitimate thing. I’ll just give you a case in point. My father was a showman, or rather head man to one. He was a tamer of wild beasts.”
“Your father! Ochone, I thought you were a boy after my own heart when I first met you,” cried Macarty. “Bedad, we must have a friendly glass together at my expinse.”
Glasses were ordered.
Peace proceeded.
When my father was travelling with Kensett’s menagerie, and the proprietor was doing a good business in most of the provincial towns, business began to drop off in consequence of an opposition show visiting the same places as Kensett’s. There was not room enough for both at the same time, and Mr. Kensett as a natural consequence was greatly annoyed. At one town the opposition shop (Barlow’s menagerie), as it was termed, carried everything before them, the reason for this being that they had one of the largest ourang-outangs that had ever been brought to this country. The creature was said to bear a remarkable resemblance to the human species, and crowds upon crowds were to be seen daily making their way to Barlow’s establishment. Kensett shifted his quarters, and moved on to the next town, under cover of the night. He had not, however, been many hours there before Barlow made his appearance. Poor man, he was perfectly furious when he found that a similar course was adopted by his rival at other towns. Business fell off painfully, and the question was what was to be done under these perplexing circumstances. The ourang-outang was the central point of attraction.
One evening, after a wretched day’s business, my father was smoking his pipe with Mr. Kensett, who was at this time down in the dumps—and, as you may imagine, my father was not in the best of spirits. He had been performing with his wild animals to comparatively empty benches.
“He’s potted us—knocked us out of time, that’s quite certain,” said Mr. Kensett.
“He carries all before him,” returned my father, “and why? because he’s got an ugly brute—the ugliest I ever saw—of the monkey tribe. One never knows how to deal with the public. They are so capricious and uncertain.”
“Uncertain be d——d!” shouted Kensett, “there’s no mistake about the matter! they are pretty certain to desert me for my rival—that is, as far as we can see at present.”
“Luck may change, sir,” says my father.
“It may and it may not—more of the latter than the former. Ah, it’s a bad look-out for the remainder of this tour.”
The two companions lapsed into silence for some little time after this, and puffed away at their pipes.
Presently Kensett said, in a reflective manner—
“How about Old Jemmy?”
“About what, sir?” inquired my father.
“Old Jemmy.”
“I don’t know anything about him further than what you know.”
Mr. Kensett struck his knee in a self-satisfactory manner.
“I have it, old man,” he exclaimed. “A bright idea has occurred to me. I have it. We will be down upon this Barlow, and take the wind out of his sails, please the pigs.”
“I only wish we could,” says my father.
“But we will. Listen, you must transmogrify old Jemmy. He’ll do well enough for a Pongo, or wild man of the woods, just arrived from Africa.
“We’ll work the oracle, and double up Barlow.”
“How’s it to be done?” says my father.
“Shave his haunches, then colour them, encase the upper portion of his body with long hair, shave his face and colour it in the most hideous manner it is possible to conceive. I will get out large bills announcing the arrival of a savage monster in this country, which is exhibited now for the first time. ‘The missing link.’ Don’t you see? Now I’ve given you the hint, and it only remains for you to carry it out. No one so well adapted to manipulate a case of this sort. You’ll be able to make something of him. Do your best, old man, and upset the opposition shop.”
My father tumbled to the proposition at once.
“It shall be done, sir,” he said emphatically, “and we’ll take our chance.”
Well, with that, on the following day he set to work.
Poor old Jemmy was a venerable specimen of the ape species, he had been in the show for years, and was as tame and harmless as a kitten, and would let you do anything with him.
The hair was shaved off his posteriors, a long, shaggy coat of dark-brown hair was sewn round the upper portion of his body, the hair on the lower portion of his face was clipped quite close, then his face was coloured, and he was so completely metamorphosed that his own mother would not have known him.
Taken altogether his appearance was at once extraordinary, and like nothing that had ever been seen before or since, I think I may add.
A collar was put round his neck, to which a strong chain was attached, and the end of the chain was attached to an iron bar running across the back of the cage. By this means poor old Jemmy was kept in an upright position and compelled to walk on his hind legs.
It was, no doubt, a sad trial to the poor brute, who, however, bore it complacently enough. When all was in readiness Mr. Kensett shifted his quarters to the next town, having previously beplastered its walls with gigantic posters announcing the arrival of a large Pongo or wild man of the woods, who was so fierce that visitors were cautioned not to approach too near the bars of the cage.
Such a monster was surely never seen before. Jemmy was the very personification of ugliness and ferocity.
Kensett’s show was thronged with visitors all day long, and there was a perfectfurorewith the populace, who expressed themselves immensly pleased with the great natural zoological curiosity.
A history of the animal, how it was caught, the nature of its food and general habits was given in a hand-bill presented to each visitor as they entered the menagerie.
It was related how, in a visit of a British man-of-war to the island of Borneo, a party of the sailors were permitted on shore, and entered one of the dense forests which abound in that island.
After some time spent in the search for fruit the party came upon an open glade, and right opposite them, where the forest again commenced, they saw a tree violently shaken.
They rushed forward to ascertain the cause, and saw what they thought was a native woman leap lightly from the tree and disappear in the forest.
But a hairy monster remained in the tree, and seemed in a furious passion, which was redoubled when he saw the sailors.
Breaking a branch from the tree, the wild man (for this was what he was) bounded to the earth, faced the strangers, and then turned to run.
But the tars had been too smart for him, and having surrounded him, he was brought to bay and captured, after a sturdy use of the branch of the tree.
The “history” went down very well with the women folks, for the writer averred that when the wild man was first seen he was busy belabouring his wife, and thus suffered capture.
Barlow came upon the scene of action and advertised his ourang outang, which was really a fine specimen, but the creature paled before the effulgence of his painted rival, and Kensett’s counterfoil brute fairly eclipsed the one in the opposition shop. Barlow was furious.
He denounced Kensett as an impostor, and the rival showman had a set-to in the market-place to the infinite diversion of the town’s folk; but all was of no use—the “wild man of the woods,” “the missing link,” as Kensett termed him, carried everything before him, and Barlow’s show was comparatively deserted.
“Is it possible that people could be so silly as to be taken in with such a barefaced imposture?” said one of the company.
“My dear sir,” returned Peace, “in this world are found people silly enough for anything. But it was a barefaced imposture, I admit, seeing that old Jemmy’s face had been shorn of its hair.”
“Och, by the powers!” cried Macarty, “people like to be humbugged and imposed upon. Bedad it was a mighty clane thrick, and desarved to sucsade.”
The good folks in the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” had perhaps never in their whole lives learned so much about the doings of showmen, and, as a natural consequence, the evening passed away pleasantly enough.
After some further conversation the party broke up, and Peace and Mr. Macarty repaired to their respective rooms.
Our hero, upon first entering the house, had requested to be shown into the bedroom he was to occupy, saying that he wished to have a wash; his real object, however, was to secrete the bag containing the valuables he had purloined in some quiet corner.
He found in the room a chest of drawers, most of which were empty; into one of these he placed his bag, then he closed the drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.
When this had been done he felt tolerably secure. It was not likely that any person would break open the drawer for the purpose of inspecting the contents of his bag.
He therefore returned to the public room, where he passed the evening in the convivial manner already described.
Upon retiring for the night, he opened the drawer, and found his bag in precisely the same position as he had left it.
He therefore tumbled into bed and slept soundly till the morning.
Upon proceeding downstairs he found, upon inquiry, that his picked-up friend Macarty had risen some hour or so before.
He was at this time in the stable, attending to the inmates of his wooden house.
He greeted our hero in a most cordial manner, and after his animals and reptiles had been fed, returned to the breakfast-room of the establishment with Peace.
“We gave our friends a good dose of jaw last night,” said our hero, with a smile.
“Och, sure it’s just as well to kape the game alive. I make it a rule to be friendly and familiar wid all people. There’s no tellin’ what one may want, and a good word from the natives of a town or village may be of sarvice to men of my kidney—but see, breakfast is ready, let’s fall to.”
A very substantial repast had been provided by the hostess of the “Blue Dolphin,” to which the hungry travellers did justice to.
When the meal was over, Mr. Macarty, who was evidently a man of business, made preparations to start on his journey.
“You are in a great hurry to be off, my friend,” said Peace. “Have you far to go?”
“Arrah, an’ it’s not far; but the governor doesn’t like to be kept waitin’; besides we’ve a power of work to do before we let in the British public—that is, if they will come in, an’ bad luck to them.”
“Good luck to you and yours,” cried Peace; “and may you prosper, as I am sure you deserve to do. Any way, I have to return you my most heartfelt thanks for your kindness—to say nothing of your company.”
“By jabers, you’re puttin’ the pot on in the blarney line, anyhow,” returned Macarty; “but we undherstand each other intirely, and good luck to you, and many on ’em.”
Peace laughed, and said—
“Well, I’m sorry to part with you, but there is, I suppose, no help for it?”
“Faix, an’ there is,” returned Macarty. “You can make shift wid the same sate ye had last night, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more on your journey when you raich Pocklington.”
“Pocklington!”
“Ah, shure. I don’t know where ye are bhound for, but maybe one place is as good as another to a hawker.”
“Oh it don’t much matter which road I travel for the matter of that, and since you are so pressing I’ll accept your kind offer.”
“An’ its welcome ye are—as welcome as the flowers in May.”
The caravan was by this time in front of the “Blue Dolphin.” It looked bright and radiant by the light of the early morning sun, the brass knocker on the door had an extra polish, the horse was well groomed, and taken altogether it was a most respectable turn out.
“There!” said Macarty, pointing to the yellow machine. “It’s fit for a prince, bedad; it’s as clane as a new pin, and as bright as a newly-polished silver tankard.”
“And its driver?”
No.40.
Illustration: PEACE VISITED BY A DETECTIVE.PEACE VISITED BY A DETECTIVE.
PEACE VISITED BY A DETECTIVE.
“Aisy, now, aisy. Well, its dhriver is as sharp as a steel thrap. Now then, are you ready?”
“Quite ready; but wait a bit, I must fetch my luggage and pay the reckoning. When this has been done I am at your service.”
Peace went into the house, settled with the landlord, and returned with his bag, which he had made into a parcel with brown paper and string. He got up in front of the caravan, which was driven off by the good-natured Mr. McCarty.
Peace felt perfectly well assured that he was safe from the prying eyes of the police while he sat beside his newly-made friend McCarty, who evidently believed him to be a hawker, never for a moment suspecting the depredations he had been committing.
The Irishman drove his yellow house or caravan direct on to Pocklington, and upon his arrival at the last-named place he introduced our hero to his governor.
Peace made himself very agreeable, and entered freely into conversation with the showman, who was greatly taken with him.
He conducted him into all the caravans of which he was proprietor, and expatiated upon the interesting nature of their contents, and wound up by placing before him a cold collation, with some bottled ale and wine, and insisted upon his partaking of his hospitality.
Peace was nothing loth, and expressed himself particularly grateful for the attention shown him.
After remaining for an hour or so with the proprietor of the shows, he took his departure and made his way to the nearest railway station, booked for Sheffield, and in due course of time found himself once more in his native town.
He had but little difficulty in disposing of the property he had possessed himself of in the palatial mansion at Leeds, but as he had had a very narrow chance of being detected he deemed it advisable to leave that town alone for awhile.
Upon his return to Sheffield he worked industriously at his business for some weeks, and those who were in the habit of seeing him during this time were under the full impression that he was a sober, well-conducted man.
So to all outward appearance he was, and it is likely enough that, had he chosen to pursue an honest calling for the future, he would have done well and prospered.
But it was not in the nature of the man to continue long without having recourse to his evil practices.
His house was very respectably furnished. His partner, the mistress of the domicile, did not thwart him, but strove as best she could to make her husband’s home as comfortable as possible.
He had a goat (which he had taught to perform many tricks), a monkey, two dogs, some guinea pigs, and a cat or two—he had always displayed throughout his career a great partiality for animals—and he was an adept in taming them, and putting them through various performances for the amusement of himself, family, and friends.
Indeed he might have succeeded very well as a trainer of animals for performing purposes; as we have already signified he was clever in many ways, but his abilities, such as they were, went for nothing. They were over-shadowed and submerged by his passion for criminal pursuits.
Nevertheless, those who knew him best, and were in the constant habit of seeing, have declared that it was difficult, nay almost next to impossible, for any one to believe him to be a lawless and unprincipled ruffian, which was afterwards but too plainly proved.
He played at this time in the evenings at various public-houses in Sheffield. He had taught his goat to stand on its hind legs and dance to the sound of his violin.
This little animal is said to have been a most docile and amusing creature, and Peace made a considerable amount of money by its antics.
He was always welcomed at the public-houses he was accustomed to visit, and made a great many friends, but he lost them as soon as made, for there was nothing reliable in the man, and it was, therefore, impossible for any one to place much faith in him.