LXIII. MR. WRENCH AND JOE DOUGHTY――A VAGRANT’S LODGING HOUSE…

LXIII. MR. WRENCH AND JOE DOUGHTY――A VAGRANT’S LODGING HOUSE

The glories of Bartholomew Fair, of Greenwich, and a host of others in the neighbourhood of the metropolis have long since passed away, and it is not at all likely they will ever be resuscitated. But fairs of various descriptions are still held in many parts of England, but they are considerably shorn of their leading attractions.

Mr. Wrench’s motive for hastening to Nantwich was to be present at the hiring fair at a small hamlet within a few miles of that place.

On Pack-rag Day (the 29th of September), the serfs of agriculture pack up their clothes and seek fresh masters.

And on this day the farmers, dressed in their Sunday clothes, ride to the mansions of their landlords, their faces bright with honest pride, their leather bags filled with gold coins and bank notes.

The scene has been faithfully depicted in Wilkie’s celebrated picture of the “Rent Day.”

The landlords, seated before their blue bundles of quarter’s bills, receive their tenants with smiles of welcome and gratitude――that is, if the latter are furnished with the amount of rent due.

In some parts of England it is still customary among the lords of manors and proprietors of large lands to give a dinner to their tenants on the rent days, as shown in Wilkie’s well-known picture.

But these quarterly feeds are now rapidly dying out of date, and will soon no longer exist, except in the hall of some youthful squire, who may be gifted with a dramatic passion for revivals.

Like fairs, these convivial gatherings are fast becoming obsolete.

In the year referring more especially to this history, the hiring fair to which Mr. Wrench was about to pay a visit happened to fall on quarter-day; so all the farmers of the neighbourhood paid their rents early, and rode on to the place to engage their carters, shepherds, and farm maids for the ensuing year.

Mr. Wrench was not a man to be a day behind the fair. He came to a halt at a small village within an easy walk of it the day before its fun and frolic was to commence.

He put up at a roadside inn, and secured the best bed in the establishment for Nell Fulford.

This done, he explored the neighbourhood, having for his companion the redoubtable Joe.

Near to the junction of three cross roads, there stood, at the time of which we are writing, a low-looking beershop bearing the sign of the “Travellers’ Rest.”

This place was a vagrants’ lodging-house, and as Mr. Wrench and his rustic companion came within sight of the house the detective regarded it with a considerable amount of interest.

After surveying it for some time he said to Joe Doughty――

“As far as the accommodation is concerned I don’t know that I can recommend it, but if you don’t mind taking up your quarters in it for one night it would be as well. Tramps, thieves, and vagabonds of all sorts are accustomed to pay nightly visits to the ‘Travellers’ Rest,’ as it is termed, and it is possible you may be able to pick up some information respecting the man of whom we are in search.

“If I thought that, I’d stop there this very night!” cried Joe.

“I wish you would.”

“Don’t ’ee say another word upon the matter, guv’ner――I’ll be one among ’em.”

“And you can see me in the morning at the ‘Dun Cow.’ I would join you, but the chances are that some of the tramps in the ‘Travellers’ Rest’ would know me, and that would be fatal to us. You are a stranger――keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut, and who knows but you may gain the hundred pounds reward?”

“I beant a-goin’ to take a shilling on it, coom what may,” returned Joe, in an indignant tone.

“Very well, my man, that you can please yourself about.”

“Noo, not a penny.”

Mr. Wrench and Joe returned to the “Dun Cow,” this being the roadside house in which the former had taken up his quarters.

Our detective was a diplomatist in his own peculiar way.

His object was to remain as unobserved as possible till the day of the fair, but his rustic friend was appointed to what might be termed outpost duty.

When night came on Joe was dispatched by the commander-in-chief to the vagrants’ lodging-house.

The house in question had at one time been a respectable habitation.

The lower part was built of brick, once red and flourishing, but now dirty and dingy; and about half-way up were boards, once painted white, which took the place of their more solid neighbours below. They were what was called weather-boards, and ran along one over the other, in order that the rain might drop off them to the ground.

The walls below were substantial enough; the yard gate and large fore-court were amply covered with tall grass or graceless weeds.

The gate that once was closed each night by the smart and active ostler now stood back on one hinge, resting, therefore, partly on the ground.

And the stables once filled with prancing or neighing, or, at least, well-fed steeds, were at this time only warmed by the breath of beggars, too poor even to pay a groat for a night’s lodging, and who compounded with their host for a twopenny night’s straw in the outhouses.

Occasionally, indeed, some benighted and bestormed waggoner, unable to reach the usual place of his sojourn, would unwillingly or unwittingly stop at the “Travellers’ Rest,” and allow his horses to share the same fate as the beggars who surrounded them. But such visits were few and far between, and even waggon horses would avoid if they could “the vagrants’ lodging-house.”

The “Travellers’ Rest” was one of those houses which was known by all classes of mendicants, whether belonging to the silver class, or what are styled by all well-informed travellers barkers, to the highflyers or begging letterwriters to the shallow coves or impostors, who in various garbs obtain clothes from the compassionate and charitable to a great amount, and then sell them to the dealers as left-off garments――too often spending the produce in ardent spirits――to the shallow motts or females, who, like shallow coves, go nearly naked through the world, begging ever for clothes, ever obtaining them, and yet never clothing themselves, but selling them for food, for lodging, for drink, and for the enjoyment of every conceivable vice, as well as to the separate race of beggars and match-sellers, who live by the ordinary tales, true or false, of real or supposed misery, and in which class is to be found much more of suffering than crime, and of destitution and heart-rending woe than we are either accustomed to believe or like to inquire into.

It has been well said that one-half of the world does not know how the other half lives, and the history of mendicants of every degree would furnish the outside public with strange revelations, many of which would appear almost incredible.

The mendicant poor are in every way a different race of beings to the working population of this country.

They have signs of their own, a language of their own, plans and schemes of their own, or rather for their own class, homes of their own, or rather barns and outbuildings, reserved by compassionate farmers and landowners for them. They split society into fractions, calculate with tolerable accuracy all their chances, and could tell in many cases how much they should receive in a week.

Generally speaking, they are distrustful of each other, living in a constant state of fear of arrest and imprisonment, concealing their own names even from their commonest associates, and changing their announced plans and movements in less than an hour, as they saw with a prophet’s eye a lion in their path.

But then how different are their classes!

There’s the systematic vagrant, whose life has been one of constant and unchanging mendicity.

There is the occasional vagrant, who begs after pea-picking season is over and after hopping has terminated, in order to raise money to go back to London or to the county to which he belongs.

There is another class of occasional vagrants, who migrate from a district where poverty and misery assail them, to the place of their nativity or of their former brighter fortunes, seeking for halfpence on their way to provide for their daily wants as they press onwards.

The vagrants in large towns and cities, and principally in the metropolis, are the very worst class.

They are in eight cases out of ten rank impostors.

They go about with statements of losses by fire, shipwrecks, and accidents.

They obtain counterfeit signatures of clergymen and magistrates to declarations of having lost their property by fire.

In a preceding chapter we have given a description of how these precious attestations were manufactured by the “smoucher,” and the account given of this clever concoction of false documents is substantially correct.

Those who work with the slum and delicate (the statement and book of subscriptions) furnished them by the “smoucher,” often raise large sums of money, which they expend in vice and profligacy.

The shipwrecked mariner’s lurk used to be one of the most frequent and lucrative.

A person of this character, known by the nickname of Captain Johnstone, followed the lurk of a shipwrecked captain for many years.

He was an excellent writer, and had a respectable appearance――so the unwary were deceived, and he was enriched.

It was said that he obtained some thousands of pounds by his mendacious statements.

When any account of a shipwreck appeared in the newspaper which seemed likely to suit his purpose he would write out a new statement (slum), and provide a new book (delicate), and then set to work with the utmost zeal to obtain subscribers.

Polish counts, who had been driven from the land of their birth by Russian tyranny, used at one time to infest London, Liverpool, Manchester, and Bristol, but this form of begging has gone out of fashion.

“The victims of accidents,” wholly counterfeit, “the sufferers from sickness,” quite unreal, “the deaf and dumb lurkers,” who seem to be deprived of speech and hearing, “the servant out of place,” who cajoles the domestics at gentlemen’s houses, “the colliers who have suffered from water suddenly bursting into a coal pit,” and yet who never saw a coal pit, “the starved-out weavers,” who go about with printed papers or small hand-bills, representing that they are out of employ, although they have never seen a loom, “the cotton-spinning lurk,” with that trick of leaving printed appeals and calling again for them and alms, though they know as much about diamond mounting as cotton-spinning, are a few of the dodges of active, cunning, and shameless mendicants.

There was, some years ago, a celebrated man named “Cheshire Bill,” who was at one time a cotton-spinning lurker.

He travelled throughout various parts of England for more than fifteen years as a vagrant. Once he was a “shallow cove,” and represented himself as a shipwrecked sailor. Then he was a “carpet weaver in distress,” and sang through the streets to obtain “browns and wedge” (halfpence and silver). Then he was a cotton weaver from Manchester, singing through the streets in company with others, having a clean white apron round him. After this he was on the collier’s lurk, and carried a written paper, stating that he had suffered from a dreadful accident at Bilston in a coal pit.

Then he turned watch-seller, afterwards a simple roadside beggar, and finally a cotton-spinner out of employ, selling cotton said to be of his own spinning, and out of which he managed to make a profit of a hundred per cent.

“The calenderer’s lurk” is another trick, and the doggerel poetry, in which their appeal is made to the “kind and generous public,” contains amongst a variety of other verses the following record of their own virtues and charity when, as they pretend, they knew better days:――

Whene’er we saw one in distress We strove to help him through; But now we cannot help ourselves―― We have no work to do.

The systematic writers of begging letters are also much more common in London than in the country, and rejoice in the name of “highflyers.”

Year after year they invent new cases with different hands, and sometimes their wives or mistresses, where they are known themselves, present their “appeal,” and thus avoid detection, and collect an abundant revenue for the sins as well as the necessaries of life.

Well would it be for society at large if the vagrants of Great Britain were confined to these impostors. The remedy would be easy. Their extinction by imprisonment and transportation would not be difficult.

But alas! mixed up with these untrue and unreal appeals to the sympathy of our nature are thousands and tens of thousands of cases where sickness, accidents, death, want of work, inadequate wages, and the other ills of life to which sorrowing man is heir, have given to the squalid, starving, wretched, and abused applicants the right to ask for food, or to seek in the “unions” they so much abhor the bread of existence.

Joe Doughty had been accustomed throughout his life to fare but roughly. He had, however, never made the acquaintance of a low lodging-house, and did not, therefore, know the habits and manners of the people who are accustomed to patronise establishments of this description.

When he arrived in front of the inhospitable looking place known as the “Travellers’ Rest,” he hesitated. All was as still as death. Joe’s courage appeared to fail him, and he was half inclined to go back to Mr. Wrench.

The balance was turned in an opposite direction in a few seconds. “A cadger on the fly” (a beggar on the road) with his female companion and three children came up, and made straight for the door.

They entered, and Joe Doughty, seeing that they were well acquainted with the house, followed them.

The landlord of the house looked at his new customers from the door of his small inner room――or bar parlour, as it was termed out of courtesy. He was a man with an eagle eye, but withal a good-humoured cast of features. In a familiar tone and manner, he said to the cadger who had entered――

“Well Mike, what luck old man? Which is it, ‘browns or wedge,’ eh?” Meaning, in plain terms: Well, Mike, what success have you had? Is it halfpence or silver?”

“Not much ‘wedge’” replied the cadger, in a discontented tone. “Browns is the order of the day――people are getting jolly stingy. It’s a selfish world, make the best of it.”

As he made the last observation, the cadger walked towards a large back room on the ground floor, which was the vagrants’ apartment.

Joe Doughty followed, without either a word of civility or salutation with his host or his customers.

He sat himself down on a bench originally rough and uncomely, but which had been polished by the much sitting of the vagrants thereon year after year.

The sight presented to our honest countryman was neither cheery nor inviting, but Joe had made up his mind to take things as they came, and not to murmur under any circumstances.

As long as he was not interfered with he was perfectly content, and did not find fault with the company in which he found himself.

“Come here,” said the man, whom he had followed into the house, addressing himself to his companion and children.

“Out with your scran (broken victuals), and let’s have it. I’m as hungry as a half-starved dog.”

Joe looked round. The room was filled with vagabonds of every possible description, but they were of a diversified character.

Near the fire, which was composed of dead burning embers and coke, sat an old man, whose hair was white as the driven snow, and who, to all appearance, was between seventy and eighty years of age.

His eyes appeared to be bright and piercing――certainly they were undimmed by age or care, and he fastened them on Joe Doughty for some considerable space of time. It was evident that he recognised a stranger in the countryman, whom he was endeavouring to reckon up.

“These be hard times, my friend,” said the old man, addressing himself to Joe.

“Aye, that they be, master. Work be scarce, and money be scarcer still.”

“Umph, yes. It’s a bad neighbourhood for high-flyers,” remarked the old man.

Joe, who did not understand the meaning of the term, said, haphazard, “I suppose it is, sir.”

“Yes, very bad.”

“But times ’ll mend, let us hope,” observed Joe.

The old man shook his head, and lapsed into silence.

The room was about eighteen feet long by fourteen or sixteen wide. In the daytime it was lighted by two windows which looked out into a sort of half yard and half garden, where there was a pump of good water, and a large stone sink.

The floor consisted of dirty boards, which were, however, sanded every morning.

The room had neither prints, pictures, blinds, or curtains, such articles being deemed altogether unnecessary.

There were, however, strange to say, no broken panes in the windows; but two ventilators whirled round in the upper portion of them, through which the hot air and smoke from the pipes gained egress.

The fireplace was at the farther end of the apartment.

Around the wall, and fixed to it firmly, were a line of benches, before which were tables, on which the vagrant opened his bag, his towel, his basket, or his wallet.

The favourite benches were those which were placed at the top of the room from the fireplace to each side, which were, in fact, cross benches.

Those who arrived last were obliged to content themselves with the forms which were not fixed.

The tables were by no means crowded, but they were tolerably full.

Having discovered a vacant place about the right centre bench, which was fixed to the wall, Joe Doughty made his way to the spot, but as he pushed his way along he met with a reproof from a female, whose supper he disarranged in passing by.

Joe apologised, and the female was gracious enough to accept it, and express herself well satisfied.

This little incident passed unnoticed by the rest of the occupants, all of whom appeared to be intent upon their own business arrangements.

Joe, when he had taken his place, had another glance at his companions, who, to say the truth, would have afforded a painter an excellent study for his canvas.

By the side of the old man sat one of the prettiest girls Joe had seen for many a long day. She was travelling, or, in other terms, begging with her grandfather, who sat next to her.

Whether she was his grandchild no one could tell; she passed as such, and the two were inseparable. Her age was about eighteen.

There was a light in her eye, a rapidity in her step, a fascination in her smile, and a playfulness in her jests and tone, which were quite captivating.

Joe had not come to the “Travellers’ Rest” to lose his heart, but the young girl engaged his attention in a remarkable degree.

“She be a purty creature,” he murmured to himself, “and be a deal too good for a place like this ’ere.”

He did not know, when he apostrophised her, that she had been corrupted by depraved society, and was miserably callous to all moral sentiment.

The old man, her reputed grandfather, “did the lame lurk” during the day――that is, shammed lameness, and at night had his leg unbandaged, and could walk nimbly enough across the room.

He was a picturesque old scoundrel, and his grey hairs doubtless helped him more than his lameness, and enabled him to smoke his pipe, drink his pint, and supply half the same quantity to the girl who devoted herself so uncomplainingly to him.

The old man was now and then irritated by the whispering of “an out-and-out swell vagrant,” who sat next his grand-daughter and endeavoured to flirt with her.

But the girl did not encourage the amorous swain; she shifted her seat to the other side of the old man, who fell foul of the “swell,” whom he soundly rated.

“Shut up! stow it!” exclaimed several, addressing themselves to the young man. “You aint everybody, and the girl don’t want to have any of your fine speeches.”

The young man, finding himself in the minority, desisted from further importunities.

Joe Doughty’s attention was now attracted to another object, this being the landlord, who had entered the room, and, after having spoken to several of its occupants, he came in front of Joe and said――

“Out or in, young man?”

Doughty, who did not know what he meant, affected not to hear him.

“Why don’t you answer?” said the landlord. “Out or in?”

All of a sudden it occurred to our obtuse countryman that the question might relate to his sleeping accommodation.

“Oh, in, if you please, sir,” said Joe.

“All right, young man. Fourpence to pay, if you please. You’d like a bed to yourself, I s’pose.”

“Oh dear me――yes,” returned Doughty.

“Very well――down with the browns. Sharp’s the word.”

Joe took out his fourpence, and placed them on the table all in halfpence.

“Oh, that’s it――is it?” said the landlord, as he discovered three harps on the reverse side of the halfpennies.

“Harp’s the word this time it would seem,” said he.

Joe Doughty did not know what he meant by this last observation.

“I thought harping had gone out of fashion in these parts,” said the landlord as he walked away, “but it appears I am mistaken. Dick Baynton was nabbed yesterday, as was a month at Jecks, the grocer’s, and now’s in the lock-up for the ‘’sizes.’”

Doughty was in a fog――he was under the impression that the words that had fallen from the lips of his host more particularly concerned him, as several present regarded him with a fitful glance.

Presently he mustered up courage, and said to the old man who had previously addressed him――

“What does he mean?”

“Who?”

“The landlord.”

“Oh nothing particular; he takes you for a palmer.”

Joe was as wise as ever, but he concluded that a palmer must be a scounrel of some sort.

“What makes him do that?”

The old man explained matters; he told Doughty that there were a class of thievish vagrants called palmers, who visit shops under the pretence of collecting harp halfpence, and to induce shopkeepers to search for them they offer thirteen pence for a shilling’s worth, when many persons are silly enough to empty a large quantity of coppers on their counters to search for the halfpence wanted.

The palmer is sure to have his hand amongst the treasure, and while he affects to search diligently for the harps he contrives to conceal some halfpence in the palm of his hand, and when he removes his hand from the copper always holds his fingers out straight, so that the shopkeeper has no suspicion that he is being robbed.

This explanation was to a certain extent satisfactory, but Doughty did not feel complimented by being taken for a vagrant of that class; he however did not trouble himself much about the matter.

The girl who acted as waitress to the establishment now presented herself, and Joe ordered her to bring him “a pint of beer.”

“Penny, threehalfpenny, or twopenny?” said she.

“The best you have, my gal,” returned Joe, who forthwith pulled out of his pocket some slices of bread and butter and a piece of German sausage, which Mr. Wrench had provided him with; for, as the astute detective observed, “When at Rome do as Rome does――every tramp brings his prog with him, which he devours before going to bed; and you must do the same.”

The landlord’s suspicions were now confirmed. He, as well as the majority of those present, had but little difficulty in reckoning Doughty up. A fourpenny bed, twopenny beer, and bread, butter, and German sausage were fare and accommodation worthy of a palmer.

The pint of beer was brought. Joe asked the old man to have a pint as well――which the latter accepted.

The girl who acted as waitress was what might with justice be termed a character. She was short, crooked, one-eyed, lame on the right leg, flat as a pancake, long as a herring, yellow-white, with a sharp nose, and a mouth the shape of an old-fashioned semicircular door scraper.

She wore a low dark cotton gown with a neck handkerchief which might have been white at the time of the Reformation. Her gown sleeves were tucked up above the elbows, and her gown was pinned up behind.

She was certainly more useful than ornamental, and her life was a hard one. As far as work went she was a wonder, her master never supposing the possibility of her being tired or worn out. She was on the trot from morn to night, from week’s end to week’s end. Whatever good qualities she might have been possessed of had long since disappeared in consequence of the evil association she was constrained to submit to.

She was sullenly stupid, and at times insolent, but she went round and round from January to December, like a horse in a mill, and never complained of the hard life she was leading.

It is true she occupied her present post because nobody else would employ her as a waitress.

As a rule, hotel-keepers and publicans like smart-looking girls to serve in that capacity.

The landlord was a big strapping fellow, who had passed some months of his earlier days in a metropolitan prison for sundry acts of petty knavery, but the discipline of the gaol did not suit him, and he therefore made up his mind to “pull himself short up,” as he playfully explained it.

He married, and took the “Travellers’ Rest,” which he obtained for a “mere song.”

He was as strong as a giant, and stood over six feet in height, with strong sinewy limbs.

No one would think of attacking him single-handed, and he was therefore well adapted by nature to be the chief of a vagrants’ lodging-house, for he was more than a match for the most desperate or daring mendicant.

His wife was altogether of a different mould. She had once been handsome, but coarse language, coarse associates, combined with a predilection for strong drinks, had converted her into a faded and fallen beauty――a mere shadow of her former self.

When the landlord had seen his customers supplied with the requisite quantity of beer, he turned to a thickset, wild, savage-looking man who had a small bull-dog at his feet, and who travelled with another man much like himself.

The wild, savage-looking man had jet black hair, an old brown leather belt, and a little sack thrown across his shoulder.

He was a “prig,” and belonged to that class of vagrants who are adepts in drawing a purse, watch, or pocket-book from persons in crowded places. Races, fairs, and prize fights were the most favourite places with him.

His companion was so much like him that Joe came to the conclusion that he was his brother.

One was talkative, and the other taciturn, and Jim Morgan (for such was the eldest brother’s name) gave all the orders and superintended all the arrangements. He was evidently commander-in-chief.

The eldest might have been twenty-five, the youngest some three or four years younger.

“In or out, gentlemen,” said the landlord, as he eyed the two with something like doubt and suspicion.

“Why what do you suppose we come here for?” returned Jim Morgan.

“It aint my bis’ness to ’spose anything,” said the landlord. “I only ask a question, which perhaps you will answer at your leisure.”

At this sally there was a roar of laughter from the company.

“You’re mighty clever in your way, no doubt,” cried Morgan, “and in course you are duly appreciated. Your question I will answer at once. We want two separate beds, or the largest-sized double bed which you have to spare.”

“Right you are,” returned the landlord; “we won’t make any bones about the matter. No. 9, first floor, two beds in the room, that will suit you all to pieces. If it don’t you can accommodate yourselves elsewhere, or out, if you prefer it.”

“You’re jolly independent, but no matter, it’s the nature of the animal,” said Morgan.

Joe Doughty had been listening to the foregoing conversation, and hence it was he was oblivious to the fact that a stranger had entered the room.

The new-comer threaded his way through the assembly until he had gained the further end of the room.

It was at this time that Doughty’s attention was attracted towards him. There was something in the movements and gait of the man which made Joe pause and consider.

He looked hard at the new-comer, and saw that he was a man with a bushy beard, long elfin locks, and a green shade over his eyes. He did not appear to be acquainted with any of the vagrants, and Joe thought this a little singular.

He seated himself on one of the benches and remained moody and silent for some little time; after which he rose suddenly, and wended his way back to the entrance of the room.

As he passed along there was a peculiarity in his movement which caused Joe Doughty to regard him with a searching glance.

“I dunno what to mek on him,” murmured Joe. “’Taint a bit loike the varmint I am in search of: but he be creeping along in a rum sort of way――a deal arter the fashion o’ Giles――but it can’t be him――and yet, I don’t feel quite sartain――I’ll wait and watch. Maybe he’ll coom back and let un see a bit more on him.”

But Joe was wrong in his surmise. The man with the green shade and bushy whiskers did not return.

Half-an-hour passed over, and the stranger did not again reappear.

The landlord came into the room once more to attend to his customers. As he passed, Joe said――

“What has become of the man with the green shade over his eyes?”

“Oh, he’s hooked it,” returned the host. “Didn’t like the looks of you all――he’s a deal too particular for his money.”

“Has he gone away?”

“Yes he’s stepped it, and arter paying for his shake-down too――he’s a rum un.”

“Gone, eh!” exclaimed Joe, scratching his head and looking wonder-struck.

“Ah, surely; what’s the odds? We can do well enough without a varmint loike him. Let him go, and be hanged to him.”

Joe Doughty was perplexed――the man’s sudden departure troubled him. He sat silent and thoughtful for some time, and then he took himself to his bed in one of the upstairs rooms.

But the situation in which he found himself was so new and strange to him that it was a long time before gentle sleep closed his eyelids.

By early morn he arose, and sallying forth from the vagrants’ lodging-house, he at once hastened to the “Dun Cow,” and there awaited, in the breakfast room, the appearance of Mr. Wrench.

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LXIV. THE HIRING FAIR

When Mr. Wrench made his appearance in the public room of the “Dun Cow,” Joe, after a little circumlocution, explained to his chief his adventures of the previous night.

As the latter listened to the account of the stranger in the vagrants’ lodging-house, and his sudden departure, his countenance was irradiated with a smile.

“And this fellow went away without saying a word to anybody?” said Wrench.

“He never so much as opened his ugly mouth,” returned Doughty.

“Ah, who knows, but he might be the man of whom we are in search?”

“He warn’t a morsel loike ’im.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Noa, not a morsel, ’xcept his walk, and that war a goodish bit arter the style of Giles Chudley’s.”

“All right, Doughty, I don’t think you have spent a night in the lodging-house in vain; but you must be hungry. We’ll have breakfast, and then make the best of our way to the fair.”

Breakfast was ordered and served. Nell Fulford joined her two companions, and did the honours of the table.

While partaking of their morning’s meal the detective and his two companions observed throngs of persons passing the window, rushing even at that early hour to the fair.

“They are taking time by the forelock, Miss Fulford,” said the detective, looking towards the window of the parlour.

“Oh, yes; it be always loike this at fair time. People coom from all parts, far and near.”

“There is one thing I wish to impress on both of you,” observed Wrench, “and that is to keep as quiet as possible. We’ll see all that’s to be seen, but we won’t appear to be looking for any one. We are only here to enjoy the fun of the fair――that’s all.”

“Fun!” cried Nelly, with a sigh.

“I don’t expect for one moment, Miss Fulford, that you, or indeed any one of us, will have much enjoyment, but as far as that is concerned it is quite a secondary consideration; but we must appear to be attracted hither for amusement. Let us hope something more important will follow.”

His female companion inclined her head in tacit acquiescence, and Joe said he’d have nuffin’ to say to anybody.

The fair was held at a small market town, which was built on the banks of a river. As far as architectural beauty was concerned, it was not much to boast of, for the streets rivalled those of Cairo, which are said to be the narrowest and dirtiest in the world, and central is the market-place.

In this market-place the fair was held, though many of the booths and canvas-covered stalls extended down the Egyptian thoroughfares, choking them with impassability.

For one hour or so after breakfast the occupants of the parlour of the “Dun Cow” contented themselves with watching the passengers in the road from the bay window of their snug little apartment.

Mr. Wrench had letters to answer which were sent from Scotland-yard. There was one also from Lord Ethalwood, in which the writer besought him to do his best to discover the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin.

A detective’s life is both an anxious and an arduous one, make the best of it.

The earl’s letter, of course, had to be answered by return of post. Mr. Wrench had little or nothing to communicate at present, but he deemed it expedient to write off and inform his lordship that his injunctions would not be disregarded.

When he had finished his correspondence, which was necessarily very brief, the detective informed his two companions that he was ready to accompany them to the fair.

Many of our readers are doubtless very well acquainted with the most noticeable features of a country fair. When held in a picturesque locality it is a sight worth seeing.

Fairs and wakes are of Saxon origin, and date back for many hundreds of years. The former were instituted in England by Alfred, in the year 886.

Wakes were established by order of Gregory VII. in 1049, and termed Feriæ, at which the monks celebrated the festival of their patron saints.

Fairs were established in France about 800 by Charlemagne, and encouraged in England about 1071 by William the Conqueror.

They may be said to be identified with the history of our country.

It was early in the day when Mr. Wrench arrived at the fair with his two companions, but nevertheless crowds of persons were already assembled.

As they joined the body of the people the noise was almost deafening, but a noise so like that of people enjoying themselves that he must have been a flinty philosopher who could get out of temper with it.

No gathering of this sort was complete without Richardson’s celebrated show, in which a melodrama of a most touching nature was enacted in the brief space of twenty minutes, or from that to half an hour.

Richardson himself at this time was gathered to his fathers.

He was a dumpy, pock-marked man, with a red face and a long brown coat.

Reading and writing were not included in his accomplishments, but he was a kindly-disposed, persevering, honest little man, much given to dirt and the drama, who contrived by praiseworthy industry to amass a large fortune.

It was his boast that some of our most celebrated actors and actresses were, at one time or another, included in his troupe.

The late Edmund Kean in his early career acted at Richardson’s show.

The great Mrs. Pritchard, who played with David Garrick, began life as a performer at fairs.

Numbers of similar instances could be cited of other distinguished members of the theatrical profession who were wont to strut their hour upon the stage at shows and booths.

Although Richardson had passed away the booth in the fair still bore his name, albeit it was in other hands.

“Walk up, ladies and gentlemen――just going to begin!” shouted out a leather-lunged individual on the platform of the show.

“The Bleeding Nun; or, the Midnight Hour,” was the powerful drama about to be represented.

While the gentleman with the never-failing lungs was addressing the yokels, a clown was going through some antics on another part of the platform.

After this a brass band struck up playing the most discordant music it is very well possible to conceive.

Mr. Wrench and his two companions ascended the steps which led to this temple of the drama, paid their money, and after waiting a considerable time in the interior of the booth had the satisfaction of witnessing the drama in question.

When they came out after the performance they were asked by the gentleman on the platform how they liked it, and of course said they were very much pleased.

Upon this the touter turned triumphantly to the gaping crowd below, and again shouted out, “Now’s your time, gentlemen and ladies――just going to begin!”

The formula was gone through over and over again during the whole of the day.

As to dwarfs and giants and giantesses they were innumerable, together with curiosities both natural and unnatural.

An Irishman made up as a red Indian, and called “Yokoomana, the celebrated fire-eater,” undertook to put the end of a red-hot poker into his mouth, across his tongue, and on the soles of his naked feet.

Then there were swings, roundabouts, gold gingerbread, gingerbread nuts, Wombwell’s brass band playing their loudest tunes, a horse with two heads and six legs, a mermaid, a wild man caught in the Black Forest, a learned pig, waxwork exhibitions, performing dogs and monkeys, acrobats, Mademoiselle Clotilda Favirini, the celebrated tight-rope dancer who had performed before most of the crowned heads of Europe, a sword-swallower, a Chinaman (hailing from Dublin), who threw sharp-painted swords at another Chinaman (hailing from Cork), the Cork Chinaman standing all the while with arms outstretched against a board against which the swords were thrown within the eighth of an inch of his body.

Added to all these was the snapping of guns at the nut stalls, the artificial screams of the young women, and the hoarse guffaws of the young men.

Peace and quietness were out of the question; throughout the livelong day there was a ceaseless row and clatter.

The crowd was composed of three distinct classes――first those who came for amusement only.

Smockfrocked bumpkins and gaily-dressed lasses, who had taken a fresh lease of servitude, and who had been permitted to enjoy a genuine holiday and witness sights which were only to be seen at fairs; clergymen and other professional men of status and respectability, who walked awkward through the crowd, trying to look as if they were not enjoying themselves; a score or so of boys from an adjacent boarding school walking in couples like prisoners out for exercise, with the head gaoler in black trousers and blue spectacles, anxiously clearing a way before them; and above all a rosy-cheeked housemaid, who, having stolen half-an hour’s liberty under pretext of an errand, was taking a sip at those waters which Solomon affirmed to be so sweet.

Some came only upon business.

Mr. Wrench and his two companions were included in this category.

Austere old maids, who scowled upon the circus, and sneered at the wild beasts; farmers and farmers’ wives; of the temperate-in-drink and intemperate-in-religion genus, who, like the Caliph Omar, deemed it necessary to make a hell of this world in order to merit the heaven of the next.

A goodly sprinkling of pickpockets; a host of young persons with painted faces and comical smiles; and, let us add for the benefit of my small readers, all the people engaged in the various places of amusement, from the pretty girl who looked so happy as she danced on the tight rope, down to the red and white-faced clown, who said such funny things that you nearly split your sides with laughing.

And there were a great many people who went to the fair both for business and pleasure.

Farmers and their wives, of the true old Saxon sort, who went to hire their servants, and to spend their money, artful little hussies who intended to enjoy themselves, dancing in the booths, and to pick up fresh acquaintances, or to pull some irresolute swain over that matrimonial precipice, on the brink of which he had long been oscillating, and the great mass of boys and girls who had come, to use their own words, “to see the woild beasteses, and to get bound to the varmers.”

It is incident to a fair that persons shall be free from being arrested in it for any other debt or contract than what was contracted in the same, or at least promised to be paid there.

Fairs of this sort were generally held once or twice a year, and by statute they were not to be held longer than they ought.

Also proclamations were to be made how long they were to continue, and no person was allowed to sell any goods after the time of the fair was ended, on forfeiture of double the value, one-fourth of which was to go to the prosecutor, and the rest to the king.

That was a toll usually paid in fairs on the sale of goods, and for stullage, picage, &c.

Fairs abroad are either free or charged with toll or impost.

The privileges of free fairs consisted chiefly――first, in all the traders, &c., whether natives or foreigners, who were allowed to enter the kingdom, and who were, under royal protection, exempt from duties, tolls, &c.

[Sidenote: No. 31.]

They were established by letters patent from the prince.

Fairs, particularly free fairs, make a very considerable article in the commerce of Europe, especially in the Mediterranean and the inland parts of Germany.

The most celebrated fairs in Europe are those of Old Frankfort, held twice a year, in spring and autumn, the first commencing the Sunday before Palm Sunday, and the other on the Sunday before the 8th of Sept.

They are famous for the sale of all kinds of commodities, but particularly for the immense quantity of curious books, nowhere else to be found, and from whence the booksellers throughout all Europe used to furnish themselves.

Before each fair there is a catalogue of all the books to be sold thereat printed and dispersed, to call together the purchasers, though the learned complain of divers unfair practices therein, as factitious titles, names of books purely imaginary, &c., besides great faults in the names of the authors and the titles of the real books.

The fairs of Leipsic are held thrice a year――one beginning on the first of January, another three weeks after Easter, and a third at Michaelmas.

Besides these, there are a host of others held in various parts of the Continent.

England was at one time famous for its fairs, and even in the present day there are numbers held annually.

Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, was by far the greatest in Britain, and, perhaps, in the world. Bristol is next on the list.

The only fishing fair in this country is the one held at Great Yarmouth.

In addition to these there are fairs for butter at Ipswich; in Norfolk, for Scotch runts; at Bettford, for sheep; and a host of others in the leading towns of England.

The place visited by Mr. Wrench and his two companions was, as we have already signified, a hiring fair.

Those who offer themselves as grooms place a piece of sponge in their hat-bands; the shepherds, a tuft of wool; the carters, an inch of whipcord; and the boys of all work, a bunch of blue and green ribbons.

When a farmer wishes to engage a man he finds out a strong-limbed, clear-eyed young fellow. When this has been done they haggle.

Both fight hard for their money and their money’s worth, and will often separate after half an hour’s argument to look out for softer men.

If a bargain is struck the farmer gives the man a shilling.

This is called the festin shilling, or God’s penny; after receiving which the man is the pursuer’s slave, and should he not appear at the time appointed is liable to be sent to gaol.

It is, however, by no means a rare practice for a man or boy to engage himself at a fair on Thursday for 6s. per week, we will say; at a neighbouring fair on the Friday for 8s. a week, and at another on the Saturday for 10s. a week; closing with three offers and only holding to the best.

Farm servants are as hungry after money as the workmen in many of our manufacturing towns, and they are not the innocent creatures which novelists and dramatists would lead you to suppose.

Mr. Wrench had kept his eyes open throughout the livelong day. He had, in company with Joe and Nell Fulford, visited most of the shows, but had not met with the man he was in search of, but he did not feel disposed to give up the search as hopeless.

He partook of a substantial meal with his two friends in a small public-house, which stood just outside the fair.

Night drew on apace, but the devotees to pleasure were not sated. They had come to see all that could be seen, and the village carnival was just as crowded after nightfall as it had been during the bright and sunny hours of the day.

The quietly-disposed village folks retired to their beds. This was a mere matter of form, for the noise in the streets placed sleep out of the question.

Now, indeed, the real fun of the fair commenced.

Now the whole company of the very minor theatre were assembled upon the outer platform, and the man with the leathern-lunged voice was as vociferous as ever. He was a little hoarse with constant shouting, but this did not matter――he contrived to make himself heard.

The company on the platform went through a wild pantomime, in which the clown was ill-treated by everybody.

He was unmercifully whipped by a man in jackboots, but was heedless of the punishment which, to say the truth, did not appear to affect him in the slightest degree. He contented himself with making grimaces in revenge, at which the people laughed till they cried again.

They had come to enjoy themselves, and it did not take much to move them to laughter.

The external preliminaries having been concluded on the platform of Richardson’s celebrated booth, the dramatis personæ retired behind the curtain, the man with the leathern lungs shouting out at the top of his voice――

“Now’s your time, good people; walk up――walk up! You’d better by half come in at once, if you means coming; we are just going to begin. Grand spectacular romantic melodrama as ’ud move the heart of a stone. This way, gentlemen!”

The harsh clang of unmusical instruments from within, the shaking of the tent, and the delighted shouts of the audience proved the interesting fact that there were still some spots in the world where theatrical announcements were not impostures.

The wild beasts had been fed, Wombwell’s brass band had finished their last tune, and the shaven-cheeked, greasy-headed performers were packing up their instruments, chewing their sore lips, and stretching their cramped and weary limbs.

Life and jollity now rolled towards the dancing booths, washing into its stream all those who had been shooting at the nut stalls, or who had been to see the calf with six legs, the wonderful donkey, or the live mermaid, or had been peeping in at the panorama of the “Orful Massacres in the Injees,” in which the artist, wisely sacrificing truth to effect, had painted the murderous Sepoys as black as saucepans, with blubber lips, frizzly hair, white waistcloths, and long spears, dripping with gore.

Between two gingerbread stalls there was a brave battle between the crowds.

Crowd No. 1 making for public-house, L.H.; crowd No. 2 pushing for dancing-booth, Op.

Both crowds were composed of free Britons, who will never believe that retreats are sometimes judicious.

Three men in particular might have been seen pushing first one way and then the other, as if they rather enjoyed the scramble than otherwise.

This did not escape the observation of the others, who cried――

“Now then, you sir, keep yer elbows to yerself. You aint everybody.”

“You’re another!” cried a voice.

“Don’t ee give me any o’ yer cheek, young man, or you may get a prop in the eye.”

“Heigh, my Jack-o’-dandy, you’ll spile yer pretty govers if ye shove us common people about like this ’ere,” observed a rustic to a young swell.

“Look at the old bloke with the green goggles, how uneasy he is to find himself somew’eres. Keep still, old gentleman――we’ll make it all right for you arter a bit.”

“Order――silence! Where are you shoving to, yer fool?” cried a stout farmer. “Haven’t ye ever bin to a fair afore?”

“Take care of your pockets!” cried a policeman, from the outside, “you as has got anything in ’em,” he added, with official sarcasm.

“All right, bobby, we’re fly――all on us regularly up to the knocker.”

“Don’t squeesh――don’t squeesh!” cried a Cockney costermonger, with the good humoured raillery of his class. “If there’s one thing as I hates more than another, it is to be squeeshed. The doctor says as how my constertootion won’t bear it.”

“Oh, Bill!” murmured a female voice from the abyss.

“Vell, you knows I can’t bear it, Sall,” returned the costermonger. “You knows as how I’ve a delecate constertootion.”

“Bear up, old man――don’t ee gi’ way,” observed a rustic.

“Oh, you big hulking beast,” screamed an old woman. “You’ve bin and torn my best dress by a treadin’ on it wi’ yer great hob-nailed boots.”

“Mek him pay for ut, mother,” suggested a ploughman. “Give ’im in charge o’ the pleece.”

“Pleece, pleece!” shouted out the old dame.

“What’s the matter, marm?” said a constable.

“Matter, indeed! this hulking fellow has torn my gownd from my back――that’s what be the matter.”

“It can’t be helped. It was an accident, you ought to keep out of the crowd.”

At this there was a roar of laughter.

The old woman became furious.

“You’re as bad as he is,” she exclaimed, shaking her umbrella at the constable. “What good are you? What are you paid for, I should like to know? You ought to be ashamed o’ yerself to let an honest woman be used in this way!”

The policeman offered to conduct her out of the crowd, but she would not listen to him. She went on abusing the whole force in general and the luckless constable in particular.

This little incident seemed to be interesting to the multitude, who pushed and shoved to their hearts’ content.

It is impossible to say how long this contest might have lasted had not several persons cried out that they had been robbed, and called out to the police. The old woman declared that she had had her pockets picked.

Three policemen now charged the crowd and knocked down an old man and two boys who had done nothing.

After which they clumsily noted down the depositions of the plundered ones in their pocket-books, with looks of solemn authority and words of the obscurest promise.

Half-an-hour passed, and the two crowds ceased their contest.

Mr. Wrench and his two companions, who had become hemmed in, were now enabled to make their escape; they had been borne along by crowd No. 1, and during the rush they had no means of extricating themselves.

When, however, they got clear of the mob of malcontents, they passed out of the fair with all convenient speed.

At some short distance they discovered a small tavern, bearing the sign of the “Lord Cornwallis.”

They made for this, to partake of some refreshment.

A large flag, the Union Jack, was suspended over the front of the house, at the door of which stood three or four soldiers of that unwashed stamp which haunt the dens of Orchard-street and the purlieus of Birdcage-walk.

There was an awe-stricken semicircle of rustics at a little distance, before whom stood an enlisting sergeant――his features bloated and reddened from beer and alcohol――beckoning with his naked sword in his hand.

He had the gift of the gab, and the words he was giving utterance to fell glibly enough from his lips.

“Now, my fine fellow,” he cried, in a thick husky voice, “don’t hesitate. A fine chance offers itself. Take the Queen’s money, and join our gallant comrades in the East. Now’s your time; but don’t all speak at once. Happy is the man who enlists in our crack regiment. We want a little help just now to thrash all them black-faced, black-headed scoundrels who’ve been butchering the poor women and children. You won’t have another such a chance, and so don’t hesitate――don’t hang back like a pack of curs. I see around me a fine lot of fellows. Come, now, you with the white dudley, we can’t get on without you. You know there isn’t such a pair of shoulders as yours in the whole army. You’re cut out for a sodger, and it’s a real sin for a handsome young fellow like you to be wasting your precious life following the plough when you might be making a fortune in Injia. There’s heaps of gold there, and you are sure to get promoted. Say the word. Take the Queen’s shilling, and you’ll come back a general with white stars on your breast, and a mahogany box full of yellow sovereigns. You won’t refuse――you’re not one of that sort. I’ve had my eye upon you, and you’ll thank me for making a man of you. What say you, comrade?”

“Don’t ee do nothink o’ the sort, lad. Don’t ee listen to what ee ses,” cried a woman, standing by. “I know what he be. He only talks loike that cos he gets so much a head for every fresh fool he takes in. Take the Queen’s money, indeed! Let him keep it. If it was to a man’s good to go a sodgering, d’ye think they’d want to tempt him with a shilling? Go to the wars, and what will ee get for it? A bit o’ ribbon or an iron cross may be. It’s a hard world for humble folk. In war they does the fightin’, and others get the reward; in peace they does the hard work, and others collar the money. Don’t ee be kiddy kilted into it, my lad. They mek the gentlemen generals, not the private sodgers, and all the plunder goes to the government as stays at home, not to them as risks their lives for it abroad. He can talk and tell lies by the bushel, but don’t ee be gammoned by him――and don’t ee bleeve a word as he ses.”

The rubicund face of the enlisting sergeant became redder than ever as he listened to the words which fell from the lips of the young woman.

He was greatly incensed, and looked upon her with ineffable disgust.

“You are an audacious impudent hussy!” he cried, with the fierce gestures of a Hamlet at the Bower Saloon, “and some wholesome chastisement would do you good, my lady. If you were a man, I’d give you something for yourself, but a British soldier never raises his hand against a woman.”

Having delivered himself of this heroic declaration, he turned towards the rustics, and said, in a confidential tone――

“You’ve got too much sense to take any heed of what a poor half-witted creature like her has to say. Anyone can see that she has not got her right change.”

“You’ve got your change, old man, and no mistake,” returned the woman, giving him a playful push in the chest which sent him reeling against the wall. “Why, you’re screwed, old man,” and added, “You’re a nice sort of gineral, ain’t ye?”

The clowns, who invariably join with the stronger side, hailed their hero’s discomfiture with loud shouts of derisive laughter, and closing fearlessly round him, chanted the cynical refrain――

A sargint stepp’d up to me, and asked me for to ’list, I bid him stand back, and I showed him then my fist, Tooral rooral, tooral la.

The sergeant was a big bulky man, but owing to sundry potations he was a little groggy on his pins. He, however, felt very much inclined to give his assailant a sharp box on the ear, but the chances were if he did so that he would raise the ire of the male portion of the assembled throng, and prudence directed him to pass the matter over as lightly and good-humouredly as possible.

“A woman’s more than a match for the best of us, mates,” he said in a jocular manner. “My principle is to let them have their own way. I never argufy with ’em――am too old a soldier for that.”

“That’s the way to serve out them ’listin’ sargents,” cried the woman, taking no heed of the last observations made by the gallant son of Mars. “They bring more sorrow and heartaches upon the poor than all the tax gatherers and squires’ stewards can do. Why, Willy, you ha’ got gay ribbons on to-day,” she ejaculated, catching sight of a young man who was known to her in the crowd. “Hast caught a master with all thy finery?”

“Don’t you know the British colours, my girl?” said an old soldier, standing by. “Your Willy has enlisted.”

Her countenance now wore a troubled expression.

“Oh, Will,” she murmured, in a low, respectful voice, “and ha’ ye left your poor mother to starve or go to the House? But there, it’s no yoose talking now. Words can’t free a bound man, nor yet any money that she or you could find.”

“Never fear,” said the young man. “I’ll come back rich and make her and you happy.”

He said this in a faint voice, having but partially recovered from the quartern of gin, under the influence of which he had been imprudent enough to enlist. He now began to feel qualms as to his future welfare.

“I should ha’ felt this more at one time,” murmured the woman. “For you’ve bin kind and good to me, Will, and it doant tak’ me long to count my frinds. But now I’ve only one thought in my head and one grief in my heart. I can’t think nor feel of anything but this sore trouble, for it be a trouble as will cling to me for many and many a long and weary day.”

She ceased, and those around were at no loss to comprehend that the speaker’s heart was too full to admit of her saying more.

The young man who had been called Will hung down his head, and but for very shame he would have sobbed; but situated as he was, surrounded by his companions, he bore up as best he could.

The woman turned her back upon the young recruit, and went half-way down the tavern passage; it was blocked up by soldiers who appeared to be discussing the character of their acquaintances.

“He’s got an oil bottle in his pocket,” were the first words she caught. “An’ so has your brave ’listing sergeant,” said the woman, “an’ bad luck to him an’ all such smooth-tongued varmints.”

“Don’t you speak ill of the sergeant, young woman,” said a soldier. “He’s a dooty to perform.”

“Has he?”

“Yes, he’s right enough, but I don’t like a man as puts salt into his own beer and sugar in mine, at first sight too. “’Taint natural or seemly that he should.”

“’An who be that there,” inquired the woman.

“Ah, no one as you knows,” returned a rustic.

“But who be it, no matter whether it be my bis’ness or yourn?”

“An old man, my dear, as has been pouring melted butter down our backs, and talking to us as if we were all field-marshals or generals.”

“Ye sodgers want to keep all the blarney to your own mouths. But what sort of man be he?”

“Short and dirty, like a winter’s day, with a green shade over his eyes.”

“A green shade!” exclaimed Mr. Wrench, glancing at Joe Doughty. “An old man――eh, my friends?”

“Well, he aint a young one――leastways, to judge from appearance.”

“Appearances are sometimes deceptive,” observed the detective.

“Well, that be true, guv’nor. We all on us find that out some time or another, but he aint no good.”

“There’s some truth in what he said, though,” cried another of the soldiers――“that it’s us privates as wins all the battles, while the generals take good care to keep out of harm’s way.”

“Ah, my lad,” said an old soldier, joining the group of idlers, “that’s all very well as far as it goes, but you might as well put a horse in a gig and tell him to drive himself up to London, as to set an army at an army without a general to hold the reins. And it wants a brave man to be general in a fight when the cannons are roaring, and the wounded are groaning, and the smoke is thickening. It’s hard work to keep one’s head cool to see what regiments want help and what regiments can do by themselves. I tell you it aint easy work either for the generals, the captains, or the privates. But here we are――sorry soldiers, to block up the passage in this fashion, and none offering to move to make room for a pretty girl to pass.”

This last observation applied to Nell Fulford, who had silently and quickly drawn towards the entrance of the passage.

“Now, then, soldiers, make yourselves a little less, and let this young woman pass.”

Several of the men withdrew at once, and Mr. Wrench and Joe passed through and gained the public room beyond.

“Keep quiet. Our business is to watch, but don’t either of you say anything till I address you,” whispered the detective, as they took their way along.

The three entered the room, in a dark corner of which they seated themselves. Wrench ordered some beer and sandwiches, which were brought.

They all three of them glanced round the room, and soon perceived the subject of the soldiers’ conversation. He was a bent, long-haired man, with a green shade over his eyes, and dressed in a kind of cloak with loose sleeves.

At the next table, with a huge cheese before him, and glass of cold brandy and water at his side, sat a stalwart, broad-shouldered man, with a hard square cast of face.

Near the window lolled a young gentleman, who was well dressed and be-jewelled, and who had a lighted cigar between his kid-gloved fingers.

He must have wandered in there for a few moments from curiosity, unless he was one of those gentlemen by birth but not by breeding, who drink the dregs of society by preference.

Mr. Wrench recognised these as the last-named two men who had been so energetic during the hustle.

“Bring us a greybeard of Husser and Squencher,” said a rustic in a smock frock, who was seated near to the detective. (A greybeard is one of those jugs commonly used in ale-houses with the face of an old man on it. Husser and Squencher is a drain of gin and a quart of beer mixed).

“That was a bad job,” observed a rustic, addressing the man in the green shade, “that ’ere job in Larchgrove-lane.”

“I’ve not heerd on it,” said the man with the green shade; “what was it?”

When Nell Fulford heard the man with the shade speak she gave a start, and half rose from her seat. Mr. Wrench placed his hand on her shoulder, and by a motion of his head signified that she was to remain quiet.

She obeyed, and shrank back farther into the corner, behind a settle, and listened with gleaming eyes.

Situated as she and her two companions were, they could not be seen by the man with the green shade.

The rustic, who had already alluded to the tragedy, now gave a brief account of the same for the edification of those present.

“These things are most horrible,” exclaimed the young swell with the cigar. “Most terrible. What motive had the scoundrel? I suppose plunder.”

“Noa, it warn’t that,” said the countryman. “Leastways, I think not,” he added, drinking from his mug and setting it down upon the table with a bang. “It warn’t done for money, measter――’cos ye see the young farmer hadn’t bin robbed, so I’ve bin tould.”

“No doubt it were done out o’ spite or revenge.”

“Like enough somethink o’ that sort,” observed the man with the shade, who, after this last observation, appeared to fall into a reverie.

“And be you a stranger in these parts, measter?” asked the countryman, with provincial curiosity. “If it be a fair question, leastways?”

“Yes, I only came here this morning. I wan’t, if I can, to get――――”

Nell Fulford could not remain longer passive. She bounded like a panther across the room and sprang upon the man with a horrible shriek, which rang through the apartment with appalling distinctness.

“Wretch! murdering villain! We’ve found you at last,” she cried, clasping him by the neck with superhuman force. “It be he,” she shouted, in a voice of triumph, “it be Giles Chudley!”

The room was filled in an instant.

“The woman’s mad,” exclaimed one of the newcomers, dragging her from the man.

“Mad!” she cried, and with inconceivable strength she broke from the man’s grasp, and darted upon the murderer of her sweetheart.

She tore off his wig, which she flung upon the floor.

The company assembled in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis” saw before them a man with fluttering, conscience-stricken eyes, and hands clasped imploringly towards them.

“I am innocent!” he exclaimed. “Take her away.”

Joe Doughty rushed forward, overset one of the tables as he went along, and sprang at the throat of Chudley.

“I’ll ha’ yer heart’s blood!” he yelled, in a voice of concentrated passion.

He caught the affrighted man by the throat with both hands, and pressed him against the wall.

Chudley’s face became purple, and it was evident that he was undergoing the process of strangulation.

“Leave go your hold,” cried a soldier at the further end of the room. “Do you want to kill the man.”

“I’ll ha’ his life, if I die for it!”

By this time the utmost disorder prevailed. Mr. Wrench came forward and besought Joe Doughty to release the culprit.

“I’ll not let ’im go for you, nor no man!” cried Joe.

“We won’t see murder committed,” said several rustics. “Forward to the rescue!”

“Doughty, do as I bid you――let go your hold.”

His first paroxysm of passion now having in a measure subsided, Joe released his man, upon whom Mr. Wrench had already slipped a pair of handcuffs.

“I did not do it!” exclaimed the prisoner.

“Did not do what?” said Joe Doughty, thrusting his fist within an inch of the pallid, mottled face. “Lying won’t sarve you new; you’re nabbed, and the hangman’s rope is ready for you.”

“He says he did not murder Mr. Philip Jamblin,” cried Nell Fulford.

“You see he knows what he is charged with, although he’s never been in these parts afore this morning.”

The landlord of the “Lord Cornwallis” now entered the room. He was in a great state of flustration, and became seriously concerned as he beheld a terror-stricken man upon whom the eyes of all those present were intently fixed.

“What is the matter, gentlemen?” inquired Boniface.

“Murder’s the matter; that’s all, my friend,” answered Mr. Wrench. “And this man is my prisoner.”

“Prisoner! Are you in the force?”

“I am a detective from Scotland-yard. I know my duty; let that suffice.”

“Well, this is a pretty business,” exclaimed the landlord. “Never had such a thing as this occur in my house. I can’t make it out rightly.”

“It will be made pretty clear very shortly, I expect; but that does not much matter as far as you are concerned.”

“It’s no business of mine, that be sartin,” said the landlord, “but I wish it had taken place any where but here. Howsomever, it can’t be helped.”

“What be goin’ to do wi’ yer man, measter?” cried a countryman.

“What do you suppose, you silly fellow,” answered Wrench; take him to the lock-up, to be sure. Doughty, just go outside and bring in a policeman or two.”

“Ah, ah! that is if ye can find ’em,” observed the countryman. “They’re seldom in the way when they be wanted.”

At this sally many of the rustics who were present burst out in a loud guffaw.

The landlord and one of his barmen proceeded to replace the table which had been overturned, and picked up the shattered glasses which lay upon the floor.

A dead calm succeeded the storm and tumult which had been raging but a few minutes before.

Joe returned with two policemen, who promptly obeyed the orders given by Wrench, who handed his prisoner over to them, and he was forthwith marched off to the village lock-up.

“Dall it all,” cried the countryman, “but this be but a sorry ending to the fair.”

The young gentleman with the flowing locks and kid gloves had quietly withdrawn from the scene immediately after Nell had sprung upon Chudley――he was followed by the man who sat with the huge lump of cheese before him.

Their sudden flight struck Mr. Wrench as being a little singular; he, however, did not make any remark in reference to the same.

Everybody in the room seemed all at once to becomr, serious, and reflective. The noise of many voices had ceased.

The soldiers were as stiff and formal as on a parade day, and those in the parlour who had partaken a little too freely of strong drinks appeared to be sobered, by the sight they had witnessed.

For the remainder of the night there was little else talked about in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis” but the capture of the wretched man who was arrested, upon the grave charge of murder.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LXV. THE BENCH OF MAGISTRATES――EXAMINATION OF THE PRISONER

Mr. Wrench had frequently declared that he sometimes came upon a culprit of whom he was in search when he least expected, and this observation was borne out by the capture of Chudley, which was as unlooked for as it was extraordinary and fortuitous.

He had good reason to congratulate himself upon the issue. After seeing his man safely under lock and key he sent off that night a telegram to Broxbridge, informing Lord Ethalwood of the arrest of the accused.

Early on the following day he took his prisoner per rail to Broxbridge, Nell Fulford and Joe Doughty returning with him.

The prisoner’s first examination before the bench of magistrates created a degree of excitement which was almost without a parallel.

It so chanced that his examination took place on market day.

A country town is only awake once a week, and that is only on market day. At other times houses may be open, shops may be open, and eyes may be open, but houses, shops, and people are fast asleep. The houses resemble mausoleums, the shops are cold and still as pictures, and the citizens who walk about do not seem to know where they are going, what they are doing, or why they are out of doors.

But on market days everybody and everything is alive. The tradesman no longer props his front door and yawns down the empty streets――he is behind the counter bowing and skipping like a French dancing master.

His shop is not filled with impatient customers like a shop in London on Saturday night, but with patient customers like a shop in the country on Saturday morning, for the good old housewives only go shopping once a week, and consider it too serious and sacred a business to be lightly hurried over.

Everything is full. The inns fill the farmers as the farmers fill the inns――the yards are full of carts, the stables full of horses, heads are full of business, hands full of wares, hearts full of hope or joy or discontent.

The streets are filled with ragged idlers indigenous to the town and its vicinity, with market women who erect temporary barricades with donkey carts, and hen coops, and fruit baskets, towering towards the sky.

With clumsy cubs of peasant farmers, with felt hats, fustian frocks, plush waistcoats, brown leather breeches, sky-blue stockings, and great greasy shoes big as wheelbarrows.

In addition to all these there are to be found home-spun specimens of agriculture, who shone years and years ago in Mr. Morton’s comedies, with grey hairs, red faces, and top boots, heavy riding whips, and sentimental hearts――for all but their day labourers.

There are also to be seen a set of mysterious blades who drive dog-carts as high as Haman’s ladder, and steeds strong and fiery as the coursers of Phaeton, who wear smart green frocks, fancy waiscoats, jockey boots, peach-blossom corduroy breeches, and hats lodged jauntily on the left ear――who, once settled in the market-room of their favourite tavern, drink like fishes, smoke like lime-kilns, and sit like hens, and who display three sample bags in the corn market with all the grace of a Rothschild who negotiates a loan upon ’Change.

The news had spread abroad that the murderer of Phil Jamblin had been captured by a clever London detective, who had been on his track for weeks past.

It also became known that he was to be had up before the bench of magistrates, of which no less a person than Lord Ethalwood himself was chairman; and his lordship was a “sharp ’un,” they averred. “He could see his way through a four inch deal board.”

It was a busy day for Mr. Wrench when “his man,” as he termed him, was brought before the “beaks.”

He had seen the earl immediately after his return, for the purpose of arranging all the necessary preliminaries.

Enough evidence would be offered to warrant a remand――there would not be much difficulty about that; but before the committal the case would have to be gone more fully into.

Giles Chudley, in common with most criminals of his class, hoped to escape the punishment he so justly deserved.

A man put upon his trial for a capital offence has so many chances in his favour that nothing but the strongest and most conclusive evidence will suffice; and even when this has been offered by the prosecution, the jury will not return a verdict of “guilty,” and when once acquitted, as we all of us know, a prisoner cannot in this country be put upon his trial a second time for the same offence.

This surely ought to be amended.

In Scotland the jury, when there is not sufficient evidence to justify them in returning a verdict of guilty, return one of “not proven,” and the prisoner can be tried again if any additional evidence is obtained.

Many years ago a man, named Spollin, was charged with the murder of a railway official in Dublin; the trial was conducted in a hasty and slovenly manner, and he was acquitted.

It transpired afterwards that two witnesses who could have proved the guilt of the prisoner were never examined at all.

If he could have been retried there was abundance of evidence to ensure a conviction.

What was the sequel?

The wretch Spollin had the audacity to deliver a series of lectures upon murder in general, and the one he had been charged with in particular.

People paid their money to listen to the scoundrel’s statement.

Spollin declared that he was giving these lectures to realise a sufficient sum to take him abroad, as he had no chance of obtaining employment in this country.

He was an ignorant illiterate man, and his “lectures” as he called them were contemptible; they were worse than this――they were an insult to the public, whose indignation became aroused.

The last he gave imperilled his life, for a portion of the audience boldly accused him and would not allow him to proceed till he had confessed to the murder. He admitted himself to be guilty.

A rush was made towards the platform and Spollin made his escape by a side door.

Giles Chudley was advised by his friends to say nothing himself but to engage a solicitor to defend him. He agreed to this proposition, and sent for a gentleman who was supposed to be a sharp practitioner.

His learned adviser told Chudley to leave the matter in his hands. He spoke so confidently, and was really so delighted in having the case, that the prisoner plucked up courage, and began to think that he should ride over the difficulties with which he was surrounded.

It was a most singular circumstance――but it was true, nevertheless――that Giles, who was but a poor farm labourer, should have ample funds at his disposal to pay his solicitor handsomely for his defence.

As he alighted from the prison van, which drew up by the side of the court-house, Giles was saluted with a storm of groans and hisses.

Mr. Philip Jamblin was a young man who had been universally respected, and his murderer, as a natural consequence, was as universally execrated, and in all probability, had the populace got hold of him――had he not been protected by a cohort of constables and warders――he would have been subjected to Lynch law.

The magistrates had taken their respective seats, the chief clerk had mended and nibbed a favourite quill pen, Mr. Chicknell was busily engaged in arranging his papers at one of the tables in front of the chief clerk, and Mr. Wrench was rushing about in the greatest state of anxiety. He had his witnesses safely ensconced in an adjoining room.

The court was crowded to excess, and it is perhaps needless to say that it was about as inconvenient and ill-ventilated one as it is well possible to conceive.

Every eye was directed towards the prisoner as he entered the dock. Low murmurs arose from the crowd.

“Silence――order!” shouted out the usher. “Hoosh! less noise if you plase.”

Mr. Wrench was called.

He gave a brief but circumstantial account of the arrest of the prisoner, Giles Chudley, together with a number of other immaterial matters relative to the case.

The worthy host of the “Carved Lion” was the next witness.

He deposed to all the facts which had come to his knowledge on the night of the murder.

Mr. Slapperton, the prisoner’s legal adviser, rose to cross-examine this witness.

“Pray, Mr.――For the moment I forget your name.”

“Brickett.”

“Ah! yes, precisely. Well, Mr. Brickett, you say you saw a man stooping down and washing his hands in the pool at Larchgrove-green?”

“Certainly, I did.”

“Yes. Where had you come from――that is, what brought you to the Green?”

“Why, my legs, of course,” returned Brickett.

At this there was a titter in the court which was immediately suppressed by the watchful and industrious usher.

“Don’t bandy words with me, man,” said Slapperton.

“I again ask you where you had been?”

“To a customer of mine.”

“Oh! Had you partaken of any refreshment, or, not to put too fine a point on the matter, had you been drinking?”

“I had not.”

“You were perfectly sober?”

“About as sober as you are now.”

At this last observation there was another titter.

“Your answers are by no means satisfactory, and personal remarks are both unseemly and impertinent,” said the lawyer, in a severe tone. “I will not ask you any further questions. The Court will be able to draw their own inference of your conduct and demeanour. You may stand down.”

Henry Adolphus, radiant in his new livery, was placed in the box.

His statement was much the same as that sworn to on the inquest.

“And that’s all you know about the matter?” said Mr. Slapperton.

“Yes, sir, that is all,” answered the footman.

“Look at the prisoner. Does he resemble the man you saw running across the fields?”

“I shouldn’t like to say for certain, but he does resemble him.”

“Oh! indeed. In what way?”

“In many ways. His eyes are like the man I saw, but since the night of the murder he has grown a beard.”

“Be careful, sir,” cried Slapperton. “He has grown a beard since the night of the murder? You don’t happen to know that he is not the man at all?”

“No, I do not happen to know that,” returned Henry Adolphus. “My impression is that he is the man I saw.”

“Why, just now you said you could not say whether he was or not. Do you know that you are contradicting yourself――perjuring yourself, in fact?” said the lawyer, turning triumphantly towards the bench.

“I think you are in error, Mr. Slapperton,” said Lord Ethalwood. “The witness says he was, and still is, under the impression that the prisoner was the man. He has never said positively that he was. I think you will find that he has not contradicted himself.”

“I bow to your decision, my lord,” observed the lawyer. “It is quite clear that your servant is unable to identify the prisoner.”

“Identification under the circumstances described must necessarily be difficult.”

Mr. Slapperton bowed, and the witness left the box.

Ellen Fulford was then called.

She gave a detailed account of her interview with the deceased in Dennett’s-lane, and in addition to this she described the recognition and capture of the prisoner in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis.”

She was infinitely more calm and self-possessed than she was when giving her evidence on the inquest.

Mr. Slapperton rose to cross-examine her.

“Pray, Miss Fulford, will you tell us whether you met Mr. Jamblin in Dennett’s-lane by appointment, or was it an accidental meeting?”

“I waited for him, as I expected he would pass that way.”

“Ah! I see; you desired to speak to him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I believe he was a lover of yours――was he not?”

“We had kept company and walked together.”

“He was attached to you?”

“I believe he was.”

“And your were also attached to him? The feeling was reciprocal, I suppose, eh?”

The witness did not make any reply. There was a dead silence in the court.

“Why do you not answer my question?” said the lawyer.

“I don’t know that you have any right to put such a question.”

“Oh! but I have,” he returned, with a chuckle; “a perfect right. You must allow me to be the best judge of that.”

Mr. Chicknell came to the rescue. He rose, and addressing the bench, said――

“I strongly object to any such question being put to the witness. It is irrelevant.”

“I do not see that it bears upon the case,” observed Lord Ethalwood, “but if Mr. Slapperton insists――――”

“I do insist, my lord,” cried Slapperton, “and I greatly object to Mr. Chicknell interfering with me in my line of defence.

“I have a duty to perform――a duty I shall not shrink from, but perform fearlessly. I think I shall be able to prove that the young man who is now under examination is innocent of the charge preferred against him.”

As he made these observations he thumped the table, and looked defiantly round the court.

“If it is essential for you to have an answer from the witness it would be wrong for us to interfere. Proceed with your examination,” said Lord Ethalwood.

The question was again put.

“He was my accepted suitor,” said Miss Fulford, after some hesitation.

“You were engaged to be married to him?”

“He would have married me if he had lived,” said the witness, bursting into tears.

Everybody in the court felt for her, everybody but her questioner.

The situation in which she was placed was indeed a most painful one.

But the pertinacious Mr. Slapperton was determined to make himself as conspicuous as possible.

He did not often get the chance of being engaged in such a big case, and he was bent on making the most of it.

“Pray, Miss Fulford, were you not acquainted some time ago with a person named Charles Peace?”

“I did know Mr. Peace when he resided in this neighbourhood.”

“Ah, I thought so! And was he also a lover of yours?”

Miss Fulford became red with indignation.

“No, he was not. He paid me some attention, it is true.”

“Very marked attention, was it not?”

“Mr. Slapperton, I think you are quite out of order,” remarked one of the magistrates. “The man Peace has been in prison for some considerable time, and I for one strongly object to you introducing his name in this case.”

“I shall not shrink from doing my duty,” said Slapperton, perfectly unmoved. “I affirm most positively and emphatically that I am quite justified in the course I am pursuing. If the bench is of an opposite opinion I have no alternative but to submit to their decision, but I shall do so under protest――I say under protest.”

The magistrates conversed together, after which the chairman said――

“My brother magistrates and myself think you are exceeding the limits which ought to circumscribe an advocate in a preliminary examination. It has nothing to do with the charge against the prisoner, and the fact of the witness having one or more admirers or suitors is matter altogether irrelevant. Good taste ought to guide you, and prevent any undue reference to subjects which must necessarily be painful to dwell upon or even to refer to.”

“My object is to elicit the truth, my lord. The questions I have to put are perfectly relevant. You must pardon the observation, but I claim to be best judge in respect to my line of defence. The witness has already admitted that she received――I will not say encouraged――the attentions of Charles Peace, who at the present time is a convict undergoing a term of penal servitude.”

“That is admitted.”

“That being so, I have one or two other questions to put to the witness, which, in the interest of my client, I am constrained to ask.”

“Proceed, sir,” said Lord Ethalwood, haughtily.

“Pray, Miss Fulford, may I ask you if you are aware that the man Peace and the prisoner had a hostile encounter?”

“I believe they had.”

“Oh, you believe so; you are not certain?”

“I was told so.”

“By whom?”

“By many persons.”

“By Peace himself?”

“No, not by him, but by the neighbours.”

“Can you give us their names?”

“Mr. Brickett was one.”

And do you know also that the ill-fated Mr. Jamblin committed an assault upon Charles Peace?”

“I do.”

“What was the reason for the assault in question?”

“Mr. Peace was rude to me in Dennett’s-lane. He was in a violent passion, and dragged me forcibly along. I strove to get away and screamed, being terrified at the time. Mr. Jamblin rescued me.”

“And did he strike Peace?”

“Yes; with a stick he was carrying.”

“And did Peace leave the neighbourhood after that?”

“Yes, immediately afterwards.”

“Were you attached to him?”

“Really, Mr. Slapperton, you are quite out of order. I object to the question.”

“Oh, if you object, sir,” returned Slapperton, in a sarcastic tone, “then I presume the court will coincide with you.”

Without waiting for the decision Nell Fulford said in a loud voice――

“I was not attached to him.”

“Thank you, madam, I am much obliged by your courtesy,” cried the persevering advocate in an ironical manner, casting at the same time a withering glance at Chicknell.

Mr. Slapperton had come for the express purpose of asking every possible conflicting and painful question of the witnesses. It was his aim in doing so to distinguish himself as a fearless advocate, and thus create what he termed a “sensation.” But the latitude of counsel has increased since his day, and recently it has been a scandal to our courts of law.

Whether, as some people tell us, the quality of the bar, and of police-courts in particular, has deteriorated of late years, whether it is assumed at present the plea of “public interests” covers every excess of zeal and every abuse of privilege which an advocate may permit himself, or whether it is that the inquiries before the magistrate, which have of late years grown to such inordinate dimensions, afford an entirely new field for the display of such excesses, we will not undertake to say. But the fact is indisputable. Nor are the discreditable scenes which distinguished the court-house at Richmond during the examination of Kate Webster, the only ones which have recently drawn attention to the growing coarseness and inquisitorial tyranny with which cross-examinations are conducted.

[Sidenote: No. 32.]

It was not merely in examining witnesses that the counsel for the prisoner on this occasion indulged in observations which ought not to have been tolerated for a moment by anyone who may be presiding over the proceedings in a court of justice.

It is perfectly true that great latitude must of necessity be allowed to counsel in their efforts to extract the truth from obstinate or interested witnesses. But in the hands of an accomplished advocate, who is a gentleman at the same time, this need never degenerate into bullying or browbeating.

There are witnesses, of course, on whom tenderness or courtesy would be wasted, and for whom no cross-examination can be too searching or severe.

But where an advocate, through want of skill or self-control, applies to one class of witnesses a mode of treatment only applicable to another, it is time for the judge or justice to interfere, and to protect respectable persons from gross outrages and indignities.

Nell Fulford had a series of questions put to her by Mr. Slapperton, which, naturally enough, raised the indignation of the bench.

It would be difficult to fetter an advocate by any hard and fast rules, and both judges and magistrates naturally felt great reluctance in interfering with him in the discharge of his duty.

But the former have a task to perform as well, and any delicacy which they may exhibit in fulfilling it should be met by corresponding delicacy on the part of the counsel in the case.

It is much to be regretted that this is not invariably forthcoming, and that if the particular kind of cross-examination satirised in the person of Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz has, to some extent, gone out of fashion, something nearly, if not quite as bad, survives among our criminal lawyers.

In inquiries conducted before magistrates this license is painfully conspicuous.

It appears very often as if an ordinary bench of magistrates――we are not, of course, speaking of police magistrates――were frightened by the presence of a hectoring, genuine Old Bailey barrister.

It is absolutely monstrous that any of our fellow-citizens should be liable at any moment to be placed in the witness-box, and compelled, on pain of commitment, to answer the most insulting questions about his past career, and about all his relations and connections.

Judges themselves do not always interfere with sufficient promptitude to check these abuses of advocacy.

And magistrates, as we have already said, too often seem afraid to do so.

But there is one person, at all events, who might do something to check the practice, and that is the witness himself.

If it were found that witnesses made a practice of refusing to answer questions raking up their whole past lives, in order if possible to discredit their veracity and respectability, the system must inevitably collapse.

A general public protest against this iniquitous practice, represented by the frequent spectacle of witnesses being committed for contempt of court, would soon bring counsel to their senses.

So far, therefore, the public has the remedy in its own hands.

A few martyrs to this legal tyranny, in the shape of witnesses preferring imprisonment to submission, would work a wonderful change in our law courts.

And it is by no means improbable that an improvement in these might be followed by improvements elsewhere, and that the intangible entity called “public interest” would not so often be allowed to shield the most unwarrantable breaches of confidence and invasions of domestic privacy.

Every man of course knows what he has to expect if he ventures to criticise the procedure of a court of law, or the conduct of a judge or barrister.

He is treated with contempt, as a person who must necessarily be in total ignorance of the subject under consideration.

In all professions there is a tendency to regard the comments of the outside public as not only worthless but impertinent.

The practice of the law is a comparative mystery to all but the practitioners themselves.

The forms of the court, the rules which regulate the examination of witnesses, what evidence is admissible and what is not, the very phraseology in which lawyers communicate with each other――all subjects of which nobody can acquire any knowledge whatever by the light of nature; and this consciousness of ignorance on the part of the public disposes them to look with a kind of awe on the interior of a court of justice, and to be very much at the mercy of any one of the hierophants who shall think proper to rebuke the presumption of an audacious and uninstructed critic.

It is too often forgotten by both sides that the professional man himself labours under disqualifications scarcely less serious than those of the intruder whom he ridicules.

The lawyer’s experience, his familiarity with technicalities so formidable to the unprofessional mind, and his personal acquaintance with the working of our judicial system, enable him to speak from a point of advantage in contending with a lay disputant, by which the latter is apt to be abashed.

But the layman, on the other hand, is free from those ideals which upset the judgment of the lawyer; he is not defending a system in which he has been bred, the details of which he has mastered with great difficulty, and which long habit has taught him to consider irrepressible.

It is always a moot point whether professional or non-professional men make the better reformers.

For our own part we incline to think the latter more likely to become so, from the very fact that they are enabled to take an independent and unprejudiced view of the law as it stands.

The first have the knowledge and experience; but they cannot see themselves from without or appreciate the criticism of common sense, when brought to bear upon their long-established maxims.

The second can take broader views of the questions submitted to their judgment, and see the immediate defects of existing rules and regulations, though they are not always able to comprehend the full consequences which might flow from their suggestions.

It must readily be owned, therefore, that such animadversions ought to be uttered with some diffidence, and received with considerable caution.

But he must stand up for the right of the public, to protect itself against the abuse of privilege, when those who ought to protect it are forgetful of their duty.

Witnesses in our courts of law are entitled to be treated with common courtesy.

They ought not to be exposed to the insolence and contumely of pettifogging lawyers and tenth-rate barristers, who have nothing to recommend them but their wigs and their unblushing impudence.

An incalculable amount of mischief accrues from the latitude allowed to counsel. Witnesses have a natural dread of being subject to the painful ordeal of impudent questions being put to them by a bullying coarse-minded legal freelance, and hence it is that there is a natural reluctance on the part of many persons to give their testimony at all, and the consequence is that many scoundrels escape the punishment which they so justly merit.

Mr. Slapperton was a bright sample of an unscrupulous cross-examiner. He was not to be put down.

It is true that the magistrates on the bench were gentlemen, but that did not matter to Slapperton. He had come into court to make a sort of gladiatorial display, to produce as much effect as possible, and, to do him justice, he did his best to carry out his object.

“I have been successful in getting certain admissions from the witness,” said the lawyer, addressing himself to the bench; “and I suppose I may proceed with my cross-examination without further interruptions?”

“You are at liberty to ask what questions you deem requisite,” said one of the magistrates.

“Do you know, Miss Fulford, if the late Mr. Jamblin ever met Charles Peace after the conflict in Dennett’s-lane?”

“I dunno, but I think not. Mr. Peace left Broxbridge on the day after, or it might be two days afterwards. I be pretty sure he never saw Mr. Jamblin agen.”

“I think you said that you were engaged to Mr. Jamblin?”

“I have not said so.”

“Indeed! Then I must have misunderstood you.”

“She said she kept company with him,” observed the chief clerk, referring to his notes.

“Ah well, that’s pretty much the same thing, I suppose,” returned the lawyer, with a short, dry laugh.

“It depends upon what construction you put upon the declaration,” suggested Mr. Chicknell.

“Just so. Well, that is how I construe it. The witness said Mr. Jamblin would have married her if he had lived. Did you not?”

This last query was directed to Nell.

“I believe he would ha’ done so,” she answered, hanging down her head.

“As an honourable man he was bound to do so. Was he not?”

“He was an honourable, good young man.”

“Ah, no doubt, but that is no answer to my question.”

“I cannot gi’ ee any other answer,” said the trembling girl.

“Oh, but you must. In plain words, you were already his mistress, and hoped to be his wife. Was that not so?”

“Mr. Slapperton, I must tell you plainly that I think your conduct is most unwarrantable,” cried Lord Ethalwood, “and will not allow such a gross act of indecorum to pass over without expressing my disapproval of the same.”

There was loud applause in the court as these words fell from the lips of the chairman.

“Order!――Silence!” shouted out the usher, in his usual nasal twang.

“I am sorry to differ with your lordship,” observed Slapperton. “It is not my practice to act in an indecorous manner, but――――”

“Silence, sir!” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood. “Your conduct is most reprehensible. Have you no consideration for the young person in the box? Have you no regard for her feelings? I will not and cannot sit on this bench and allow any female to be insulted.”

“Insulted?”

“Yes, grossly insulted! How dare you presume to make such an observation as you have done in an open court?”

“Because I deemed it requisite――for that simple reason. The prisoner at the bar is a poor man, in a humble position in life. It is my bounden duty to see that he is not the victim of prejudice. It is also my duty to lay before you all these facts which bear directly and indirectly on the case, and in doing so I am constrained to be plain-spoken. I don’t create these painful facts. It is no fault of mine that I am, from the force of circumstances, compelled to put questions which, although painful for me to ask, and are perhaps still more painful for the witness to answer, have nevertheless to be submitted. I must tell you frankly that I will not shrink from doing my duty.”

“You cannot proceed, Mr. Slapperton, in opposition to the ruling of the bench. That you know as well as I do,” said Mr. Chicknell.

“But as yet the bench have not decided the point.”

“We have,” said one of the magistrates; “and our decision is unanimous. Your last question to the witness is not admissible, and we cannot reprobate your conduct too strongly in putting such a query, or the bad taste you have displayed by the innuendo accompanying it.”

“I have done,” said Slapperton. “Let it pass, then. I have no alternative left but to bow to the wise decision of the bench. It appears to me that I am so restricted and subject to so many indecorous interruptions, while vainly endeavouring to pursue a just and proper course of cross-examination, that I am unable to do justice to my client.”

“I think your remarks are quite uncalled for, and are, at the same time, in very bad taste,” observed one of the sitting magistrates. “You have full liberty to ask any questions of the witness which may bear upon the case; but to enter into private matters, which are altogether irrelevant, cannot be permitted.”

“I maintain that the private matters, as you are pleased to term them, do bear upon the case. You, however, appear to be of a different opinion――so I will proceed with other points.”

Then, turning towards the witness, Mr. Slapperton said――

“You stated before the coroner that, when you were conversing with Mr. Jamblin in Dennett’s lane on the night of the murder, you saw the face of a man through the hedge. Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And did you see his features distinctly?”

“Most distinctly.”

“The night was a dark one――was it not?”

“Rather dark.”

“And there are no lamps in the lane?”

“No. None.”

“And yet you were able to distinguish the features of the stranger?”

“He wasn’t a stranger.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause I saw his face, and knew him to be Giles Chudley.”

“You must be gifted with wonderful eyesight. Do you mean to say, upon your oath, that the prisoner at the bar was the man?”

“I do. It was none other than he.”

“This you swear most positively?”

“Yes, I swear it agen an’ agen.”

“Once will do, Miss Fulford. It seems almost incredible that you could recognise a man under the circumstances. Pray, did you expect to see the prisoner there?”

“No, I did not.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause he had left the neighbourhood, and hadn’t been seen for a goodish while.”

“I have no doubt that you are speaking conscientiously, Miss Fulford; still at the same time you must not be offended if I suggest that you are mistaken. It would, I dare say, astonish you to learn that the prisoner was not in the neighbourhood on the night of the murder. Perhaps you would not believe this if I proved the fact upon evidence?”

“I should be astonished certainly.”

“Are you about to prove an alibi?” said Lord Ethalwood, in a tone of surprise.

“I am instructed to say that evidence will be offered upon that point,” returned Mr. Slapperton; “and I am, therefore, most anxious to hear all that Miss Fulford has to say. She is positive, but she may be mistaken. It is a very common thing for a witness to be mistaken as far as the identification of an individual is concerned.”

“Ah, that is generally admitted, I think, by most professional gentlemen. You are quite right in your course of cross-examination as far as that is concerned, for it is one of the leading and most important points in the case.”

“You will pardon me, my lord,” returned Slapperton, “but my hypothesis is that the witness is mistaken. We must bear in mind that there are so many persons in this neighbourhood who might be taken for the prisoner, especially if they were behind a hedge on a dark night.

“In the first place people are much more similar than we always remember, without disputing or accepting the extraordinary idea which exists in so many countries, and is the basis of so many fables, that every man has his ‘double’ somewhere――an individual absolutely identical in appearance with himself. It is quite certain that most extraordinary likenesses do exist among persons wholly disconnected in blood; that there are faces and forms in the world which are rather types than individualities; people so like one another that only the most intimate friends and connections can detect the difference. I trust, my lord, that you do not deem the observations I am making out of place, seeing the importance of the subject in hand.”

“Not at all――I think them both right and proper.”

“Very well, my lord, that being so, I will, with your permission, enlarge more fully on this. The likeness of Madame Lamotte and Marie Antoinette is a well-known historic instance, and there are few persons who have not, in their own experience, met with something of the same kind. I have myself twice. In one case I was on board ship in which were two passengers who neither were, nor by any possibility could be, connected by birth or any other circumstance whatever, except in caste. Oddly enough, they were unaware of the likeness which was the talk of the ship, dressed in the same style; but from some inexplicable revulsion――I am stating mere facts, gentlemen――disliked and avoided each other. In a six weeks’ voyage, and with a tolerably intimate acquaintance with one of the two, I never succeeded in distinguishing them by sight; and of the remaining passengers, certainly one half, say thirty educated persons, were in the same predicament.”

“That appears most extraordinary,” exclaimed the bench.

“I pledge you my word and honour that it is a fact,” returned the wily advocate, who was riding his hobby to the fullest extent.

“In the second instance the evidence is far less perfect, but sufficient for the argument I am now advocating.”

“One day when in Bond-street I stopped short utterly puzzled by the appearance of one of my closest connections but two yards off. Clearly it was he, yet he could from circumstances by no possibility be there. Still it was he, and I advanced to address him, when a momentary smile broke the spell, yet leaving behind the impression. I could have sworn to him in any court of justice.

“The likeness was really astounding, quite sufficient to have deceived any number of policemen unacquainted previously with the other man. And this just brings up the point I want to make――is it not just possible――is it not rather a serious supposition when my client and our criminal procedure is considered――is it not just possible that something like colour blindness affects this matter of identification――that there are a host of persons whose evidence upon any question of identity, though perfectly honest, are worthy of very little trust? That men upon this as upon most other matters are guilty of an uncommon carelessness like that which makes testimony about figured statements so often valueless.”

“The witness speaks most positively,” said Lord Ethalwood. “Nevertheless, I for one, quite agree with you upon the doubts and difficulties attending identification, but there are other witnesses besides the one at present under examination who bear out her testimony.”

“Not in a positive manner, my lord. I have every reason for believing that they are mistaken.”

No further questions were put to Ellen Fulford, who was told to stand down.

Matilda Lucas, the little girl who resided with her parents in Jawbone Cottage, was next placed in the box.

She deposed to seeing a man washing his hands in the pool of water at Larchgrove-green on the night of the murder.

She swore most distinctly that the prisoner was the man.

“Now look at the prisoner, if you please,” said Mr. Slapperton.

The child regarded Chudley with a curious glance.

“Now, my good girl, take your time, consider well before you answer. Is the prisoner like the man you saw at Larchgrove-green.”

“He beant so loike him as he was,” returned the girl.

“Ah! no――I thought not,” said the lawyer, “but something like him, I suppose.”

“Ah! yes, he be the same man as I saw, only he’s got a big beard now, which he had not then.”

“That would make a difference, of course. You can’t swear to him. Now, mind what you say.”

The little girl hesitated, and did not make any reply.

“Don’t you hear what I say?” cried Slapperton.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what say you?”

“The man I seed a washin’ his hands was Giles Chudley.”

“It was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of that you are quite certain.”

“I be quite sartin o’ that.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I know’d him so well, that is why I be so sartin. I know’d him by his brown face, beaky nose, an’ bushy whiskers.”

Mr. Slapperton was disappointed. The girl’s answers were so natural and truthful that every person in the court was impressed with the fact that her evidence could be relied on, and Mr. Slapperton felt that he would be only making matters worse by subjecting her to a severe and searching cross-examination.

“She is a truthful witness, my lord,” said the lawyer; “that is, an honest witness who speaks what she believes to be truth, but it does not follow that she may not be mistaken.”

“She has given her evidence remarkably well,” observed one of the magistrates, “and is a very intelligent little girl.”

“Now I have one or two more questions to put,” said Slapperton. “When you looked out of the bedroom window of the cottage, was the man’s back towards you or his face?”

“His face wur towards me.”

“And it was rather a dark night――was it not?”

“Noa, not whar I seed the man. The moon was a shinin’ quite bright loike.”

“Was his face in shadow?”

“I dunno that it wur; I know’d it wur the face o’ Giles Chudley――of that I be sartin sure――and his mouth wur a-bleedin’.”

Slapperton felt that it would be worse for him――so ceased all further questioning; and he therefore said in a tone of affected satisfaction――

“That will do; I am quite satisfied――have no further questions to ask.”

The little girl left the box.

The divisional surgeon was called. His evidence was to the effect that he had examined the prisoner’s mouth――the front teeth (incisors) were missing; and the two teeth picked up by the police in Larchgrove-lane corresponded in size, structure, and colour to the others in the prisoner’s jaw.

Mr. Slapperton affected to treat this circumstance as of quite minor importance. He said that there were very few persons who had not shed some of their teeth, and it was quite impossible for the most skilled surgeon or dentist to say positively that those found belonged to the prisoner.

The magistrates, however, appeared to be of a different opinion, and a long discussion ensued between them and the prisoner’s advocate.

Both agreed, however, that it would be a question for a jury to decide.

There was a prima facie case made out, and further adjournment was, therefore, deemed unnecessary.

The bench then decided upon fully committing the prisoner for trial upon the charge of “Wilful murder.”

Mr. Slapperton would not allow the day’s proceedings to be brought to a close without making a last appeal on behalf of his client. He was perfectly aware that all he might say would not alter the decision of the stipendiary magistrates; but he had come for the purpose of making himself as conspicuous as possible, and was bent upon having his say.

“I should be sadly neglectful of my duty to my client,” said the pertinacious advocate, “if I suffered him to be committed upon this dreadful charge without offering some remarks upon the evidence we have heard. I do not for one moment impugn the veracity of the several witnesses. All I say is, that they are mistaken; they are labouring under a wrong impression, and at the same time I am under the impression that their judgment is warped by a strong amount of prejudice, which, perhaps very naturally, has influenced them in so marked a degree. It has been said by a great thinker and writer ‘that it is easier to remove a mountain than a prejudice.’ Without doubt most of the witnesses believe what they have deposed to. They are obstinate as far as their evidence is concerned, and to argue with an obstinate man is to confirm him in his opinion.”

“I think you are mistaken, Mr. Slapperton,” observed Lord Ethalwood. “I do not see that any obstinacy has been displayed by any of the witnesses. On the contrary, the witness Brickett and my footman have been very careful in giving their evidence. They neither of them would swear positively.”

“That I admit, my lord. Do not for a moment imagine I had any desire to complain of them. As far as that goes, they are without doubt truthful witnesses. So, indeed, is Miss Fulford, but, nevertheless, I find it hard to believe that she saw the prisoner through the hedge so as to recognise him; but, even assuming she had, this fact does not prove that Chudley was the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin. He might be lurking about the neighbourhood, waiting for one of his quondam companions. It does not necessarily follow that he is guilty of this fearful crime, because he happened to be wandering over the fields near to Dennett’s-lane. He might be out ‘sweetheart-hunting,’ watching for some rustic damsel――even as Miss Fulford was watching for her faithful swain.”

“I do not say it does,” returned Lord Ethalwood. “We none of us say so; but, nevertheless, it is one link in the chain, and it must be admitted on all hands that it is an important link.”

“I confess I do not attach that importance to it that you do,” said the lawyer, in a careless tone; “but I do say that it is a question of mistaken identity. We are all apt to believe that the difference in faces is very great, and not dependent upon accidental features; yet it is almost certain that no such difference exists――that men are as nearly alike as animals appear to be.

“Take, for instance, in evidence of both these propositions, the carelessness of our usual glance, and the similarity among men――a fact which most persons can test for themselves. Look at the conflicting evidence as to identification in the Tichborne case.

“No man on landing at an Indian or Chinese port for the first time can for a few days tell one native from another, and yet they are quite as unlike as so many Englishmen, because, in addition to every other distinction, their complexions cover a wider range of colour, but, being similarly dressed, they seem for a few days as much alike as so many sheep, who are all alike to a Londoner, but among whom a shepherd or a dog makes no mistake.

“Now, if men were much unlike――more unlike than the sheep are――no such curious haziness would be possible, nor would it be if the observer were unconsciously in the habit of studying the form and character of each face.

“We have, as a rule, no such habit, but unless an artist or a policeman relies unconsciously on accidental circumstances――colour, hair on lip or chin, expression or peculiarity of some one feature――and should that by any accident disappear, he is utterly puzzled.

“One-tenth, at least, of Western mankind, is consciously or unconsciously, short-sighted, and never see in any true sense.

“Then a great number of persons are subject to sudden and sometimes erroneous impressions, and with country people especially, when once an idea enters their head, they are very reluctant to part with it.

“It would be out of place for me to cite cases of mistaken identity; that must be reserved for the trial, for it is quite clear that you intend to send the case for trial.”

“Unquestionably, Mr. Slapperton,” said the chairman. “We cannot do otherwise. There is abundance of evidence to warrant us in committing the prisoner, and, whatever your line of defence may be, you had better reserve it for a higher tribunal.”

“Enough, my lord, I will not pursue the question further. I do hope and trust, however, that whatever little ability I may possess will suffice to make manifest to the jury whose duty it is to try the prisoner that he is guiltless of the heinous crime with which he stands charged.”

The examination was at an end. The prisoner was committed on the charge of wilful murder, and the witnesses were bound over to appear at the ensuing sessions.

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LXVI. THE COMPANY AT THE “SHOULDER OF MUTTON” INN

As we have already intimated it was market day, and as a natural consequence the court, the streets, and the public-houses were crowded to overflowing. The chief topic of conversation was, as a matter of course, the great murder case.

In close proximity to the court-house stood a well-known inn, bearing the sign of the “Shoulder of Mutton,” and to this establishment Mr. Slapperton bent his steps. He was a man who courted publicity, and, if it was attainable, popularity also. He was a great talker, an adept at laying down the law, and he felt that he cut what he called a respectable figure in the court, and refreshment after his arduous duties was absolutely requisite; besides, he had one or two clients to meet at the “Shoulder of Mutton.”

Although his conduct had been very reprehensible and pugnacious while in court, there were many who admired what they were pleased to term his “pluck,” and upon entering the public room several of its inmates rose from their seats and shook him warmly by the hand.

“So, Measter Slapperton,” cried a broad-shouldered grazier, “you warn’t a goin’ to let the big wigs ha’ it all their own way.”

“There are two sides to an argument, my friend,” returned the lawyer.

“An yourn be the roight side, I s’pose,” cried a voice from the further end of the room.

“Well, I hope so. That remains to be proved,” answered Slapperton, making the best of his way towards an ante-room, in which the dinner he had ordered was about to be served. Here two of his clients awaited him.

After he had received their instructions, and devoured his substantial repast, he returned to the public room, which was filled with well-to-do agriculturists.

Mr. Slapperton seated himself, sipped his port wine, and lighted his cigar. He felt that he was the “observed of all observers,” and this flattered the legal gentleman’s vanity.

There was a sort of running fire of observations on the all-absorbing topic.

One farmer, more pertinacious than the rest, turned towards the attorney, and said――

“An’ do ye think as how they’ll bring it hoame to the murdering scoundrel, zur.”

“I don’t give an opinion without the usual fee,” observed Slapperton.

This retort was greeted with loud and continuous guffaws.

“You’ve got ee change, old man,” said one.

“It aint no yoose trying it on wi’ a lawyer,” cried another.

“Oh, there’s no secret about the matter, gentlemen,” said Slapperton. “It is simply a question of identity. If the witnesses are mistaken, which I affirm they are, it would be wrong indeed to hang a man upon their testimony. So many questions arise in cases of this sort. Fatness and thinness are great aids to recognition, yet they are temporary, dependent sometimes on mere accidents of health. We have all of us met friends whom we have not seen, say, for three years, who have grown wider if not wiser in the interval, and whom we should not, without speech, have recognised.”

“That be true enough,” said one of the company. “I ha’ had the thing occur to me.”

“So have I,” said the lawyer, who was on his favourite hobby. “I can say so positively.”

“You’re not agoin’ to mek me b’lieve that ee be innocent, identity or no identity,” cried Brickett, who was one of the company.

“Oh, it’s you, eh?” said the lawyer, looking curiously at the speaker. “I shall not endeavour to do so. You heard what I said about prejudice?”

“Yes, I did, and it beant true. There be no prejudice in the matter. I could have sed more if I’d bin amind.”

“Ah, I dare say; but now, with respect to identity, I think of the excessive difficulty with which the memory retains a face. Portrait painters of half a century’s standing will tell you that they hardly retain the impression of a sitter five minutes, though they have been studying him keenly, that their own first touches from him as he sits are invaluable helps; that they would all, if it were convenient for art reasons, like to keep a photograph in full view for their work when the original is away. We think we remember, but in five minutes we forget, the half of a friend’s face nearly as perfectly as we forget the whole of our own. Clearly if identification were as easy as we are apt to believe, we should not so forget faces. And their expression? Doubtless, expression being, so to speak, an intellectual rather than a physical fact, stirring and rousing the intellect of the observer, his secret and almost instinctive likes and dislikes, remains longer fixed in the mind than mere feature. The witness who arrested Judge Jeffries might have forgotten his face, did forget it, in fact, for Jeffries when seized had only changed his wig, but he could not forget the ferocious glare of those insufferable eyes. But expression changes quickly, may change permanently. We all say every now and then, ‘His face is quite changed,’ while nothing is changed except, perhaps, the expression and the colour. Madness, extreme anger, drink, will all change a well-known face till it is almost irrecognisable.”

“That may be all true,” said one of the company, “but somehow or another I do not think there’s much mistake ’bout that chap――he did the murder right enough.”

“Aye, an’ sure he did,” cried Brickett, “as sartain as I’m a speakin’ now――the black-hearted villain. It aint a morsel o’ good for any one for to be trying to argue us out o’ our seven senses. He be the man and none other.”

“Yes, that’s your opinion,” said Slapperton, “but it is not right and proper to hang a man upon mere opinion or hearsay.”

“Certainly not,” said an elderly gentleman, who was a stranger to them all. “It is requisite to have the clearest and most unanswerable evidence when a man is put upon his trial for a capital offence. I’ve seen a good deal in my time, have been to most parts of the world, and in early life I was concerned in a trial――was one of the jury in fact――and but for me the man would have been hanged.”

“Noe――noe,” cried several, with wondering looks.

“All juries do not always agree,” said Slapperton; “but perhaps our friend will give us the benefit of his experience.”

“Aye, do, sur. Let’s hear all about it,” cried several.

“Speaking of a jury’s disagreeing,” said the old gentleman, “I myself was once the cause of such an occurrence, and I can’t say that I ever regretted it since it saved not only the life of the prisoner, whom I believed to be an innocent man, but my own life.”

“Why, how was that?” inquired several.

“It is really quite a romance in its way,” he replied, “and if you care to listen, I’ll go through it once more.

“It happened many years ago when I was in the United States. Very shortly after I came of age I was summoned on a jury. As it was my first experience I did not attempt to escape serving, as older men are apt to do.

“The only important case that came before us was the trial of a young man for the murder of his own father.

“I won’t go into the particulars any more than is necessary for the story.

“The crime was a most horrible and unnatural one, and to look at the frank, boyish face, and believe him capable of it, seemed impossible.

“The evidence was entirely circumstantial, yet gradually as its terrible weight accumulated, an abundant motive was found in the son’s desire to inherit at once the father’s immense wealth, as it was shown they had recently quarrelled, that hot words had been given and returned, that the young man had publicly threatened his father’s life.

“One by one the jurymen by my side lost faith in the prisoner, and finally when it was clearly proved that he was within five rods of the murdered man, almost after the fatal shot was heard, that he had an empty pistol in his hand, that the ball taken from the wound evidently belonged to the pistol, and that he acted most strangely and unlike an innocent man when found at this time.

“There was only one man on the jury who had not already made up his mind for the terrible verdict――guilty. That man was myself.

“Somehow or other I could not believe the man before me was guilty of the crime charged.

“At the last moment after the judge had charged the jury the prisoner started up and asked if he might say a word for himself.

“Upon permission being given he spoke in a manly voice as follows:――

“‘Gentlemen of the jury, his lordship has just charged you to find a verdict entirely upon the evidence. If you do, you will convict me, and add one more to the long list of unfortunate one’s who have been victims of circumstantial evidence.

“‘But I charge you here, in the presence of God and man, to find a verdict according to your own belief, and may some one among you believe me at this moment when I say, as God hears me, I am an innocent man.

“‘You will say I acted wrongly, gentlemen――I grant it myself, if you look at the mere law of the question.’

“It was an unusual speech to make at such a time――one, perhaps, which should not have been permitted. It made quite a sensation in the court, and as the prisoner sat down his fearless eye caught mine for an instant, and I felt, and he felt, that I was the man of whom he spoke, for at that moment with a certainty that amounted to positive conviction I knew that he was innocent.

“The other eleven men came to a decision almost instantly after leaving the box. They said the prisoner was undoubtedly guilty, and I, for awhile, said nothing. I felt that the man’s life was in my hands, that I was in that hour not bound by whatever any man or body of men might say or think, but that I had a solemn question to decide. I said to my fellow jurymen, ‘Gentlemen, I cannot and will not stand with you in a verdict of guilty against the prisoner, as I believe him to be innocent.’

“That was my decision, and all the arguments and objections they could bring forward during a long confinement could not change it.

“On the fourth day we were discharged, and the prisoner set free.

“Much was said against me; I was even accused of having been bought up by the young man’s family, which was a very wealthy and influential one, and even to this day if I go back there I should be pointed out as the man who sold his verdict. But it had been a matter of conscience with me, and I could not regret it. I have yet to tell you how it was the means of saving my life.

“Shortly after the trial, and more because of the ill-name it had given me than anything else, I removed to New York, started in business there, and found myself some years afterwards a prosperous merchant, yet somewhat broken in health. On the latter account I determined upon a sea voyage.

“I went to Fayal for several seasons, travelled a year or so on the Continent, and finally, having in a great measure recovered my health, I took passage by steamer to New York.

“Somewhere about mid-ocean we experienced a terrible storm. I think the steamer was by no means so seaworthy as she should have been for a voyage at that time of the year (it was in September); at any rate a single night of rough weather strained her severely, and at breakfast next morning it was whispered about that there was a leak forward, and that the water was gaining on us in spite of everything that could be done――all the while, too, the violence of the storm increased rather than diminished.

“Two of the steamer’s boats had been disabled in the storm; a rush was made for the remaining three by the cowardly crew; one was stove in launching, and the other two swamped, and their occupants left helpless in the water before they had put half a dozen yards between them and the ship.

“Indeed no boat, however staunch, could have lived in such a sea.

“As soon as it became definitely known that the vessel was making water, I had gone below and reassured the affrighted lady passengers as well as I could, and helped them to secure their life-preservers. Indeed so assiduous had I become in the latter office that I had neglected to save one for myself, and when suddenly an appalling cry came from deck, and we rushed up just as the ship seemed in her last death struggle, I was entirely destitute of any means for keeping afloat. I succeeded, however, in getting possession of a large plank, and while the passengers were jumping overboard all around me I stood calmly by the rail waiting for the last moment.

“Beside me I now noticed for the first time a man of about my own age.

“He had a life-preserver strapped to his shoulders, and, like myself, appeared to be waiting for the final shock.

“‘You have no life-preserver?’ he said, interrogatively.

“‘No,’ I answered, ‘but this plank will, I think, serve me as well. There seems to have been an insufficient supply of life-preservers――I could get no more.

“‘Take mine,’ he said, and without a moment’s hesitation began to unfasten it. I said I would not think of such a thing, and put out my hand to stop him.’

“What he might have said further was cut short by a sudden thrill that ran through the vessel from stem to stern.

“With all my might I flung my plank from me, and sprang after it in the water.

“Then I remember feeling a sharp blow on the head, and seeing a thousand flashing lights, and then all was blank until I awoke to consciousness, to find myself fastened firmly to the plank by the strongest of lashings――a pair of human hands and arms. I felt, too, something about my shoulders which almost without thought I knew to be a life-preserver.

“The sea was dashing violently over me, and nearly smothered as I was all the time, it was some moments before I fully comprehended the situation.

“I saw now that the arms which upheld me were those of the man whom I had spoken to just before I left the vessel.

“He was supporting himself and me, too, by means of the plank.

“‘What is the meaning of this?’ I gasped, as soon as I found my voice.

“‘You struck your head against the plank, when you came. You were floating like a dead fish. I jumped over, and brought you back to the plank.’

“‘How long have I been this way?’

“‘About an hour, though it seems half a day.’

“‘Well, I can hold on for myself now,’ I said. ‘How shall I ever repay you for what you have done? I owe my life to you.’

“‘But mine has belonged to you for twenty years,’ he said, with strange significance, and I noticed that his voice was feeble with continued exertion.

“Just then the waves swept over us more furiously than ever.

“As soon as there was a lull, I asked again――

“‘How came I with this life-preserver?’

“‘I put it on for you, and you must keep it.’

“‘Why must I?’

“‘You don’t remember me,’ he said. ‘You don’t know that it was you who once saved me from a dreadful death, but you will recollect me when I tell you that it was I who was tried for murder twenty years ago in M―――― Court-house.’

“He paused again, and feebly strove to collect himself.

“The frank boyish face that I remembered was gone, but his eyes were the same that had met mine that day when the prisoner had uttered his strange words to the jury.

“‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘you were man enough to acquit me, because you believed me innocent, and you were right. I repeat it here in this hour of death――for I shall not be alive an hour hence――I was innocent. It was another who committed the crime, and I would have died rather than betray him.’

“Still another long pause, and then again he went on with great effort――

“‘Aye, you saved my life, but I sometimes wonder if it was well you did so. I have seen no happy moment since then. I have wandered up and down the earth with the brand of Cain upon my life, and men have everywhere found it out, and turned from me.’ He reached out his hand to mine, and as I took it he said――‘I am getting weaker and weaker, and there is no good in my hanging on here any longer.’ He wrenched his hand away from mine and said――‘Heaven preserve and protect you!’ and before I could make a motion to detain him he had let go his hold, and a passing wave swept him away out of my sight, and out of my life for ever. Gentlemen, that is the end of my story, which, I assure you, is a true one. I was saved, of course, else I should not be here to tell the tale. I was picked up just at dark, when I had relinquished all hope.”

“Dall it, but that be a wonderful story,” replied several present.

“And how came it that he was so near being found guilty? He were innocent, I s’pose?” said one of the farmers.

“As innocent as you are yourself,” replied the stranger. “It was a case of mistaken identity. The prisoner resembled the actual murderer in a most remarkable degree, but the man who had committed the crime was a great friend of the prisoner, who would have suffered death rather than have betrayed his friend.”

“It’s a deal more than I would do for any man,” observed Brickett.

“Very likely not, but men are very differently constituted. It is perhaps more than any one of us would do.”

“The case bears out my argument,” said Slapperton; “but it is by no means a solitary instance. I will give you another. At a certain assizes, which it is not necessary for me to name, although many of my professional friends are intimately acquainted with the facts, during the trial of a prisoner for burglary there arose a difficulty――this being a clear proof of the prisoner’s identity.

“Baron Alderson, one of the most celebrated judges, in the course of his summing-up, being anxious to impress upon the jury the necessity of caution in the case before them, spoke as follows:――

“‘At one of the first assizes at which I was present soon after entering the profession, a prisoner was charged with the murder of a woman who lived in a secluded cottage about two miles distant from his own house.

“‘Evidence was given as to what might be regarded as a motive for the offence, and as to language having been let fall by the prisoner indicating hostility to the deceased. On that account, I presume, it was that the moment the crime was known suspicion fell upon the prisoner, and search was at once made for him.

“‘He was arrested shortly after the crime had been committed at a place which was not his house, and was at once identified by a host of witnesses, some of whom had seen him shortly before the murder going by a road which led from his house to the scene of the tragedy. Others saw him immediately after it had taken place returning by another and more circuitous route which led to his own house.

“‘Some of these witnesses were intimately acquainted with him, as intimate as the witnesses were who gave their evidence to-day with the accused. Others knew him by sight only, and others described him as identical in height, dress, and general appearance with the man in question.

“‘One man who met him going to the fatal spot spoke to him and received an answer, and confidently deposed to his identity from his voice, as well as from other circumstances.

“‘A woman who knew him well, and who kept a turnpike gate, near which was a pathway leading to the deceased cottage, remembered the prisoner passing through the gate on the night in question.

“‘Footprints were observed near the scene of the murder, which, though indistinct, corresponded with those of the prisoner, and were traced along the pathway leading to the place.’”

“Ah! I doan’t believe in footprints!” cried a farmer present.

[Sidenote: No. 33.]

“Nor I,” returned the lawyer, who then continued his narrative in the judge’s words: “Well, gentlemen, in addition to all this the man was spoken to on his way home by one who knew him, and none of the witnesses were aware of any reason other than that of guilt, which might have induced him to go to the place at which he was taken into custody.

“‘Now the evidence of all these witnesses presented a striking correspondence in respect to time, each having noticed the man at nearly about the same hour.

“‘In short, so great was the testimony showing the prisoner to have approached the scene of the crime shortly before it was committed, and his departure from the spot soon afterwards, that these circumstances seemed conclusively established, and the only question which appeared to cause any anxiety in the mind of the judge was how far the circumstances were established, coupled with the motive, the malice, and the footprints, to compel belief in the commission of a crime of which more direct evidence was wanting.

“‘The case for the prosecution was closed, and the prisoner was called upon for his defence.

“‘He called only one witness. It was the gaoler, who deposed that on the day of the murder, and for some time before and for three days afterwards, he had the prisoner in his custody for another offence, of which he was acquitted, the gaoler himself having been present at the trial.

“‘The prisoner himself made one observation, which was, that the reason he could not make up his mind to go home was that, having been adjudged innocent, he did not want his neighbours to know that he had ever been in gaol.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said the learned baron, ‘I need not tell you the result.’

“Nor need I tell you the result,” observed Mr. Slapperton, addressing himself to the company in the parlour of the “Shoulder of Mutton,” “of an accusation turning on a question of disputed identity, where the judge himself thought it necessary to recall so striking an experience for the caution and guidance of the jury. What say you, Mr. Brickett?”

“Ye be too much for me, I doubt,” returned the host of the “Carved Lion.” “Ye’d mek me bleeve black was white.”

“You are obstinate, my friend, and, I’m afraid, a little prejudiced,” observed the attorney; “but after all it is but natural.”

“If I stop much longer you’ll persuade me that my eyes ain’t no good to me, and that I’ve got colour-blindness or something o’ that sort. I never seed such a chap in all my born days as what ye are,” said Brickett, rising from his seat.

“Don’t go, my friend,” said Slapperton, good-humouredly. “We’ll make a lawyer of you in time. To succeed in the legal profession a man requires either a great deal of talent, or else a great deal of impudence.”

“One o’ them two you’ve got a pretty good stock of――I won’t say which it be,” cried Brickett.

This last observation was greeted with uproarious laughter, and the host of the “Carved Lion” was applauded to the echo.

“Excellent――very good, indeed!” cried Slapperton. “I should not have supposed you’d have had it in you, but you are sharpened up to-day. You see what it is to be in my company.”

“Well, I must be for going,” said Brickett.

“Don’t ’e be in such a might hurry,” observed a farmer. “I shall be for starting myself in less than half an hour, and am going your way――so sit down and make your life as happy as you can. We are all on us friends here, and my company be better nor none, I s’pose?”

“All right,” cried the landlord of the “Carved Lion.” “When you be ready I’m at your service.”

“Truly a most complacent man,” said Slapperton. “A little obstinate perhaps, but not a bad fellow in the main.”

“I s’pose you mean the lion’s main?” cried a rustic wit.

“Oh, yes, I see our friend here keeps the ‘Carved Lion.’ Very good indeed for an off-hander,” observed the lawyer; “and as most of you represent the agricultural interest,” he added, in continuation, “I’ll give you the particulars of a case which came under my own observation, as doubtless it will amuse you.

It was at Northamptonshire Sessions several years ago that a man was indicted for stealing a duck. The facts are simple enough, and you won’t require any stretch of imagination to comprehend the case as it was presented to the judge and jury.

As the prisoner was walking along the highway he was seen by a witness, who was journeying the same road, to enter a field, the gate of which opened on the highway, and seize a duck under his arm.

You must understand that he continued to walk in the same direction in which he had been going before, and that a little higher up on the road before him was the farmhouse belonging to the farm from which the duck was taken.

“Gad, he must ha’ had the impudence of a highwayman’s horse!” exclaimed one of the party.

Mr. Slapperton continued: This and the fact that he was apprehended with the duck under his arm, and was unknown to the witness or the constable, was the sole evidence adduced by the prosecution.

“And warn’t that enough?” said one of the company.

You shall hear. The defendant’s counsel said, “I understood you to say that you were walking behind the prisoner?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Can you tell me how far behind?”

“Well, as nearly as I can guess, it might be a hundred yards or more.”

“Oh, a hundred yards, and did you know there were ducks in the field into which he went?”

“Oh, yes, I’m quite sure of that, for I heard them quacking.”

“What! at that distance? They were making a great noise, then?”

“Yes, a very great noise.”

“And did you see the dog that was worrying them and causing them to make that noise?”

“I didn’t see any dog.”

“You didn’t, eh? Pray let me understand what you did see. When the prisoner went up to the gate, did you see the ducks?”

“Oh, dear me, no. That was not possible; the ducks were round the corner, loike. You couldn’t see ’em till you got close up to the gate.”

“Then if a dog was worrying the ducks, you would not see the dog till you got close up to the gate?”

“Certainly not.”

Chairman: “Did you hear any dog――and when you got to the gate, did you see one?”

“No, my lord, I did not see any dog at all.”

“But,” said the counsel, “as you were so far behind the prisoner, and you could not see the ducks, there might have been a dog there, although you did not see it.”

“I don’t think there was one――still there might have been one, but I am quite positive that I did not see one.”

“And he never heard one,” said the chairman.

“No, my lord,” returned the counsel. “You see the ducks were making a very great noise.”

“If the dog barked――which, in such a situation, he most likely would――his bark must have been heard,” said the chairman.

“Not necessarily so, my lord.”

After a little re-examination as to whether there were any marks of a dog’s teeth upon the duck’s neck, the case was closed for the prosecution.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the counsel for the prisoner, “from the questions which I have put to the principal witness called for the prosecution you will have already anticipated the case I have to submit to you on the part of the defendant. He is a perfect stranger to this part of the country, and has fallen a victim, far away from his friends, to his efforts to rescue a helpless creature from suffering.

“He was passing along the highway thinking only of getting to the end of his journey, and little dreaming of the misfortune which was in store for him. When he came to the gate, hearing a noise, which the witness has described, his attention was attracted to the cause of it, which was a little dog worrying one of the ducks, and of course alarming the rest. The prisoner, I am informed, is a kindly-disposed, humane person, and it frequently happens that these qualities cause their possessor to get into trouble which a less considerate person would perhaps avoid. He was too late to be of much service to the poor duck, but the dog ran away at his approach like a little mischievous cur, as he doubtless was. This is the reason why the witness never saw the dog. The prisoner rang the poor bird’s neck to put it out of its pain. I trust any one of you would have done the same under similar circumstances.

“And yet this humane action has brought this worthy man before you under a disgraceful criminal charge, of which, however, I feel confident you will acquit him.

“What can be more absurd than to suppose for one moment that a man who intended to steal a duck would go in the broad daylight, and take it from a field, and wring its neck and put it under his arm within sight of a witness a hundred yards behind him, and then having carefully provided this evidence of his guilt would carry the stolen property in the direction of the owner’s house where it would be certain to be identified? My lord very properly put the question whether the witness heard the dog barking, but my learned friend unintentionally cleared up that difficulty by suggesting, in a question to the witness, that the dog might have seized the duck by the neck. Now, if a dog has a duck’s neck or any part of a duck in his mouth, I think that it is quite enough to account for the animal not barking; so much for the witness not hearing the dog. As for his not seeing him, it would be very odd if he had, when my client had gone into the field and frightened the dog away before the witness came up.

“Gentlemen, as the unfortunate man before you is debarred by the law from giving evidence in his own defence, and the only other witness to the transaction has been called for the prosecution, I have necessarily no evidence to lay before you; but as the only witness whom you have heard admits there might have been a dog although he did not see it, I confidently ask you to act in accordance with the humane maxim of the law, and give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the chairman, “I need not recapitulate the evidence. I have heard the tale of a ‘Cock and a Bull,’ but I never heard till this day of a tale of a dog and a duck. Consider your verdict.”

The jury did so, and without leaving the box returned a verdict of

“Not Guilty.”

The learned counsel for the prosecution sang a song very well, and entertained his brethren that evening at mess, and many evenings afterwards on circuit also, with the song of “The Dog and the Duck,” to each stanza of which was appended a remarkable chorus, which no type unadapted to music can effectually render. One stanza only I remember.

The witness swore he saw no dog, The counsel said “So be it,” But then you know there might have been a dog, Although you did not see it. Bow, wow, wow, Tow, row, row, Whack fol de riddle diddle, Bow, wow, wow.

The story was told me by one of the counsel concerned in the case, who, however, took care to add (as I am told he always did) that he would not have me suppose that the plea put forward so successfully for the defence was an invention of the defendant’s counsel, but that it was contained in his instructions.

The other counsel in the case, after a long and successful career at the bar, where his wit and good humour made him beloved, and his learning respected by all who knew him, ended his days on the bench, his elevation to which was the proper recognition of an honourable and distinguished career.

The foregoing amusing case is included in legal cases under the title of “Twelve Tales of the Law.”

“Didn’t I tell ’ee that these lawyer chaps can mek anybody bleeve black’s white?” cried Brickett, when Mr. Slapperton concluded. “He meant prigging the duck, depend on that.”

“You’re a prejudiced man,” said Slapperton. “All’s fair in love, trade, war, and law.”

The company in the parlour of the “Shoulder of Mutton” had a longer sitting than usual, and they now began to break up. There was no end of shaking of hands, as by ones, twos, and threes, they took their departure.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

LXVII. REMOVAL OF A BATCH OF CONVICTS――PEACE TAKEN TO DARTMOOR

The events we have been describing――the search after, the capture, and committal, of Giles Chudley――were unknown to Peace; indeed he was in entire ignorance of the murder of Mr. Jamblin.

Through the long weary hours of his imprisonment he was looking forward through the darkness which enshrouded him to the day of his liberation as to a bright and unsetting star.

Its clear white ray pierced the clouds which hung dark and heavy over him, and shed light and hope within him, for it told him that behind those clouds there was a light and a day which would yet dawn upon him, wherein he could work and redeem the past.

As he lay upon his bed and gazed out of the window of his cell, watching the birds dart hither and thither in a clear blue sky, thoughts of the time when he should be free arose in his mind and cheered his desponding heart.

Through the silent hours of the night he watched the myriad stars shining in the midnight sky, glancing glory from far-off worlds, and thought the while which among that radiant, silent throng was his.

He looked forward to the day when he should be cast into the world again.

Can it be wondered at that under the influence of these feelings he bitterly regretted having pursued such a reckless and lawless career? He had seen enough and heard enough from the prison chaplain to be forcibly impressed with the errors of his ways.

He had met with men whose whole life had been spent in constant warfare against society, and who had no other intention, on regaining their liberty, than to continue the struggle to the bitter end――

The murderer, cheerful and complacent over the verdict of manslaughter; the professional garotter, in whose estimation human life is of no value, troubled only at being so foolish as to be caught; the professional thief, the pickpocket, the skilled housebreaker――every one of them sound in wind and limb, intent only on their schemes and “dodges,” to extract the sting from their punishment――all longing for the time when they and society would cry “quits,” and they be at liberty to pursue their career of villainy.

With these, the vilest of the vile, and also with the hoary criminal who knew no home save the prison, who preferred it to the poor-house.

He had been shut up many months without a glance at the external world and its doings; he had not seen a newspaper or heard a scrap of news of any sort, and it was, therefore, some relief to him when he was informed that he was to be transferred with the next batch of convicts to Dartmoor.

He never reflected at this time that perhaps he might possibly find the discipline much more severe in that place.

Dartmoor, as most of our readers know, is an extensive and remarkable tract of land on the north-west of Exmoor. It comprises an area of three hundred and fifty thousand acres, one-third of which is termed Dartmoor Forest.

During the revolutionary war a French prison was erected on the moor, which has been transformed into an agricultural settlement for the poor. Part of the buildings are now occupied by a company established to extract naphtha from peat.

The prisons were commenced in 1806. They are built of granite found on the moor.

Two of the prisons, a row of houses for subordinate officers, and the chapel walls, were erected by French, whilst the interior of the chapel was fitted by American, prisoners, who received from Government a small gratuity for their labour.

At one period of the year as many as ten thousand prisoners were confined within the walls――the site of the prisons――which comprise a circular measurement of thirty acres, and is about one thousand four hundred feet above the sea. The mortality in the prison at Dartmoor is, therefore, from the healthiness of its situation, much less than any other town average.

Public attention has of late years been directed to this place in consequence of the prisoner Arthur Orton, or the “Claimant,” as he has been termed, undergoing penal servitude there.

On the morning upon which the convicts were to be removed from Preston Gaol four omnibuses were drawn up, and into these the batch of prisoners were conducted.

To say the truth, they did not present a particularly respectable appearance, cropped, shaven, and habited in prison clothes as they were; but this, after all, did not trouble them much.

The moment they left the walls of the prison every man in a short time became loquacious――the silent system was no longer in full force, and a certain amount of latitude was allowed; the men were permitted to talk and chatter as they liked, and it is easy to conceive that they did not fail to avail themselves of this privilege.

The omnibuses rumbled along the streets with their distinguished passengers, who looked through the windows in a curious inquiring manner. Their attention was very naturally directed to the contents bills of the morning papers displayed outside the news-vendors’ shops, every line of which was eagerly devoured.

The theatrical posters, too, displayed on the advertising stations of the clever and enterprising firm of Willing and Co. interested them in no small degree.

They saw the names of new pieces, of new actors and actresses, with which they were much gratified.

Like boys let out from school, they were in the best of spirits, forgetting for the nonce that they were but exchanging one prison-house for another.

When they reached the railway station a crowd collected to see them alight. They could hear the remarks of the people, which were by no means complimentary, and two or three of the gang of convicts made use of coarse expletives in an undertone.

The warders in charge of the convicts did not give them much time to indulge in idle curiosity; the prisoners were hustled into a large third-class carriage and told to take their seats. They obeyed sulkily, and those next to the windows thrust out their heads and began begging for tobacco from those who were on the platform.

“Now then, guv’nor――you with the barnacles I mean”――cried one, “we are all down in the dumps. Give us a bit o’ ’bacco, you won’t miss it, ever so little a bit.” The speaker held out his hand and a costermonger emptied his tobacco box, the contents of which he placed in the hand of the prisoner.

“Good luck to ye, and many thanks,” cried the latter.

“Aint one of you got never such a thing as a cigar about you?” said another convict.

Three cigars were thrown in at the window by a heavy swell.

“Thank you, sir, you’re worth your weight in gold. I wish there were more like you in this world.”

“Get down, we’ve had enough o’ this,” said one of the warders, in a commanding tone.

“All right, guv’nor,” cried the convicts. “Don’t draw the string too tight,” said a prisoner. “If so be as the gentleman is in a generous mood it won’t hurt you or anyone else to let us have the benefit on it.”

“Well take what’s given you and look sharp about it,” returned the warder.

“We aint proud any on us,” said the prisoner, addressing himself to those on the platform. “A pennorth o’ shag will be acceptable, but cheeroots and cigars we shall be grateful for.”

Several of the throng on the platform burst out in a loud laugh, and cigars and tobacco were supplied in a most generous manner.

“We shan’t forget this kindness,” cried one or two of the convicts; “and you’ve no call to be afeard that we shall rob any of you. Come what may, we aint such wretches as people suppose us to be, for all that we are in a bit of trouble just now.”

“I hope you will mend your ways, and that your hearts may be turned from wickedness,” said a tall, thin man, with a white choker, thrusting at the same time a handful of tracts in at the carriage window.

“Oh! I say, guv’nor, give us something better than these; they ain’t of no use.”

The tract distributor made no reply, but made off without further ado.

“One of the goody-goody sort,” murmured a convict. “Aint much to be got out of any of his kidney. He aint my sort.”

“Sit down, men,” again repeated the warder; “we are just going to start.”

The prisoners sat down, and in a few seconds after this the carriage began to move, and they were on their journey.

Peace, during his incarceration in Preston Gaol, had made the acquaintance of a professional “cracksman,” or burglar, who hailed from London.

He had, however, been “landed” at Manchester, where he had committed a number of daring robberies. He was a man of fair education, good appearance, and considerable natural ability, much above the average of his professional brethren.

He had been living luxuriously in London on the fruits of his professional skill. Till now he had escaped all punishment, with the exception of a few months’ imprisonment for a “mistake” committed at the outset of his career.

Seeing in Peace a kindred spirit he fraternised with him, and they sat next to each other in the train.

They carried on a conversation in whispers, the words of which were inaudible to the warder who sat at the farther end of the carriage.

“Oh, yes,” observed the cracksman. “I have no reason to complain――I’ve had a pretty goodish run of it, all things considered, but they nabbed me in Manchester. Did I tell you how it happened?”

“No,” whispered Peace. “How was it?”

“Well, you see, one of my pals showed me an advertisement of a Manchester jeweller, wherein he boasted of his safe having successfully resisted the recent efforts of a gang of burglars. I said to my pal, ‘Get Jim, and let us go down to-morrow by the mail train to Manchester, and we will see what this man’s safe is like.’ We all three went down, inspected the jeweller’s premises, and decided upon doing the job through an ironmonger’s shop at the back.

“We had got the contents of the ironmonger’s till, and were just through the intervening back wall when the ‘copper’ (policeman) heard us, and signalled to another ‘bobby’ (policeman) to come and help him.”

“Oh that was an ugly situation,” remarked Peace.

“Yes,” whispered his companion, “it was an unfortunate affair altogether, but there was no help for it. I sprang out at once, for I saw the game was up, and escape was all I thought about.”

“But you did not succeed in getting clear off.”

“I shouldn’t be here if I had,” returned the convict, sulkily. “I wish I had never undertaken the job. I made a desperate fight for it, though, and was nearly getting away when the ‘bobby’ belaboured me most unmercifully with his staff. But I did not give in till I got knocked down insensible. My pal was more fortunate――he bolted and got clean away. Jim and myself got ‘copt’ (caught), and as we had first-class tools on us, new to the authorities here, they gave it us rather hot.”

“Ah, that they would be sure to do. Let them alone for that. But do you think you could have opened the safe?”

“Could I! Certainly. I would have managed it somehow, although I candidly confess it was a jolly good one of its sort. I should not have wasted much time in trying to pick the lock.”

“What did you intend to do, then?” inquired Peace.

“Well, you see,” said the other, in a reflective manner, “safes do give us chaps some trouble at times, but they’re to be mastered. Casey could open any safe, and there are many others in the profession equally clever as him. I flatter myself I’m one, but this you will say is vanity.”

“I don’t say anything of the sort. What one man can do another ought to accomplish.”

“You’ve heard of Casey?”

“Oh, yes, he’s in quod, aint he?”

Peace’s companion nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Poor Casey isn’t likely to trouble anybody outside the walls of a prison for a jolly long time to come. They’ve given it him worth his money.”

“Yes, but about the safe? How did you purpose opening it?” inquired Peace, for whom the conversation had special interest.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered his companion. “I did not intend to set to work on the lock――that is, not make any attempt to pick it. My plan was to drill a hole, and get into the ‘jack.’ When this was accomplished I could, with an instrument I had with me, get moving power sufficient to open any safe.”

“You could?”

“Oh dear, yes! The great difficulty is to get the time. The work I can easily do; but then Jim, my pal, is one of the best locksmiths in England, and he’s as true as steel. I always take him with me for a job of that sort. But, mum, the warder’s got his eye upon us,” said the “cracksman.”

This was true enough, but, situated as he was, he was unable to hear one word of the foregoing conversation. The other prisoners were laughing and talking so that there was too much din and clatter for the warder in charge of them to comprehend the nature of the discussion between Peace and his companion.

The officers in charge of the prisoners allowed them to have it pretty much their own way in respect to social gossip.

As the train proceeded on its journey the prisoners continued to converse together in whispers almost incessantly.

They appeared to be, all of them, in excellent spirits, and to judge from their demeanour, lively conversation, and the occasional fits of laughter, anybody would have come to the conclusion that it was a holiday party of pleasure-seekers, instead of being convicts about to be transferred to a penal gaol.

Peace recognised among his companions many faces that were well known to him.

One young man, who in every respect was superior to the rest, particularly attracted his notice.

He was a stranger to our hero; but there was a sad and thoughtful expression on his features which enlisted Peace’s sympathy.

He was very handsome, and did not appear to be more than twenty years of age.

He had been town traveller for a wholesale City house in London, and, unfortunately for him, got mixed up with a fast set of young men about town, and contracted habits of extravagance.

He was introduced to an actress, “fair but frail,” and became fascinated with her charms to such an extent that the salary he received was not commensurate to supply her wants.

She persuaded him to try his fortune on the stage. He was under the impression, poor young man, that he had all the requisites to ensure success, but soon found out, however, that it takes years and unwearied industry to climb the ladder which leads to dramatic fame.

The sequel may be readily guessed. He embezzled a considerable sum of money from his employers. He was prosecuted by the firm――they said, “for example sake,”――and he was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude.

He was irretrievably ruined. While in prison he listened to the counsel of several hardened offenders, who schooled him for a career of crime and vice.

It is a well-known and acknowledged fact that in this country felony is so lucrative and so far from hazardous that it thrives, and will thrive.

It appears from the judicial statistics that, while incidental crime is decreasing, habitual crime is growing.

Transportation no longer carries off our thieves, who are discharged at the rate of about two thousand a year into the general population.

It is more than probable that a great proportion of these liberated prisoners re-enter the ranks of the criminal class.

The money spent on the repression of crime, ten millions a year, is amply sufficient to effect the purpose. But, as yet, it has been spent in vain. If things continue in the present course, we may look for another panic ere long. The subsidence of that in 1856 was as irrational as its rise. In deference to the popular outcry a show was made for a time of restraining the issue of the licences, and the country was appeased. But the real evil, the discharge of criminals unreformed by their past treatment, and without a check on their future conduct, continues unabated.

It is to be hoped that when the indignant terror of the public is once more aroused it will not again be squandered on the wrong object――the unlucky ticket of leave. But we must not be too sanguine. It is the nature of the bull to vent his fury on the red rag instead of the matador.

It must, however, be conceded that a man really anxious for self-restoration may pass through Portland or Dartmoor uncontaminated, and even derive some benefit from the discipline, defective as it is; but each instances are rare.

The young man who had attracted Peace’s attention became utterly reckless and debased while in the last-named prison.

He became instructed in all the manœuvres of the habitual criminals with whom he associated, and his face became quite changed, as well as his mind.

It assumed that peculiar expression so prevalent among hardened offenders, which to the initiated is unmistakeable. A “leary look,” in which fear, defiance, and cunning are blended together.

His was one of the many instances of evil communication sapping and undermining all moral principle.

The train in which the convicts were did not go direct to Dartmoor.

They had to change on to another line.

Upon the arrival at the station they were ordered to get out, and here they were, as at the time of their starting, surrounded by a curious throng of gazers.

“Keep your peckers up,” cried a cab-driver, “and mind you are good boys for the future.”

“All right, cabby――when I come out I shall want you to drive me to the Hoperoor,” returned one of the prisoners.

“There, that will do; you are not brought here to chaff cabmen,” said one of the warders. “The less you have to say the better.”

“Give him his head for a little bit,” observed the cab-driver. “He’ll be reined up tight enough before long, I fancy.”

“You mind your own business,” said the warder.

“All right, guv’nor, sorry I spoke. Lord, you have got a crew under your charge, and no mistake,” and with these words the man drove off.

The prisoners begged hard for tobacco of persons on the platform, and that, as well as money, was handed to them.

“Oh, I say, master,” cried one, addressing himself to a young man of the Dundreary type, “can you spare us that paper when you have done with it?”

“Certainly, it is at your service,” replied the gentleman, handing the newspaper to the other.

“It’s against the rules,” observed the warder. “Prisoners are not allowed to read newspapers.”

“Only for this once.”

“No, it’s against the rules.”

“But we are not in prison now. Mayn’t a cove have a squint at the news while he’s in the train?”

“Ah, let him have the newspaper; you can make him give it up before the train reaches its destination, you know,” said the gentleman to the warder.

“I don’t like to be too hard with them, but it’s against the rules,” replied the warder, walking away.

The prisoner thrust the paper into his pocket, and no further notice was taken of the action.

“I’m blest if I can read it now I have got it,” murmured the prisoner, as he stepped into the other carriage which was to convey him to Dartmoor; “but there’s some of ’em as can.”

The train had not proceeded very far on its journey before the man drew forth his prize.

“I say, mates, I’ve got a newspaper. Will any on you read it out loud for the benefit of all of us? Please, sir, you won’t object to it, please,” he said, touching his cap and addressing the officer in charge.

“You know as well as I do that it is against the rules,” replied the officer, “but as it has been given to you, and you are not now inside the walls of the prison, I consent.”

“Ah, thank you, sir――thank you,” cried several.

The young man to whom allusion has already been made was asked to read aloud for the benefit of the other prisoners. He was the best educated man of the whole party, some of whom could not read at all, while others could read but imperfectly.

The paper in question was a Sunday morning edition of one of the weeklies.

It contained reports of the trials at the Middlesex and Surrey Sessions, and the young man began at these, after which he read a portion of the police reports, then his eye lighted on a line in broad-faced type, “THE MURDER IN LARCHGROVE LANE; Examination and Committal of the Prisoner.”

“Eh, what’s that?” cried Peace. “In what lane?”

“Larchgrove.”

“Let’s have it,” cried one of the convicts. “The whole true and particular account.”

The young man began to read. As he repeated the name of Mr. Philip Jamblim Peace started.

“Do you know him?” inquired the “cracksman,” who sat next to him.

“Yes, very well.”

The reader continued. The murdered man, the detective engaged in the case, the several witnesses, together with the chairman of the bench of magistrates, were as familiar to him as household words.

He was in a feverish state of excitement and drank in every word with the greatest avidity.

Everybody in the carriage was interested, even to the unimpressionable warder, but not in an equal degree to Peace, who was absorbed as he listened to the thrilling narrative.

“Well, I’m blessed,” exclaimed a young pickpocket, “but it is a big case.”

“Hold your jaw, you young fool,” cried a prisoner; “let’s hear all about it.”

The evidence of Brickett and John Adolphus had been gone carefully through, then followed the examination of Ellen Fulford.

“My eye, he’s giving it her pretty hot,” said the cracksman, “and doesn’t he cheek the beaks?”

“I call him a right-down good ’un,” observed another.

It would be difficult to describe the sensation produced when the young man read the following passage from the report:――

“Pray, Miss Fulford, were you not acquainted some time ago with a person named Charles Peace?”

The reader paused suddenly. Every eye was directed towards our hero.

“Jemmy Johnson squeeze me, but if that aint a cawker,” exclaimed one of the prisoners.

“Order――silence!” said the warder, who began to repent having permitted the reading of the newspaper. He, however, found it impossible to repress the exclamations and inquiries which came from all sides.

“Why, was she a fancy girl of yours?” said one.

“Well, I never,” cried another.

“But aint it lucky he’s in quod?” observed another. “If it had not been for that he might have been charged with the murder.”

“I wish you’d all hold your tongues, and mind your own business,” cried Peace, in a petulant tone. “If you want to hear the case, keep silent; if you don’t, shut up.”

“Well, don’t speak so sharp. It’s no fault of ourn,” said a man on the opposite seat.

“Don’t take on so because the girl’s jilted you,” cried another.

“You hold your clatter, you fool,” said Peace.

“Now then,” said the young man, who had been reading, “there isn’t much more of it, and so just keep quiet that I may finish the case.”

The prisoners obeyed, and the reader continued.

Several more questions were put to the witness regarding Peace, and our hero was greatly relieved when Ellen Fulford’s examination came to an end.

Never in his whole life had he been so astonished, and for the rest of the journey he remained moody and silent, hardly exchanging a word with any one, with the exception of his friend the cracksman, who, of his own accord, made Peace acquainted with his offence and the sentence which had been passed upon him.

There is a certain amount of forbearance displayed by prisoners. They make it a rule never to ask a man what he is in for. If a man likes to be communicative that’s another thing, but it would be deemed impertinent of a fellow-prisoner to question him on the subject.

The badge on his left arm gives his sentence as well as his number, so there is no reason to inquire “what he has got.”

The “outing,” as some of the prisoners termed their journey from one prison to another, was now nearly over.

When the train came to the end of its journey, omnibuses were found waiting at the station, to take the convicts to Princetown, on Dartmoor, where the gaol is situated.

To say the truth, the men had behaved very well, all things considered. They had not given their janitors much trouble, and much to their credit, be it said, they had not made use of any objectionable language. Slang words they could not help introducing in their discourse, as they form part of their vocabulary.

They at once entered the omnibuses, which were driven at a moderate pace, for the road and hills necessitated a slow mode of progression.

Peace, who had chummed up with the cracksman, sat next to him as heretofore, for the men were permitted to take their places according to their own fancy, and there were distinct little coteries inside the prison the same as in the outside world.

As soon as they had got a few miles out of the town they were told to alight and walk up the steep hills――to say the truth, the journey was mostly up hill.

Princetown chiefly consists of the barracks and houses of those connected with the prison; in addition to these there are a few shops kept by tradesmen who supply them. It is rude and rugged in character, and possesses but few attractions, if any. It is true some portion of the land is under cultivation――the remaining parts of the place is composed of granite, gorse, heather, and bog.

It was while walking up one of the hills that Peace and his companions beheld for the first time, at a distance, their new prison-house. As they came upon the piquets of the Civil Guard (uncivil would be the better term), armed with their rifles and bayonets, they were impressed with the rigid discipline carried on at the place.

Upon reaching the prison, a gloomy, cheerless, heavy-looking granite building or series of buildings, surrounded by a high wall, Peace’s heart seemed to sink within him. He turned to the “cracksman” and said――

“This is a God-forgotten place.”

“Not cheerful――not very cheerful-looking, is it?”

Peace made a face and then groaned.

The gate is one of the most gloomy pieces of architecture it is well possible to conceive――indeed, the whole aspect of the place was cheerless and depressing to the last degree.

As soon as the convicts arrived at the gate they were received by several warders, who conducted them into the receiving wards, where all was prepared for their arrival.

Their chains and handcuffs were removed, and they soon found themselves in a long passage about twelve feet wide, lighted by a skylight.

It was made painfully manifest to them all that the discipline at Dartmoor was much more strict than at Preston, and there were not a few who deeply regretted having left that well-regulated gaol.

“I expect we shall have a lively time of it here,” whispered the cracksman to Peace.

“Out of the frying-pan into the fire――that’s about the size of it,” murmered Peace.

The prisoners were taken in ten or a dozen at a time to the bath-room, where they were told to perform the usual ablution. This ceremony occupied some time. At length, however, Peace’s turn came. He was taken with the cracksman and eight others down a passage and across a yard. Two warders in charge of this last batch pointed significantly to a number of baths which were all of a row; they were about four feet six inches square and three feet deep.

A wooden seat ran along the whole of the baths, which were about twenty or more in number; behind the seats was a passage.

The convicts sat on the seats with their backs to the passage and facing the water, to undress, while the prison officials marched up and down.

But other ceremonies had to be gone through. When the bathing was over, the men were conducted into a large room leading out of the passage. In this room there were a number of forms. In the centre of the apartment was a table, and at the end of this, facing the door, sat the chief warder.

He was a handsome, pleasant-featured man, somewhat above the middle height, and it was evident that he was an old soldier, for he bore on his breast several medals won on the battle-field. Behind him was a gentlemanly, courteous man, who was the deputy-governor.

At the side of the table sat the doctor with a book before him, and a bundle of papers to which he ever and anon referred. These papers consisted of reports from the other prisons of the men who were sent to Dartmoor. Peace’s party consisted of thirty-seven.

After they had been in the examining room a minute or so, they were told to strip. There was no alternative but to obey, repugnant as it was to many, or indeed all of them; but when a man is sent to a goal to undergo penal servitude, he is constrained to leave all sense of decency, modesty, or shame outside, and it is much to be regretted that some better regulations are not made in this respect.

Indignities of this sort are not necessary――they are worse than useless. They have a debasing, and baneful effect upon the prisoners, lower their moral tone, and render them callous.

In a minute or so after the order every man was as bare and naked as a Pict.

The chief then left his seat, and stood up beside the table, and every man paraded himself before him. This scene is at once degrading and disgusting.

After the inspection they were directed to go over to the other side of the apartment, where they found thirty-seven bundles of clean clothes awaiting them.

Each prisoner helped himself to a clean bundle, and donned the garments as quickly as possible.

While the dressing was going on the officials in the room were convening on the leading topics of the day in an unconcerned manner.

The ceremony which had just been gone through was one of such frequent occurrence that the prison officials looked upon it as a part of their ordinary every day duty, but to a person who has to undergo it for the first time it is something appalling, especially if he happens to have been well brought up or has any self-respect. To the hardened offender it is a matter of no moment.

The doctor was a very kind, considerate gentleman, who paid every attention to those under his care. He called each man before him whose medical report required him to take special notice of, and examined him, comparing any deformity with the written description, and when, if he found it necessary, he questioned the prisoner upon matters relating to his constitution and general health.

He was a sharp observer of human nature, and could almost tell at a glance whether the man he was questioning spoke the truth or otherwise.

“Well, Peace,” he observed, as that personage came before him, “there is nothing much the matter with you, I believe――that is, so far as your general health is concerned.”

Our hero was surprised at hearing himself addressed by his proper name instead of his number. He was not aware, however, that the doctor had adopted the same method with all the prisoners who had come before him. It was a way he had, albeit it is not the usual custom in convict prisons.

“Yes, sir,” returned Peace, who had passed on to make room for another of the batch.

When all were dressed as far as flannels, shirts, drawers, and stockings were concerned, the men were marched out and resumed the outer clothes which they had arrived in, and which had all been carefully examined by one or more of the prison attendants. Every pin a man had stuck in a jacket was removed.

The men were now fitted with boots, some with two pairs of water-tights.

These were for the prisoners who were destined to work out of doors in the swamps and quarries. The strongest and most able-bodied were selected for this employment. All the caps were altered; they had to be turned down according to the regulation pattern and securely stitched in to the required shape.

The selection of those articles took some time, and while it was going on the warders were operating upon the men’s heads and beards.

Peace and his companions had their hair cropped as close as scissors could make it. The cropping at Dartmoor is a sort of mania with the officials, who delight in denuding the men of their hair, and making them look as much like convicts as possible.

When all were supplied with clothes they were called in, a few at a time, and each new-comer received a new register number and a small card, a small brush, a comb, and a towel.

Those who required spectacles were desired to give their names to be submitted to the prison surgeon. As each batch was finished off and received their register number and ticket, they were marched away to their respective prisons and wards.

Peace felt very much depressed, and would have given anything to be back in his old quarters. He felt assured that his life at Dartmoor would be a wretched one.

Just as he and some half-dozen others arrived outside in the yard, the warder told them to stand in a line against the wall.

“What is this caper for?” whispered our hero to a companion.

“Silence!” exclaimed the prison official. “Prisoners are not allowed to talk.”

The tramp, tramp of many feet was now heard. The outside gang were returning from work. They came on in long lines, two abreast, each gang with its officers in military style, and keeping excellent step and time, but the men looked desponding and careworn.

Poor wretches, there was good reason for this. The work upon which they had been engaged was arduous enough, and in addition to this the ground under foot was little better than a dismal swamp.

At the inner gate of the prison stood the chief warder. He was saluted by every officer as the gangs came up.

Everything is done at Dartmoor with military precision. The number of men being brought back from the quarries or elsewhere, together with the number of the gang, was called out by the officer in charge.

This was checked against the number that had left the prison in the earlier portion of the day.

Peace, as they marched along, was duly impressed with the fact that it was a melancholy spectacle he was witnessing. The wretched convicts came in gang after gang till some three hundred men or more, according to his calculation, must have passed through. Every officer, as he reached the lodge gate, delivered up his rifle, bayonet, belt, and cartridge-box to the armourer, who with his assistant stood ready to receive them.

When all had arrived, and the working parties were safely within the walls of the prison, the Civil Guard closed up the rear, and there was an end to the melancholy tramp of men doomed to wretched daily servitude.

As the poor wretches passed the knot of newcomers they regarded them with a curious and inquiring glance, for they knew perfectly well that they had but just arrived from some other convict prison; but not a word was spoken.

[Sidenote: No. 34.]

Peace and his companions were then conducted into No. 4 prison. This was a large granite building originally constructed for the French prisoners, but now adapted for modern convict appliances.

Since its original construction it had undergone a complete change, as far as its interior arrangements were concerned; it was remodelled upon the plan laid down by those who are so well versed in all the requirements for the reception of convicted felons.

All the floors were taken out, and the galleries of cells were constructed one over the other in four tiers. There are about fifty cells on each landing or gallery, and five landings reached by two flights of stairs, one on each end of the hall.

These halls are called A hall and B hall, and there is only one communication between the two, this being in the middle of the ground floor. The whole of the cells and their supports are constructed of iron, the sides and doors being corrugated iron, and the floor both of cells and landings thick slab slate.

A strong iron rail runs along each landing. No prisoners happened to be there when the new batch of convicts arrived, and the newcomers were now mounted up to the top floor of all.

Over the door-cell was a proper receptacle for a small card with the prisoner’s numerical register on it.

“What is the number of your gang?” said the warder to Peace.

“I don’t know the number, sir,” answered our hero.

“Not know your number?”

“No, sir. When at Preston I worked in the tailors’ shop, but the number of the gang I don’t know――indeed, I never did know it.”

“Oh, well, that is not of any great importance. If you can’t tell me we must do without. Go in there, and the warder of the landing, Mr. Dring, will soon be here.”

Peace entered, and the moment the door was closed he saw what a little dark hole he was thrust into――indeed, it was some minutes before he could make out anything distinctly.

He was curious about his future home, and as soon as possible he proceeded to make an examination of the same.

It was like most places of that description――small enough, certainly, not more than seven feet long by four feet six inches in width, and, as far as he could judge, about eight feet in height.

By the side of the door was a narrow window of thick rough plate-glass, beneath which was a small flap table, that had to be let down when the hammock was slung. Only at this table, and immediately close to the window, was there light enough to see any object distinctly. Over the table and under the window was a narrow shelf, on which to place a candle.

Peace glanced curiously around and surveyed each object with a curious and inquisitive eye. The general appearance of the place was much the same in its leading features as the cells in other convict prisons.

A wooden shelf ran over the door from side to side of the cell. On this spare boots and shoes, together with cleaning rags, were kept.

Opposite the door, about five feet from the ground, was another and wider shelf. On this was arranged the bedclothes, done up in a neat, round, compact roll, a tin pint mug, a tin plate, a small brass candlestick, with a curiously contrived pair of snuffers, made ingeniously out of one piece of tin, a tin knife, a wooden spoon, a wooden salt, and an ordinary school slate.

Below the shelf, and at the opposite end of the cell to the window and flap table, was the hammock, neatly rolled up and strapped against the wall.

An ordinary stable bucket, with iron handle and hoops, was on the floor alongside of a low wooden stool; a small hand broom, and in a corner, under the table, a scrubbing brush, and two tin tallies, with the number of the cell, prison, and hall, hanging behind the door, completed the furniture of the cheerless receptacle for the felon.

Peace surveyed the several objects with a look of resignation. He had by this time been pretty well used to the most noticeable features of apartments of this sort. His attention was now directed to the ventilation of his new abode.

This was of a very primitive principle. There was a gap at the bottom of the door to let air in――the door in fact was made five inches too short――and over the shelf whereon the bedding and utensils were stowed, were some dozen round holes an inch or so in diameter, to let the air out. Each door had a peep-hole with a cover to it.

By the time Peace had completed his inspection the gangs came up, they made a rare clatter and noise, and it seemed to him that they took a delight in making as much disturbance as possible.

In the hall in which he was confined, there were about two hundred convicts, rough, coarse brutes, who, in many respects, resembled caged animals, who only wanted the opportunity to wreak their vengeance upon anyone who came in their way. But they were kept under control, and were so securely guarded that there was not much chance of them getting the upper hand of their janitors.

As each man entered his cell, he slammed the door as hard as he could to vent his spleen and spite upon it for his day’s hard and monotonous toil.

“There’s a nice lot of boys in here,” murmured Peace――“a set of savages, I fancy. Well, it does not much matter, I suppose, but I wish I was back at Preston.”

He had hardly given expression to this wish, when he heard a clatter of tins, which at first he could not make out; this was followed by a shouting between the warders below in the hall and those on the landings.

Presently he heard a warder shout out――

“Can’t you put out your tins and your brooms?”

Peace’s door was opened, and a dark-whiskered man peered in.

“Don’t you hear me?” he said.

“I heard your voice, sir,” said Peace, in a soft and submissive tone. “What do you wish me to do?”

“Humph! You are one of the last batch, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. Only came in to-day.”

“Ah, I see. Well, then, put out your broom like that,” and here he pointed to the broom at the next cell; “and your tin mug and plate.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” returned our hero.

“Mind you attend to what I say now you do know, my man.”

“Yes, sir.”

While the warder was explaining this, the principal in the hall below was shouting to him for his “roll,” the number of men he had upon his landing.

This the warder ascertained by running along the landing and counting the brooms.

As soon as the roll is called the brooms should be taken in. It is, to say the truth, not a very dignified way――for a man to put in his appearance by means of a broom――but dignity, or even common civility, is never thought of in the treatment of convicts.

Peace had a pretty good sample of this; not knowing the rules of the place, he left his broom out, a warder came and kicked it so violently that it was a wonder it did not go through the partition.

“This is a lively sort of establishment,” murmured Peace, who, after this, kept as quiet as possible. He had made up his mind to conform to the rules and give as little trouble as possible; but at present he was in ignorance as to what these were.

Soon after the broom incident he heard a further noise of opening and shutting of cell doors till at last his own was flung open, and a little six-ounce loaf of bread was handed him, and he found that his tin mug that he had put outside was filled with gruel.

“My supper, I suppose,” he murmured. “Not a sumptuous repast, it is true, but better than nothing.”

He sat down on his stool and devoured the dainty meal with something like a relish.

While he was partaking of his frugal repast all appeared to be quiet in the prison, the reason for this being that the other convicts were similarly occupied.

Both cells on each side of the one occupied by Peace had tenants also.

In about half an hour the man in one kept knocking, and wanted our hero to enter into conversation, but as he judged this was against the rules he did not deem it advisable to take any notice of the summons, and so he let the man knock until he was tired, and gave it up as hopeless.

In the other cell he heard every now and then a curious clanking noise which he could not make out. This he took no notice of, for he was determined not to compromise himself in any way, or to incur the displeasure of the officials.

At present he was new to the place, and deemed it advisable to play a “safe game,” as he termed it.

Nevertheless he was greatly disturbed and annoyed by his noisy neighbour, who seemed to keep up an incessant clatter throughout the livelong night.

The next morning he discovered what it was that so disturbed him. His neighbour was what is called a black-dress man, who wore fetters and a heavy chain, one end of which was fastened with rivetted rings round each ankle, and the middle of it was held up to his waist by a strap.

Doubtless many of our readers have seen the print of Captain Macheath in the condemned cell at Newgate. The fetters on that fabulous hero of Gay’s opera resembled those worn by the black-dress man of Dartmoor.

His dress was parti-coloured, of black and drab――one side one colour, one the other; the front of one sleeve black and the back drab, and the reverse with the other sleeve.

The same with the breeches or knickerbockers, which were fastened with buttons down the sides of the legs, to admit of their being fastened with the fetter on.

The costume was not picturesque, but then the reality of prison life is so vastly different from that shown on the stage! In this man’s case it was miserably wretched, albeit he richly deserved the hardships he was compelled to endure.

He was condemned to this punishment for either striking or threatening an officer, and for this offence he had been “bashed,” or flogged, besides.

It is not often a flogging is inflicted, only in extreme cases. Night and day the refractory prisoner has to wear his manacles; in bed or out of bed, it was just the same, and every time he moved in bed they clanked and rattled, making so strange a noise that Peace was sorely troubled as he lay in his cell during the lonely hours of the night.

Sometimes, in turning, the manacled prisoner would strike his fetter against the corrugated iron partition of the cell.

Peace pitied the poor wretch, but he had the prudence not to offer any observation.

Mr. Dring, the chief warder, had, as may be imagined, no sinecure.

The duties of his office did not admit of much leisure time for relaxation, and when he returned from his tea he had yet plenty of work before him.

The fifty men on his landing had all their wants to be attended to, and our worthy prison official was not accustomed to shirk his duty.

He was a peculiar man in many respects, but want of attention to those under his charge was not one of his faults.

He was a strict disciplinarian, but in the main was a kindly-disposed man enough.

Sometimes he would “take” to a man, as the convicts termed it.

When this was the case the prisoner was all right; he was treated with civility and consideration, which, all things considered, is saying a great deal; but woe betide the man who was in his black books! He had it pretty “hot,” to make use of another phrase of the prisoners.

Mr. Dring had seen something of the world before he made the acquaintance of the interior of one of her Majesty’s gaols.

He had served her aforesaid Majesty on land and sea.

He was at one time of his life attached to the Royal Marines, and after fighting his country’s battles in that capacity for some years, he rose to the rank of sergeant-major, and those who happen to know what an old sergeant-major of the Marines is will understand that a man must get up very early in the morning, and be a cute fellow to boot, to take the wind out of the sails of Mr. Warder Dring.

He was a quiet, orderly, unobtrusive man, and, from his general demeanour, many were under the impression that he was as mild as a lamb and as green as a middy; but those under his charge soon found out their mistake when they came playing pranks or trying on the hanky-panky business.

Mr. Dring was down upon them at once. There was no man in Dartmoor Prison better adapted to deal with convicts and command their respect than the old marine.

To those who were straightforward and well behaved he was the most considerate and kind master it is well possible to conceive.

But when he once found out a man playing him tricks, deceiving him, and disobeying the rules and regulations of the gaol, he would lead him a fine life. Peace reckoned up the chief warder with something like accuracy, and he did his best to propitiate him.

When he came his rounds he regarded our hero with a searching glance.

“Ah,” he observed, “you are new to the place. Well, here’s soap, salt, and cleaning rags.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Peace, touching his cap.

“But stay, you must give me your jacket to be badged,” said Mr. Dring.

Peace pulled off his jacket with the utmost alacrity. His janitor gave him another to wear in the meantime; he also gave him a clean pair of sheets, and told him where to place each article, and supplied him with a candle.

Peace thanked him again and again.

“When you hear ‘beds down’ called out,” said Mr. Dring, “you must prepare your hammock for the night. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I will do so.”

“But you must not do it till you hear the word given outside.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that is all, I think――you will not forget my instructions?”

“Certainly not.”

“Good. You’ve got a queer pair next to you――I mean in the cells adjoining yours. Have nothing to say to them, and if they make a noise, which I expect they are pretty sure to do, take no notice of them.”

“One makes a terrible noise.”

“Ah, the prisoner with the manacles――yes, I know――well, that can’t be helped; it’s no fault of ours that he is constrained to wear the fetters.”

Peace bowed, but did not offer any observation.

Mr. Dring left him to go to someone else.

Peace had nothing to read, and did not like to ask for a book or two in his present early stage, so he had nothing for it but to sit and listen to the noises that were going on, and there were a few.

As far as the acoustic principle of Dartmoor is concerned it is something very near perfection; indeed, it is aggravatingly resonant.

The entire block of four hundred cells in that part of the prison in which Peace was confined were framed in iron.

The consequence was that there was hardly a door slammed in the whole building that did not vibrate more or less throughout the cell. This fact was made manifest to every prisoner upon first entering Dartmoor; after being there for some little time the men got used to the noises.

The effect when every cell door in the whole hall was slammed at once is not easy to describe; it was like a volley of musketry.

Peace remembered what Mr. Dring had told him, and being anxious to obey that worthy functionary to the very letter, he watched and listened for the signal “beds down.”

When he heard the order given he let go his hammock; all the other convicts did the same, and the consequence was that the whole fabric seemed to be shaken.

Peace was pretty well used to prison hammocks, and therefore had no difficulty in arranging his.

Some men on their first acquaintance with these snug resting places make a great muddle of them.

Sometimes a hammock strap would give way, and let the man down on to the hard stones of his cell; but Peace, who was an old soldier in looking after his own comforts, if they could be so termed, took very excellent care to see that his straps were all right.

The warders never object to give a man a new strap or two if any of his old ones are worn out.

At Dartmoor the convicts had very little to complain of as far as sleeping accommodation was concerned.

Each man has a good, warm, comfortable bed, and a plentiful supply of covering, which is invariably clean indeed. This could hardly be otherwise, seeing how frequently it is changed.

It is true there is no bed in a hammock, nor is one needed, but the prisoner has two good blankets (three in the winter), an excellent rug, and two stout linen sheets, with a wool or hair pillow.

The hammock is as comfortable as need be――indeed, many of the prisoners never had such luxurious sleeping accommodation when outside the walls of a prison.

Soon after “beds down” was sounded a warder was heard coming up the stairs to see that every candle was put out.

There are gas lights along each landing-railing, so that there is more or less light in every cell.

After the warder had made the necessary inspection with regard to the candles a bell was sounded, which is the signal for the day-warders to leave the prison, as the night warders came on duty.

When this occurs every man is expected to be in bed, and if the night watch finds him up he is liable to be reported, and reporting means puishment by loss of marks or otherwise.

At regular intervals throughout the night one of the warders comes round and looks into each cell.

By placing the bull’s-eye of his lantern against the glass of the window, and peeping through the spy-hole in the door, he can see plainly enough if a man is in bed or not.

Many a time was Peace awoke with the sudden flash of the bull’s-eye upon his face.

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