CHAPTERLXXVI.THE ROBBERY AT MESSRS. ARNISON ANDCO.’S.For some considerable time Peace appeared to be leading a respectable sort of life. His violin-playing in the evening, and the commissions he executed in the way of picture-framing and other odd jobs, brought him in sufficient for his immediate wants, but this did not content him.He must have a turn at some house, and lay his hands on all he could conveniently carry away.It so chanced, when he was taking home some frames to a customer on the outskirts of the town, that he met with an old pal whom he had missed sight of for years.As he was walking along, the sound of a low whistle fell upon his ears. Peace looked round in the direction from whence it proceeded. He beheld at some distance off the dark features of a man which were very familiar to him.Peace halted at the corner of the next street, and the stranger came up with him.“What! don’t you know me, you old sinner?” cried the man.“Know you? Why of course I do—it’s Bandy-legged Bill.”“Right you are, old man; Bill it is.”“Well, this is a surprise. Why, what on earth brought you to Sheffield?”“What do you suppose? To see an old chum, to be sure.”“I am glad to have met you, Bill. And how goes it with you?”“Hardly enough. Have to scratch for a living—like the hens—and don’t always get much when I do scratch. And how goes it with you?”“Nothing much to boast of—got pinched four years ago.”“Ah! so I heard, but you are all right now. Where do you hang out?”“I’m married, and have settled here in my native town.”“Ah, I see, a reformed character,” said the gipsy, making a face. “Given up the old business, I s’pose?”“Partly.”“Oh! Only partly?”“Well, I should be telling a story if I said otherwise.”“I wish you could put me up to a job; I am down below water mark.”“Ah, for the matter of that, I dare say we shall be able to work something together. I say again, I am glad we have met. Come along with me as far as I am going. I’ve got to deliver these frames; when this has been done, we can talk over matters.”“Right you are, Charlie; my time’s my own.”The two companions in crime walked on, till the house Peace was making for had been reached. He delivered his frames, and then returned to his own residence in company with the gipsy, whom he introduced to his wife as an old and esteemed friend.Dinner was served and every attention was paid to Peace’s guest, who made himself quite at home; he was a gentleman who had very little pride about him, and did not want much pressing to partake of the dainties placed before him.He was, however, a little reserved before his friend’s better half, and did not touch on subjects which would in any way compromise his host.An hour or two was passed after dinner pleasantly enough. Peace played several tunes on his violin, trotted out his animals and made them go through their performances, after which he and the gipsy retired to his workshop where they smoked the pipe of peace and talked upon subjects which more immediately concerned themselves.“And so you are drifting about in troubled waters in an unsatisfactory way?” said our hero.“I get a haul now and then,” observed the gipsy, “but then there is a long gap between; then ye see I get cursedly hard up sometimes. I get a greenhorn to purchase a ‘screw’ (an unsound horse) at a topping price, and in course when I pull off a bargain of this sort it sets me up for awhile, but greenhorns are not so easy to lug hold on nowadays; ‘blokes’ are getting jolly too artful—and it’s only by nows and thens I lands one of that kidney. Still I have done pretty fairish at times in the horse-coping line; but there are too many in it, Charlie—and it ain’t what it used to be by a long way.”“How about your aristocratic friend and patron?” inquired Peace.“Oh, hang him, he’s been fleeced right and left, and has run through a sight of money. It’s the way with those swell blokes—they prey upon one another.”“Well, I’ve got a bit of a job on hand,” said our hero, in a whisper, drawing his chair nearer to that of his companion, “and if you like to stand in, say the word.”“Ah, you’ve no call to ask that ere question. I’ll stand in, whatever it may be, and shall be but too glad to do so. Out with it—let’s know the lively little caper.”“I’ll tell you all about it, but——”“But what?”“I suppose I can rely upon you?”“Rely!” exclaimed the gipsy. “Did you ever find me round upon you or anybody else? No no, old man, I have my faults, a good many, perhaps, but that is not one of them. I stand by my pals, come what may, have always done so.”“I believe you always have, Bill, but excuse my asking the question. I’ve always found you right enough. Well, then, listen. I can gain an entrance into a warehouse not very far from here, where a considerable amount of valuable property can be obtained if the matter is skilfully worked.”“All right—fire away—I’m your man.”“I’ll show you the premises whenever you like, and I shall not find any difficulty in concealing myself there and waiting patiently till the work people knock off work. When this has been done, I have the place to myself, for, strange to say, there is no porter left in charge of the place.”“Ah, sizzers, but that’s grand—nothing could be better.”“What I want you to do is to walk carelessly outside the premises, and watch till the police on beat are changed.”“That I can easily do.”“And when the constable on duty has gone his rounds, to give me notice, either by tapping at one of the windows, or else by a whistle. When I know the coast is clear I shall know what to do.”“I’ll take my davy of that, old pal,” cried the gipsy, with a loud laugh. “It shall be done to rights, as far as I am concerned.”“But what we shall have to carry away won’t go into a particularly small compass, that’s the worst part of the business, but we shall be able to manage it all right enough, I dare say.”“Won’t go into a small compass?”“No; but never mind, I’ll show you how it is to be worked. Now then, if you’ve a mind we’ll just step round to the warehouse, and take a careful observation.”“With all my heart, I’m ready if you are.”The two companions in crime sallied forth, and in a short time reached the establishment which was to be the scene of their operations.They did not like to linger too long near the premises lest they should attract attention, but the cursory glance they had sufficed for their purpose, and they crept like two thieves, as they were, into a narrow dark street on the opposite side of the way, which effectually screened them from observation.It was arranged between the two that the robbery was to be carried out on the following night.Before the workmen knocked off Peace watched his opportunity, and crept unobserved into the premises, and contrived to conceal himself in one of the cellars. Here he waited patiently till closing time.The place was locked up, and secured by massive bolts and bars—so carefully secured, indeed, that it was supposed to be burglar-proof. So, indeed, it might have been had not one been already concealed in the premises.When he felt assured that everybody had left, Peace, like a cunning rascal as he was, crept from his hiding place. He had brought with him a sack, an old one, for a new one would not have answered his purpose.Sealskins and embroidery were the valuables he was desirous of purloining. He was well acquainted with the interior of the premises, as years before he had done an occasional job therein in the way of mending machinery and carpenter’s work.He had, therefore, but little difficulty in laying his hands upon the goods he so much coveted. He thrust sealskin after sealskin into his bag, together with satin and embroidery; in a short time the sack was very tightly filled.At a rough calculation the property it contained would represent as much as from two to three hundred pounds—that is, assuming the articles were sold at the manufacturers’ prices.He was now prepared to make clean off with the booty the moment the signal was given by his accomplice from without.Bandy-legged Bill was a stranger to Sheffield and unknown to any of its inhabitants, and he was therefore not likely to attract much observation.Peace had watched and waited as he had done on many other occasions. In cases of this sort he displayed an amount of passive endurance which, to say the least of it, was most remarkable in one of his active temperament.He was greatly relieved upon hearing a gentle tap at one of the back windows of the warehouse.He looked out and beheld the gipsy, who intimated by a sign that the coast was clear.Peace lost no time—he passed out of the premises.He placed the sack on the shoulders of the gipsy, and bade him follow him.He boldly walked down the Haymarket, passed the side of the Town Hall, and made for some stables in the vicinity, one of which he rented.He opened the door of this with his key, and then he and Bandy-legged Bill passed in and locked it from the inside.There was light enough for their purpose. The sack was deposited in one corner of the stable and covered over with loose straw.At one time Peace had kept a pony trap. This, however, had been sold soon after his conviction. But our hero upon obtaining his release had again become tenant of the stable, in which at the present time was a goat, some rabbits, guinea pigs, and fowls. A horse and trap he intended to purchase, but the stable was useful for a variety of purposes, the concealment of property being one.“So far we are safe,” cried Peace, “but we must be off with the booty by early dawn, certainly before the people arrive at the warehouse.”“What do you call early?” said the gipsy.“A little after five or from that to six. These things must be far away from the town before any hue and cry is raised.”“And how is it to be worked?”“You meet me here a little after five, and I’ll tell you.”“All right, guv’nor—I’m only a hunderstrapper, you know. You are the commander-in-chief. I does as you tell me.”“You see you are a horsey-looking man—I am not.”“Well, wot of that?”“It is but natural for a horsey man to be carrying a sack of corn or tares, or what not.”“All right—I tumble. I will be here at a little after five.”With this understanding the two rascals parted company. The gipsy took up his quarters in a beershop, and Peace returned to his own domicile.He was mindful of his appointment with his man Friday, who, to say the truth, was quite as faithful to our hero as Defoe’s grateful black.Upon arriving at the stable at the appointed time, he found his trusty confederate awaiting his appearance.The gipsy again shouldered the sack, and was conducted by Peace towards the tramway terminus, and they took up their position at the corner of Blonkstreet, where they waited for the next moving tramcar.When it came up Peace and the gipsy took their seats in it, but the conductor would not allow them to take the bag inside, so they deposited it on the platform of the carriage near the driver.By this means they got it conveyed to Pinfield-lane, when they both got out, went past the brickyard, and continued their course towards Darnell.“It’s a plaguy nuisance that the fellow would not allow us to take it inside. Had he done so we should have got clean away,” said Peace, “but there’s no help for it. We must do the best we can.”“It’ll be all right, I dare say,” returned Bill. “We haven’t much reason to complain as far as we’ve gone at present.”“I am not altogether satisfied,” said Peace, “and under the circumstances I think it would be better to hide the sack for awhile.”“As yer please. Yer know best.”Peace turned aside into a field, and bade his companion follow up. He then took the sack from the shoulders of the gipsy, and hid it under a hedge.“It will be all right there for a short time,” said he. “In the meantime we can consider what the next move is to be.”The gipsy scratched his head; he did not much like leaving the property there, but he had the prudence to say nothing.The two repaired to a neighbouring public-house, where they had some breakfast. After this they took a stroll together, being still in doubt as to their course of action.“If that ’ere blessed old sack is discovered, it’s a case of pickles,” said the gipsy; “and I aint at all sartin, mind yer, that it won’t be.”“Neither am I,” returned Peace; “but it’s better to lose the goods than be pinched.”“Look here!” cried Bill. “Two heads are better than one. Let’s go back, and I’ll put you up to a move.”Peace, who was hankering after stolen goods, did as his companion desired; he went back to the hedge.The gipsy commenced gathering some green stuff a thing he had been accustomed to do when leading a wandering life among the gipsies.“What is all this for?” said Peace.“You shall see,” returned his companion, who, after gathering an armful of the green stuff, crammed the same into the mouth of the sack, and made it appear as if it was full of the same stuff.“Now do you understand?” cried Bill.Peace nodded. “I see,” he said.“If anyone asks what you have got, tell ’em as bold as brass that you’ve got green meat for your rabbits, guinea pigs, and such like.“An excellent idea. Cram it well with the green stuff.”The gipsy placed more of the same inside the sack.“Now we’ll take it with us, at all risks,” said Bill.“We’ll do so, if you like. I certainly don’t fancy leaving it here to be overhauled.”The two companions walked through Darnell in a perfectly easy, self-satisfied sort of way.The gipsy carried the sack into a field on the side nearest the railway station, and deposited it in a place which he considered more secure.His judgment proved correct, for no one during the day found out its place of concealment.“Let it bide there till such time as you make up your mind to put it away, or dispose of its contents,” said the gipsy, as he and Peace took their way over the fields.“I think that will be its last resting place for to-day,” observed our hero. “When evening comes on, we shall be able to get clean off with it. In the meantime we must make ourselves as contented as circumstances will permit.”They amused themselves as they best could, and to do this more effectually they paid a visit to an exhibition of works of art and antiquities in the immediate neighbourhood.Peace took great pleasure in places of this description, and found no difficulty at any time in spending hours therein.But Bandy-legged Bill had no taste for anything of the kind.If it had been a horse-fair or a cattle-show he would have been greatly pleaded; but he made the best of it, and listened complacently enough to his companion’s explanation of the several articles on view.After emerging from the museum, they wandered through the green lanes, and when the dusk of the evening set in, they took the sack from its place of concealment, and Peace went with it to Sheffield by train.Upon arriving at the Victoria station, he booked for Manchester, and took the whole of the stolen property with him.The gipsy remained behind, with the understanding that he was to call at Peace’s house on the following day.At Manchester Peace managed to dispose of the whole of the property, and netted thereby a considerable sum of money, as at that time seal skins were all “the rage,” and those he had obtained were of the choicest quality, and cut according to the newest, and therefore most fashionable, patterns.He did not get nearly their value, but burglars, as a rule, sell the produce of their robberies at ridiculously low prices, the receiver having in all cases the best of the bargain.It was singular that Peace, considering the enormous amount of property that fell into his hands during his career, should not have amassed a large sum of money, but it seldom happens that the professional thief or burglar, however successful he might be, is enabled to put much by out of his ill-gotten gains.There are many reasons for this. Few of them are provident, and nearly all are in the hands of the receivers, and money come by dishonestly goes as fast as it is gained.It is well said that one shilling honestly earned goes farther than pounds obtained by fraud and robbery.As far as we can gather Peace was not a gambler or a drunkard; indeed, we have not heard that he indulged in excesses of any description. He certainly had a penchant for the opposite sex, but it would appear that he kept under subjection all the females with whom he was connected.He was tolerably liberal to them—never let them want for anything if he could help it—but certainly did not maintain them on a very extravagant scale.When returning to his house in Sheffield, he found himself well up in funds, but he said nothing to his wife respecting the sudden accession of wealth.She, poor woman, doubtless suspected from whence the money had come, but she had the prudence to keep silent on the subject.Peace had a great objection to be interrogated by any of his family. Indeed, such a course would be sure to put him out of temper, and when in a passion he was a very terrible and vindictive man.Those about him knew this well enough from bitter experience, and came to the conclusion, therefore, that the wisest course to adopt would be to let him alone and not pester him with vexatious or troublesome questions.On the morning after his visit to Manchester the gipsy presented himself at Peace’s house. He found him in his workshop with apron on, busily occupied with his frames, as if nothing had happened.“Well,” cried Bill, “you are a card; blest if you don’t deserve a medal or statue. Never saw such a chap in all my born days. You’re a stunner, and no mistake.”“What the devil are you talking about?” cried Peace. “Hold your row, and sit down.”He handed the gipsy a stool.“Now, then,” said Peace—“what is there to be surprised at?”“What? Why you look for all the world as if you were the most hardworking, industrious tradesman as ever was, working away for dear life. You’d deceive the devil—that’s what you’d do—with ease, and think nothing of it.”“Ah, I dare say—that’s all very well; but I should find it difficult to deceive you, old man; but stow your chaff.”“Well, how did you get on at Manchester?” said Bill.“Oh, as right as the mail. Got rid of them all, and nobody any the wiser.”“My word! but that’s clever—turned them into ready cash, eh?”Peace nodded. He drew from his pocket some notes, which he handed to the gipsy.“Finnips!” cried the latter.“Well—what of that? They are right enough; but if you want some gold, here you are.”He placed in the hand of his companion several sovereigns, which made the eyes of the gipsy glisten with pleasure.“And is this for me? Am I to keep both notes and gold?”“Yes; it will set you up for awhile.”“You’re a downright good fellow, Charlie. Many thanks,” said Bill, pocketing the amount.“And now you had better be off for the present. You can look round in the evening, if you like.”“Yes, I will just drop in for an hour or so; so good-bye for the present.”In about two hours after the gipsy had taken his departure, the well-known form of a detective was visible at the window of Peace’s workshop.He tapped at the door, which Peace opened.“You are busy. Can I come in?”“Yes, come in, Mr. Stallard. What’s up now?” said Peace, carelessly, as he laid on the leaf gold to one of his frames.The detective glanced furtively around.“You seem to be looking two ways for Sunday,” cried Peace. “Anything amiss?”“There’s been a big robbery at Messrs. Arnison’s,” said Stallard.“Never! When?”“Either Tuesday night or Wednesday morning, we suppose.”“Ah, much property gone?”“Oh, dear me, yes—a good deal.”“And have you found out the robbers?”“Not as yet,” observed the detective, regarding Peace with a searching look.“I’m sorry for that,” said the latter.“Yes, and so am I.”“It’s a bad business.”“Very bad.”“And pray now, if it’s a fair question,” said our hero, leaving off his work for a moment or two, “is that the reason of your visit to me?”“Well, it’s our duty to go anywhere and everywhere for the matter of that—not to leave a stone unturned.”“Oh, I see. Well, Mr. Stallard, all I can say is that I cannot give you any information, for I know nothing about the affair. I’m endeavouring to earn an honest livelihood, and you must admit it doesn’t look well to my customers to see a gentleman of your inquiring mind here.”“I have a duty to perform,” said Stallard; “I thought perhaps you might possibly be able to give me some information.”“How the devil can I give you information upon a subject upon which I know nothing?” cried Peace in a fury. “Perhaps you think I had some hand in the robbery?”“Oh, dear no, I never for a moment suggested such a thing.”“Perhaps the best plan will be for you to search the house and satisfy yourself,” said our hero, throwing open the doors which led into the lower rooms of the habitation.Mr. Stallard was taken aback all of a sudden. He came to the conclusion that Peace was innocent, and that he—the detective—was making a fool of himself.“There is no occasion for you to be out of temper, Peace, not the least occasion. Nobody suspects you.”“I would much prefer your searching the place—I’m not afraid of you or any of your comrades. It isn’t because a man’s been in trouble that he should be hunted down like a wild beast.”Peace’s effrontery was perfectly overwhelming. So much so that the detective was fairly imposed on. He was duly impressed with the mistake he had made, and with a few more apologetic words left the workshop without further questioning.“Umph!” ejaculated our hero, “that’s the way to stall them off. He’s got nothing against me—that’s quite certain. It was a mere try on. I wish the idiot had searched the house; much good it would have done him.”Every effort was made by the constabulary to find out the robber or robbers.It was generally supposed at the time that there was a gang at work who only paid “flying visits” to the town, and all efforts to trace the property were fruitless.Peace laughed in his sleeve, and then went on with his usual daily vocation as if nothing had happened.
For some considerable time Peace appeared to be leading a respectable sort of life. His violin-playing in the evening, and the commissions he executed in the way of picture-framing and other odd jobs, brought him in sufficient for his immediate wants, but this did not content him.
He must have a turn at some house, and lay his hands on all he could conveniently carry away.
It so chanced, when he was taking home some frames to a customer on the outskirts of the town, that he met with an old pal whom he had missed sight of for years.
As he was walking along, the sound of a low whistle fell upon his ears. Peace looked round in the direction from whence it proceeded. He beheld at some distance off the dark features of a man which were very familiar to him.
Peace halted at the corner of the next street, and the stranger came up with him.
“What! don’t you know me, you old sinner?” cried the man.
“Know you? Why of course I do—it’s Bandy-legged Bill.”
“Right you are, old man; Bill it is.”
“Well, this is a surprise. Why, what on earth brought you to Sheffield?”
“What do you suppose? To see an old chum, to be sure.”
“I am glad to have met you, Bill. And how goes it with you?”
“Hardly enough. Have to scratch for a living—like the hens—and don’t always get much when I do scratch. And how goes it with you?”
“Nothing much to boast of—got pinched four years ago.”
“Ah! so I heard, but you are all right now. Where do you hang out?”
“I’m married, and have settled here in my native town.”
“Ah, I see, a reformed character,” said the gipsy, making a face. “Given up the old business, I s’pose?”
“Partly.”
“Oh! Only partly?”
“Well, I should be telling a story if I said otherwise.”
“I wish you could put me up to a job; I am down below water mark.”
“Ah, for the matter of that, I dare say we shall be able to work something together. I say again, I am glad we have met. Come along with me as far as I am going. I’ve got to deliver these frames; when this has been done, we can talk over matters.”
“Right you are, Charlie; my time’s my own.”
The two companions in crime walked on, till the house Peace was making for had been reached. He delivered his frames, and then returned to his own residence in company with the gipsy, whom he introduced to his wife as an old and esteemed friend.
Dinner was served and every attention was paid to Peace’s guest, who made himself quite at home; he was a gentleman who had very little pride about him, and did not want much pressing to partake of the dainties placed before him.
He was, however, a little reserved before his friend’s better half, and did not touch on subjects which would in any way compromise his host.
An hour or two was passed after dinner pleasantly enough. Peace played several tunes on his violin, trotted out his animals and made them go through their performances, after which he and the gipsy retired to his workshop where they smoked the pipe of peace and talked upon subjects which more immediately concerned themselves.
“And so you are drifting about in troubled waters in an unsatisfactory way?” said our hero.
“I get a haul now and then,” observed the gipsy, “but then there is a long gap between; then ye see I get cursedly hard up sometimes. I get a greenhorn to purchase a ‘screw’ (an unsound horse) at a topping price, and in course when I pull off a bargain of this sort it sets me up for awhile, but greenhorns are not so easy to lug hold on nowadays; ‘blokes’ are getting jolly too artful—and it’s only by nows and thens I lands one of that kidney. Still I have done pretty fairish at times in the horse-coping line; but there are too many in it, Charlie—and it ain’t what it used to be by a long way.”
“How about your aristocratic friend and patron?” inquired Peace.
“Oh, hang him, he’s been fleeced right and left, and has run through a sight of money. It’s the way with those swell blokes—they prey upon one another.”
“Well, I’ve got a bit of a job on hand,” said our hero, in a whisper, drawing his chair nearer to that of his companion, “and if you like to stand in, say the word.”
“Ah, you’ve no call to ask that ere question. I’ll stand in, whatever it may be, and shall be but too glad to do so. Out with it—let’s know the lively little caper.”
“I’ll tell you all about it, but——”
“But what?”
“I suppose I can rely upon you?”
“Rely!” exclaimed the gipsy. “Did you ever find me round upon you or anybody else? No no, old man, I have my faults, a good many, perhaps, but that is not one of them. I stand by my pals, come what may, have always done so.”
“I believe you always have, Bill, but excuse my asking the question. I’ve always found you right enough. Well, then, listen. I can gain an entrance into a warehouse not very far from here, where a considerable amount of valuable property can be obtained if the matter is skilfully worked.”
“All right—fire away—I’m your man.”
“I’ll show you the premises whenever you like, and I shall not find any difficulty in concealing myself there and waiting patiently till the work people knock off work. When this has been done, I have the place to myself, for, strange to say, there is no porter left in charge of the place.”
“Ah, sizzers, but that’s grand—nothing could be better.”
“What I want you to do is to walk carelessly outside the premises, and watch till the police on beat are changed.”
“That I can easily do.”
“And when the constable on duty has gone his rounds, to give me notice, either by tapping at one of the windows, or else by a whistle. When I know the coast is clear I shall know what to do.”
“I’ll take my davy of that, old pal,” cried the gipsy, with a loud laugh. “It shall be done to rights, as far as I am concerned.”
“But what we shall have to carry away won’t go into a particularly small compass, that’s the worst part of the business, but we shall be able to manage it all right enough, I dare say.”
“Won’t go into a small compass?”
“No; but never mind, I’ll show you how it is to be worked. Now then, if you’ve a mind we’ll just step round to the warehouse, and take a careful observation.”
“With all my heart, I’m ready if you are.”
The two companions in crime sallied forth, and in a short time reached the establishment which was to be the scene of their operations.
They did not like to linger too long near the premises lest they should attract attention, but the cursory glance they had sufficed for their purpose, and they crept like two thieves, as they were, into a narrow dark street on the opposite side of the way, which effectually screened them from observation.
It was arranged between the two that the robbery was to be carried out on the following night.
Before the workmen knocked off Peace watched his opportunity, and crept unobserved into the premises, and contrived to conceal himself in one of the cellars. Here he waited patiently till closing time.
The place was locked up, and secured by massive bolts and bars—so carefully secured, indeed, that it was supposed to be burglar-proof. So, indeed, it might have been had not one been already concealed in the premises.
When he felt assured that everybody had left, Peace, like a cunning rascal as he was, crept from his hiding place. He had brought with him a sack, an old one, for a new one would not have answered his purpose.
Sealskins and embroidery were the valuables he was desirous of purloining. He was well acquainted with the interior of the premises, as years before he had done an occasional job therein in the way of mending machinery and carpenter’s work.
He had, therefore, but little difficulty in laying his hands upon the goods he so much coveted. He thrust sealskin after sealskin into his bag, together with satin and embroidery; in a short time the sack was very tightly filled.
At a rough calculation the property it contained would represent as much as from two to three hundred pounds—that is, assuming the articles were sold at the manufacturers’ prices.
He was now prepared to make clean off with the booty the moment the signal was given by his accomplice from without.
Bandy-legged Bill was a stranger to Sheffield and unknown to any of its inhabitants, and he was therefore not likely to attract much observation.
Peace had watched and waited as he had done on many other occasions. In cases of this sort he displayed an amount of passive endurance which, to say the least of it, was most remarkable in one of his active temperament.
He was greatly relieved upon hearing a gentle tap at one of the back windows of the warehouse.
He looked out and beheld the gipsy, who intimated by a sign that the coast was clear.
Peace lost no time—he passed out of the premises.
He placed the sack on the shoulders of the gipsy, and bade him follow him.
He boldly walked down the Haymarket, passed the side of the Town Hall, and made for some stables in the vicinity, one of which he rented.
He opened the door of this with his key, and then he and Bandy-legged Bill passed in and locked it from the inside.
There was light enough for their purpose. The sack was deposited in one corner of the stable and covered over with loose straw.
At one time Peace had kept a pony trap. This, however, had been sold soon after his conviction. But our hero upon obtaining his release had again become tenant of the stable, in which at the present time was a goat, some rabbits, guinea pigs, and fowls. A horse and trap he intended to purchase, but the stable was useful for a variety of purposes, the concealment of property being one.
“So far we are safe,” cried Peace, “but we must be off with the booty by early dawn, certainly before the people arrive at the warehouse.”
“What do you call early?” said the gipsy.
“A little after five or from that to six. These things must be far away from the town before any hue and cry is raised.”
“And how is it to be worked?”
“You meet me here a little after five, and I’ll tell you.”
“All right, guv’nor—I’m only a hunderstrapper, you know. You are the commander-in-chief. I does as you tell me.”
“You see you are a horsey-looking man—I am not.”
“Well, wot of that?”
“It is but natural for a horsey man to be carrying a sack of corn or tares, or what not.”
“All right—I tumble. I will be here at a little after five.”
With this understanding the two rascals parted company. The gipsy took up his quarters in a beershop, and Peace returned to his own domicile.
He was mindful of his appointment with his man Friday, who, to say the truth, was quite as faithful to our hero as Defoe’s grateful black.
Upon arriving at the stable at the appointed time, he found his trusty confederate awaiting his appearance.
The gipsy again shouldered the sack, and was conducted by Peace towards the tramway terminus, and they took up their position at the corner of Blonkstreet, where they waited for the next moving tramcar.
When it came up Peace and the gipsy took their seats in it, but the conductor would not allow them to take the bag inside, so they deposited it on the platform of the carriage near the driver.
By this means they got it conveyed to Pinfield-lane, when they both got out, went past the brickyard, and continued their course towards Darnell.
“It’s a plaguy nuisance that the fellow would not allow us to take it inside. Had he done so we should have got clean away,” said Peace, “but there’s no help for it. We must do the best we can.”
“It’ll be all right, I dare say,” returned Bill. “We haven’t much reason to complain as far as we’ve gone at present.”
“I am not altogether satisfied,” said Peace, “and under the circumstances I think it would be better to hide the sack for awhile.”
“As yer please. Yer know best.”
Peace turned aside into a field, and bade his companion follow up. He then took the sack from the shoulders of the gipsy, and hid it under a hedge.
“It will be all right there for a short time,” said he. “In the meantime we can consider what the next move is to be.”
The gipsy scratched his head; he did not much like leaving the property there, but he had the prudence to say nothing.
The two repaired to a neighbouring public-house, where they had some breakfast. After this they took a stroll together, being still in doubt as to their course of action.
“If that ’ere blessed old sack is discovered, it’s a case of pickles,” said the gipsy; “and I aint at all sartin, mind yer, that it won’t be.”
“Neither am I,” returned Peace; “but it’s better to lose the goods than be pinched.”
“Look here!” cried Bill. “Two heads are better than one. Let’s go back, and I’ll put you up to a move.”
Peace, who was hankering after stolen goods, did as his companion desired; he went back to the hedge.
The gipsy commenced gathering some green stuff a thing he had been accustomed to do when leading a wandering life among the gipsies.
“What is all this for?” said Peace.
“You shall see,” returned his companion, who, after gathering an armful of the green stuff, crammed the same into the mouth of the sack, and made it appear as if it was full of the same stuff.
“Now do you understand?” cried Bill.
Peace nodded. “I see,” he said.
“If anyone asks what you have got, tell ’em as bold as brass that you’ve got green meat for your rabbits, guinea pigs, and such like.
“An excellent idea. Cram it well with the green stuff.”
The gipsy placed more of the same inside the sack.
“Now we’ll take it with us, at all risks,” said Bill.
“We’ll do so, if you like. I certainly don’t fancy leaving it here to be overhauled.”
The two companions walked through Darnell in a perfectly easy, self-satisfied sort of way.
The gipsy carried the sack into a field on the side nearest the railway station, and deposited it in a place which he considered more secure.
His judgment proved correct, for no one during the day found out its place of concealment.
“Let it bide there till such time as you make up your mind to put it away, or dispose of its contents,” said the gipsy, as he and Peace took their way over the fields.
“I think that will be its last resting place for to-day,” observed our hero. “When evening comes on, we shall be able to get clean off with it. In the meantime we must make ourselves as contented as circumstances will permit.”
They amused themselves as they best could, and to do this more effectually they paid a visit to an exhibition of works of art and antiquities in the immediate neighbourhood.
Peace took great pleasure in places of this description, and found no difficulty at any time in spending hours therein.
But Bandy-legged Bill had no taste for anything of the kind.
If it had been a horse-fair or a cattle-show he would have been greatly pleaded; but he made the best of it, and listened complacently enough to his companion’s explanation of the several articles on view.
After emerging from the museum, they wandered through the green lanes, and when the dusk of the evening set in, they took the sack from its place of concealment, and Peace went with it to Sheffield by train.
Upon arriving at the Victoria station, he booked for Manchester, and took the whole of the stolen property with him.
The gipsy remained behind, with the understanding that he was to call at Peace’s house on the following day.
At Manchester Peace managed to dispose of the whole of the property, and netted thereby a considerable sum of money, as at that time seal skins were all “the rage,” and those he had obtained were of the choicest quality, and cut according to the newest, and therefore most fashionable, patterns.
He did not get nearly their value, but burglars, as a rule, sell the produce of their robberies at ridiculously low prices, the receiver having in all cases the best of the bargain.
It was singular that Peace, considering the enormous amount of property that fell into his hands during his career, should not have amassed a large sum of money, but it seldom happens that the professional thief or burglar, however successful he might be, is enabled to put much by out of his ill-gotten gains.
There are many reasons for this. Few of them are provident, and nearly all are in the hands of the receivers, and money come by dishonestly goes as fast as it is gained.
It is well said that one shilling honestly earned goes farther than pounds obtained by fraud and robbery.
As far as we can gather Peace was not a gambler or a drunkard; indeed, we have not heard that he indulged in excesses of any description. He certainly had a penchant for the opposite sex, but it would appear that he kept under subjection all the females with whom he was connected.
He was tolerably liberal to them—never let them want for anything if he could help it—but certainly did not maintain them on a very extravagant scale.
When returning to his house in Sheffield, he found himself well up in funds, but he said nothing to his wife respecting the sudden accession of wealth.
She, poor woman, doubtless suspected from whence the money had come, but she had the prudence to keep silent on the subject.
Peace had a great objection to be interrogated by any of his family. Indeed, such a course would be sure to put him out of temper, and when in a passion he was a very terrible and vindictive man.
Those about him knew this well enough from bitter experience, and came to the conclusion, therefore, that the wisest course to adopt would be to let him alone and not pester him with vexatious or troublesome questions.
On the morning after his visit to Manchester the gipsy presented himself at Peace’s house. He found him in his workshop with apron on, busily occupied with his frames, as if nothing had happened.
“Well,” cried Bill, “you are a card; blest if you don’t deserve a medal or statue. Never saw such a chap in all my born days. You’re a stunner, and no mistake.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” cried Peace. “Hold your row, and sit down.”
He handed the gipsy a stool.
“Now, then,” said Peace—“what is there to be surprised at?”
“What? Why you look for all the world as if you were the most hardworking, industrious tradesman as ever was, working away for dear life. You’d deceive the devil—that’s what you’d do—with ease, and think nothing of it.”
“Ah, I dare say—that’s all very well; but I should find it difficult to deceive you, old man; but stow your chaff.”
“Well, how did you get on at Manchester?” said Bill.
“Oh, as right as the mail. Got rid of them all, and nobody any the wiser.”
“My word! but that’s clever—turned them into ready cash, eh?”
Peace nodded. He drew from his pocket some notes, which he handed to the gipsy.
“Finnips!” cried the latter.
“Well—what of that? They are right enough; but if you want some gold, here you are.”
He placed in the hand of his companion several sovereigns, which made the eyes of the gipsy glisten with pleasure.
“And is this for me? Am I to keep both notes and gold?”
“Yes; it will set you up for awhile.”
“You’re a downright good fellow, Charlie. Many thanks,” said Bill, pocketing the amount.
“And now you had better be off for the present. You can look round in the evening, if you like.”
“Yes, I will just drop in for an hour or so; so good-bye for the present.”
In about two hours after the gipsy had taken his departure, the well-known form of a detective was visible at the window of Peace’s workshop.
He tapped at the door, which Peace opened.
“You are busy. Can I come in?”
“Yes, come in, Mr. Stallard. What’s up now?” said Peace, carelessly, as he laid on the leaf gold to one of his frames.
The detective glanced furtively around.
“You seem to be looking two ways for Sunday,” cried Peace. “Anything amiss?”
“There’s been a big robbery at Messrs. Arnison’s,” said Stallard.
“Never! When?”
“Either Tuesday night or Wednesday morning, we suppose.”
“Ah, much property gone?”
“Oh, dear me, yes—a good deal.”
“And have you found out the robbers?”
“Not as yet,” observed the detective, regarding Peace with a searching look.
“I’m sorry for that,” said the latter.
“Yes, and so am I.”
“It’s a bad business.”
“Very bad.”
“And pray now, if it’s a fair question,” said our hero, leaving off his work for a moment or two, “is that the reason of your visit to me?”
“Well, it’s our duty to go anywhere and everywhere for the matter of that—not to leave a stone unturned.”
“Oh, I see. Well, Mr. Stallard, all I can say is that I cannot give you any information, for I know nothing about the affair. I’m endeavouring to earn an honest livelihood, and you must admit it doesn’t look well to my customers to see a gentleman of your inquiring mind here.”
“I have a duty to perform,” said Stallard; “I thought perhaps you might possibly be able to give me some information.”
“How the devil can I give you information upon a subject upon which I know nothing?” cried Peace in a fury. “Perhaps you think I had some hand in the robbery?”
“Oh, dear no, I never for a moment suggested such a thing.”
“Perhaps the best plan will be for you to search the house and satisfy yourself,” said our hero, throwing open the doors which led into the lower rooms of the habitation.
Mr. Stallard was taken aback all of a sudden. He came to the conclusion that Peace was innocent, and that he—the detective—was making a fool of himself.
“There is no occasion for you to be out of temper, Peace, not the least occasion. Nobody suspects you.”
“I would much prefer your searching the place—I’m not afraid of you or any of your comrades. It isn’t because a man’s been in trouble that he should be hunted down like a wild beast.”
Peace’s effrontery was perfectly overwhelming. So much so that the detective was fairly imposed on. He was duly impressed with the mistake he had made, and with a few more apologetic words left the workshop without further questioning.
“Umph!” ejaculated our hero, “that’s the way to stall them off. He’s got nothing against me—that’s quite certain. It was a mere try on. I wish the idiot had searched the house; much good it would have done him.”
Every effort was made by the constabulary to find out the robber or robbers.
It was generally supposed at the time that there was a gang at work who only paid “flying visits” to the town, and all efforts to trace the property were fruitless.
Peace laughed in his sleeve, and then went on with his usual daily vocation as if nothing had happened.