The story of Tom Fogarty; the autobiography of a criminal ...

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THE STORY OF

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A CRIMINAL.

CHAPTER I. 'All of which I saw, and part of which I was."

half-hundred years ago, Central London wore a far different aspect from that it wears today. Especially that portion of it known as Westminster.

The Almonry (or the "Hannbrey," as the Cockney delighted to call it), the old place of refuge under the shadow of the Abbey, had not been torn down to give place to the huge, modern hotel that today stands in its stead. The daylight and air that came into the slums with the cutting through of that great thoroughfare, Victoria street, was then unknown. The whole neighborhood from Westminster bridge to Tuthillnelds, and from Charles street to Great Peter street, was one awful nest of infamy and crime, whence brood after brood was sent forth to prey upon society.

KINCH.

In those days on St. Anne's street, very near where Pie street entered it, there stood an old-time public house called "The Three Feathers." A few doors north was another old house differing from its neighbors both in height and general appearance. Its peaked windows were glazed with small diamond-shaped panes of glass in a leaden sash. It had a wonderful garret running away up into the high-pointed, slate-covered roof. The rear part of the house was one story lower than tihe front, and the back part of the roof sloped away down toward the untidy, barren yard. Passing through the back window into the broad gutter, one found it an easy matter to drop to the ground below, or climb the adjoining houses on either side. Step into the shelter of this doorway a few moments with ine, and let us take notes.

Horrible smell? Yes, that comes from the establishment in front of which we are standing. The rag doll, noisily creaking as it swings from the rusty iron bar over our heads, tells even more plainly than the faded letters of the painted sign over the door that here, Rags, Bones, Bottles and Old Iron are articles of 'merchandise. Have you anything else that you care to dispose of without any impertinent questions being asked? 'Tis the standing boast of Brocky Quinn, the proprietor, that "no gent needn't never go no vhere else with nothink, pervidin' 'e's willin' to live and let live, and keep 'e's blooimin' mouth shut."

TOM WGARTY ?

A fine, oily, bloated specimen of the genus "fence" is Mr. Quinn. As the short November day is already drawing* to a close, we will defer our introduction to him to some future time. We shall probably know him better (or irather, worse,) before this narrative closes.

Across the way, the door of the "Feathers" swings open, and a boy eomes out. A sharp-featured lad, wearing, already, that peculiar expression of watchfulness in the eye that is only found in the face of a rat or a'hunted criminal. He is fairly but slovenly clad-, and moves with quiet swiftness. He enters our diamond-latticed house. Let us use our prerogative, and enter with him.

The door opens on a narrow flight of stairs. Up these he goes two or three at a step, carefully holding something under his tight-fitting coat.

Turning abruptly to the right, at the head of the stairs, he opens a door and is immediately met by the inquiry, embellished with an oath:

"Wot kep' yer s'long?"

The boy draws a large bottle of rum from under his coat and, without a word, places it upon the table near which two men are sitting, then slips quietly into a corner near the open fire-place.

The speaker eyes him for a moment angrily, but his attention is called to his companion, who says:

"Never imind the boy, Billy, he's all right; open up that bottle and let's have a pull. Here, old woman, give us something to drink out of."

A woman rises from the side of a bed upon which she has been sitting and, with a child upon her arm, walks over to a cupboard, brings out two tumblers and places them on the table beside the bottle. The larger of the two men rapidly fills the glasses, and as they lift them to their lips, let us glance at their surroundings.

The room is very large, stretching from front to rear of the house. It evidently serves all the purposes of the household, being at once, bed-room, parlor and dining room. The furniture is fairly good, but appears to be made up of pieces taken from a dozen different sets, no two being alike in appearance or material.

The attention is drawn to the large number of books that are scattered all over the room in careless profusion. They vary in size, but all have a peculiar family resemblance. There is a heap of them on the table; one large one is held open on the knee of one of the men; in fact, they are in evidence all over the room.

The woman has resumed her seat on the bed, holding the baby closely to her breast, her eyes turning occasionally to the men at the table. She is slight of build, delicate of feature, with a gentle, quiet air about her that makes her seam out of place in this room. In age, she appears to be about thirty years, though there are odd moments as she smiles down upon the child in her lap, when she seems much younger. Her face would be very comely under certain conditions, but her left cheek is marked with a scar running up

'•they tremble pitifully as he raises the

TUMBLER."

and down from the cheek-bone to the mouth.

Of the men sitting at the table, the larger of the two is evidently the master of the house. He is not a large man, but is built for strength. He is full and deep in the chest, and light in the flanks. His to TOM FOGARTY

hands are well formed, and indicate great nervous strength, but they tremble pitifully as he raises the tumbler.

Looking upon the brow and noble breadth of forehead alone, one would have said: here should be a scholar— -a thinker, but the veins at the temple corded by passion; the bibulous mouth and the lines of dissipation that mark the face, plainly indicate that here is one who is "passion's slave," whose life is worse than wasted.

The other man is smaller and weaker by far. He might best be described as commonplace, were it not for the intense look of cunning and cruelty his features display. The close-set, restless eyes that almost touch each other; the wo If -like jaw, forever snapping nervousty at unseen morsels; the pointed ears, reaching so far above the line of the eyes, all help to give to his face an expression of crafty villainy that renders it almost unique. There is a slight noise outside, and as he swiftly turns his face in the direction,' of the sound, the hunted look, barely perceptible in the boy's face, is brought out here to perfection.

In various police courts throughout the land, he has answered to the name of Willia/m Jackson. To his intimartes, he is known as Foxy Jackson, and they unblushingly speak of him to his face as the Fox. He reaches over to the bottle and refills his emptied glass. As be does so, the other speaks.

V ii

"Well, now to finish this "dodge" before we get any more lusih in us. The name of

the "cot" is Paul's Gray, it seems to

me that stuff is very weak? He'd. better go to the Black Horse for the next 1 '

"Xo, don't yer think it," breaks in the Fox. "Yer carn't git anythink like es

WILLIAM JACKSON, "THE FOX.

good in their Black 'Orse. It's ther kid thet's done it." Turning sharply to the boy he asks: "Wotger git? Four p'ny?"

"No," is the reply, "fi' penny, — wotger send me fur?"

Jackson rises angrily to his feet with an oath bursting from his lips, but the other man interposes. \Placing his band heavily on Jackson's shoulder, he says sternly: "Sit down and keep quiet. I>on't allow yourself to forget that you are in my room and my wife is present. If you want to whip the kid, do it at home."

'T's orl 'right, Mr. Fogarty. I 'ope I knows wots doo to you and yer lady. But, jes wait till I giteher 'ome, Kinch; Hi'll show yer the diff'rence 'twieen fi'penny an' four-p'ny rum. See 'fi don't."

The boy sits quietly in the corner, merely looking fixedly at his father with contempt and anger marked on his weazened face. As the Fox ceases speaking, he turns toward the fire again.

Fred Fogarty picks up the book he had dropped upon the table and, opening it, he resumes the broken thread of his explanations.

"Now, if we're all right again, we'll get to work once more.

"There can be no mistake — everything is straightforward and plain as a pike-staff. Give one that Court Guide, Kate."

Mrs. Fogarty hands him a clean, redcovered book that she picks up from the top of a pile under the front window.

"Here y'are. Edward Philpot Walpole," he reads, "057 Hanover Square. Country house; Mary's Cray, Kent, and Bally-Poteen, Galway, Ireland. There's the whole thing in a nutshell. Have you got the certificate ?"

"Yes," is the answer. "I've got it 'ere in this bit er pa v per. Wo-t's the name of ther brother at Paul's Cray, agin'? Maylock? Ho, yes, I'll write it down. There; John Maylock, butc'her. 'Es sister, Halice, was" —

"Stop!" thunders Fogarty, springing to his feet with an oath. "Why, you drunken fool, you're getting worse. When you get a couple oif drinks in you, you can't remember your own name. Her name is not Alice, but Sarah Maylock. Understand?"

While speaking, the veins on his temples have stood out like whip-cords, and his wife, drawing t'he child closer to her, has moved away quietly to the other end of the room. We freely admit Mr. Frederick W. Fogarty is not an agreeable sight when angry.

"Yes; I'm on orl right," says* Jackson, humbly. "B'fore she married the late diseast, she worked for this 'ere Walpole's harnt, Miss — vots 'er name? 'Old on, I know. Miss Halice at Mary's Cray. That's thirteen years ago; 's that right?"

"Gro on; what about the Fletchers, her husband's people?" asks Fogarty.

"Well, 'es people orl live at Paul's Cray. A brother of 'es married a relashun of the hundertaker Scott; 'nd there's Bunoe, ther grocer, 'nd Sweeny, t'her tailor, 'nd Eeverund Mister Hadams, as is rector. That's anuff fer hanybody, hain't it?"

"It ought to be," says Fogarty, mollified. "Well, here is the Dodge. lit ought to bring five pounds. Don't coime back with less than two quid. Hold on, I'll age it a

I 4 TOM FOQAETY

li title. Kate, give me some bread." She hands him a piece' of bread. He opens out the large official-looking document, which is partly printed and partly written, with a huge seal in red wax upon it. He looks keenly at the list of naimes affixed to the lower portion, each apparently written in a different handwriting, in different colored inks and with various amounts set opposite eadh name. He appears satisfied as he lays it open on his knee and commences to rub it vigorously with the bread crumbs. In a short time it has lost its fresh appearance, and looks as if it had passed through many hands. Folding it up, he encloses it, together with a smaller letter, in a large envelope. Then, taking up a quill pen, which he tests carefully on another sheet of paper, he writes the direction on the envelope in firm, businesslike characters.

"There we are, all ship-shape. Now, home you go, Billy. Don't stop at the 'Feathers.' Remember, I have other work for you tomorrow afternoon. I want you to go out to St. John's Wood with Welsfli Poll."

"She tol' nxe," says Jackson, reaching again for the nearly empty bottle, "I'll go 'ome farst e'nuff, 'nd I'll be ait 'Anover Square by 'arf 'arteir nine in the mo'rnin.' "

"Oh, by the way," F'ogarty says, "they have a new man on at Red Lion Square*. His name is Fry or, and Billy Ashford told me today we would probably have to square him, so you had better save a few pennies, for you will surely meet, him before imany days."

(The Fox breaks out into fearful oaths and imprecations upon the heads of the Red Lion Square officials in general, and this one in particular. In the midst of it a heavy step sounds on the stairs, the door is pushed open, and a well-built, freshcoin pi ex i one d man of about thirty, enters. He is dressed in the fatigue uniform of one of Her Majesty's regiments, and looks every inch a soldier.

As he strides into the room with a word of greeting to those present, a little boy slips in behind him, and makes a futile attempt to reach the fire-place unnoticed; but Fogarty appears to have seen the child before he steps from be'hind the new-comer. Rising to his feet as if to greet the soldier, he steps lightly to the rig^ht, then, with a rapid motion of the arm. he grasps tlhe boy by the collar and with one swing sends him whirling and trembling over to the front window, while a faint cry, quickly suppressed, breaks from the mother's lips.

"How are you, George?" says Fogarty, taking no more notice of the dhild, who begins to pick up and arrange the scattered books. "When did you get back and w^hat luck did you have?"

"O, th' best o' luck, and I got back yesterday," replies George. "'Ow are yer, Mrs. Fogarty? 'Ow's the baby? I met i6 TOM FOOARTY

Tommie ait the corner o' Pie street," lie continues, "so we come in together. 'Ow's all your family, Billy?"

"Oh, they're orl right, Mr. Biddle," says the Fox, "honly this 'ere Kinch. I carn't make nothink hout of 'im. I've done hevVvthink, and it don't do no good. Veil, I mus' toddle 'oune."

With a parting* injunction to Kinch to be at home as soon as he is, the Fox takes his crafty visage out through the door, and glides almost noiselessly down the stairs and out into the dark, foggy streets.

Rapid as his movements are, they are more than equaled by the boy, Kinch, who has followed him out, and who manages to keep very near him, though unseen in the fog. As he turns the corner of Orchard street, a few minutes later, he is imet by a heavily-built man who, with one word of greeting, steps quickly into a near doorway. Without a pause, Jackson proceeds on his way a few paces, then wheels abruptly, and retracing his steps — his eyes striving to pierce the fog on every side — he darts into the same entry, where he stands for one moment motionless and watchful. Apparently satisfied, he walks back into the passage, muttering a curse as he goes, and is swallowed up in the glooim. Had he but known that Kinch, the despised; Kinch, worthy son of such a sire, was close at his heels keenly observant, Mr. Jackson's feelings would have undergone a marked change for the worse.

CHAPTER II. 'as the twig is bent."

HAVE something for you," says Fogarty to Biddle, as the soldier stands chatting with Mrs. Fogarty. "I suppose you got my message. I sent word by Tinker Madden, who was going down into Kent, and I told little Billy Pitts to tell you I wanted you."

"Yes, I got word at Medstnn all right. The Tinker fetched me word. I couldn't come at once, 'cause I was on a lay for Dublin Carroll and 'es pal. They pulled it orfr* 'nd I made five quid hout of it."

"Let's go down to the Feathers for a wihile," says Fogarty abruptly. "Come here, Tom. Kate, give him both those lists. Look them up," this to the boy who stands silent and attentive "and then go to bed. When I come home I may have something to say to you. Come on, George."

As they go down tihe stairs together the boy, Tom, moves over to his mother's knee and as she sits on the bedside he leans lightly against her. He is but a child, only in 'his tenth year, yet so old in sin, so old in knowledge of vice and crime, though a novice, as yet, in its practice.

The mother's arm swings around; the boy's form, and for one short moment it seems as if both were going to break down in tears. The moment passes, and as the boy turns his face to the light, let ins examine his features. A wonderfully precocious head. A head so fully developed about the temples and forehead, that its appearance is abnormal. Yeit how very weak the whole of the lower face? How easy to read there the inexorable sentence, "Unstable as water thou shalt not excel." Tom Fogarty, any little lad, as you stand there beside your mother's knee, knowing what we do of your environment, we are compelled to say that your lot in life is not 'an em viable one.

While we are musing, the boy has taken the list froim his mother, laind is now working away aimong the books. He dips into one marked "THE HOME COUNTIES." Turns to a paper and rapidly scribbles down some names. Taking up another with the title, "MIDLAND COUNTIES," he goes through the same operation. Anon he selects "BUKKE'S PEERAGE," and wades through name after name of the nobility, jotting down one occasionally on a sheet of paper. And so ihe goes on for hours. He appears to „ enjoy the work, after he has got started. Now and then he pauses to answer some question asked by the mother, or tell of some exciting event of the day. It is very evident that mother and son understand and love each other, despite the character of their life and surroundings. Again he leaves his work and strives, successfully, to quieten and amuse the fretful baby by little playful antics 'and songs. But he returns each time to his task with seemingly increased vigor and works on industriously down the long list of names, whistling, under his breath, an accompaniment to the lullaby song of the mother. What is he doing? A difficult question, but we will strive to give a lucid answer to it.

Among the various grades oir sub-classes into which professional criminals the world over are divided, there dis one that is known <a;mong tiheimis elves as "Lurkers." In London, a regular bureau of detective police is maintained for their detection and conviction. This is the famous Mendicity Society of Red lion Square. They (the lurkers) are strongly banded together. They woirk together. How do they work? Here is one case for example: Alexander Percy Smythe Ashfellows, late of Eton, has just been gazetted as ensign or cornet in a crack regiment. He has taken chambers in the Albany, and has already the entree to several clubs. TYesfh from the schools, Tie is eagerly taking in every thing in town.

One morning his valet announces a lady caller, "Mrs. Watson, of Bedfont." "Bedfont? Why, that is right near home. Show her in," says simple Alexander. Enter a middle-aged woman, wearing the garb of a

20 TOM FOGAUTY

widow and looking' like one oif the better class of house servants.

Addressing him as Young Master Alexander, she immediately pours into his astonished ears a number of questions concerning- Hat ton, his 'home, and its immediate vicinity. She asks him how long it is since he wlas there — iaisks if Brown, the blacksmith, is married again, as she 'ad 'eard as'ow 'es fust wife wos dead. Then, before he can -answer, she rushes him oveir to Bedfont, where his Aunt Smythe lives. She even recalls to his memory the name of tftie cooper in whose shop he cut his hand so badly during that vacation hie spent at his aunt's place at Bedfont. "Dear me, how long ago that seemis tlo be. Why, this is splendid." Then when he begins, in the warmth of his heart, to ask all manner of questions, he finds out that the man she married, and for whom she left her pleasant country home, h'as just died after a long illness, leaving her .almost destitute. This much he gathers froan her rapid talk as she occasionally wipes away a tear. Of course, she could go back home, but certain people who knew her husband have been very good to her. An opportunity has presented itself for her to purohaise the stock and fixtures of a small store, just in the line for wihioh she is best adapted.

Sonne kind friends have smarted a subscription in her behalf and "would you b'lieve it, Marster Halexander, they've

'orlmos' got the 'ole amount horlready. 'Ere's ther list, you see, sir, with orl ther names an' amounts, an' I was goin' " —

"Let's have a look ait it," says tenderih ear ted Alexander. "John Jermyn, £ 5," he reads. "Lady Ellen Blixby, 3 guineas. Miss Mum-mum. Eh! Wihat's this? 'Captain and Mrs. Grniswold, £5' Why, look here, Mrs. Watson, Captain Griswold; why, you know, he is one of ours. Eh? Why, certainly. How much <are you short? Oh, is that all?" And then, although the doings of the last few weeks have very nearly drained 'him, yet, in such a good cause, with his Captain's example before hinij and her coming from home, as it were; out comes the little check-book on Drummond or Coutts and a check for enough to cover the shortage, with, perhaps, a couple of pounds over, soon bears the signature of our very young friend, Alexander. Mire. Watson allows very little time to elapse before the check is presented and* cashed.

Meanwhile, our little friend, Tom Fogarty, is busily engaged looking up new facts and new names for Mrs. Watson, or others of that ilk, to present to other Alexanders. How easy, how simple, when the newspapers and directories furnish all the information needed. This is only one phase of lurking, but while the details vary, the manneT 0)i procedure is about the saane, and the results identical.

At last, Tom has completed his task, and his muttered "There, that's done," brings an answering* smile from mother. He now sits "bent over at the table very intently reading a dilapidated papercovered book that he has drawn forth from an inner pooket. Mrs. Fogarty has spoken to him more than once, telling him that he had better go to bed before the father's return, but he reads on, barely answering her gentle requests or suggestions. She is reclining on the bed, and appears to be dozing. Everything is so quiet, that one may hear the strains of the chorus they are singing in the tap-room of 'the Feathers.

"Cheer, Boys, Cheer," they sing, "No More of Idle Sorrow." Certainly not; why think any more of sorrow while the quart pots of beer are being passed from hand to hand. Poor, faded little woman lying there counting the hours; their singing brings but little comfort to your weary heart.

Look at the boy! A moment since he was so deeply immersed in the book that he appeared as one dead or asleep. See him now. What is it? What has changed him so in an instant ? He has barely raised his head a few inches without moving his body, and yet every inch of him seems to be instinct with watchful attention. Slowly and carefully he turns his ihead and looks keenly at his mother's form. A faint creaking on the landing outside and, like a flash, he is up and away to the rear window, which he quietly unfastens. Then,

Tom fooartt n as the door opens suddenly, and three men push their way into the room, evidently expecting' to 'meet resistance, Tom, with one comprehensive glance iat the men, almost unconsciously noting in the same moment the white faioe of his mother, startled frO>m her doze — how vividly the scar shows now against that pale face — slips quietly out into the gutter and the foggy darkness of the nigthit.

The well-to-do, respectable citizen, sitting in his comfortable home at ease, with his favorite paper before him, reads, with a shudder of horror, the awful record of youthful depravity and crime that blots its daily pages. Looking around at his own little ones; fenced in, as they are, by the loving, watchful care of the mother, and trained by his daily precept and example, he marks their growth, and the promise of future right living that is indicated by their present daily life and conduct. His heart is tilled with thankfulness to Almighty God for blessing him with such dutiful and good-dispositioned children, while he wonders how it is possible for these others to be so utterly vicious and depraved.

How can we expect other results from the conditions prevailing? Born, as so many of them are, into an atmosphere of vice and crime; cursed ere their birth by the evil lives and habits of their parents; surrounded in childhood by bad example and even lawless teachings, what must be the natural effect from such vile causes? The wonder is that such a horrible state of affairs should be permitted to exist and even flourish in the shadows, while the rest of the world goes gaily and heedlessly forward boasting of the light of the glorious gospel of Christ.

God speed the day when every Christian shall recognize the danger that surrounds his own home and loved ones, as long as this cesspool of immorality is permitted to taint the air with its death-dealing foulness; and when all shall thoroughly know the application of those words of Jesus:

"Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me."

!AJh, me. Boor little Tom. So very young in yeans; so old and wise in sin. God pity you -and all of yo*ur kind.

The heavy, London fog has settled like a sombre pall, covering everything with its mantle of darkness, but Tom needs no light, for the task before him, as he slides rapidly down the slate-covered roof into the gutter. He is familiar with every inch of the way. Time and again has hie gone over it for amusement; heedless of his mother's gentle reproof; risking his father's tanger and the punisihment it entailed. He findsi the practice useful now, and as he hurries along the gutter, he laughs inwardly, and his heart glows within him as he thinks of the oppoTt unity he has to help thwart the plans of the common enemy, the officers of justice.

Now, he is at the corner and, without a moment's hesitation, he grasps the heavy spout and swings off into space. There is no danger; his foot finds the ledge that enables him to let go above and gain new hand-hold lower down. So — with hand an:l fooit taking every advantage offered, he easily and safely reaches the ground. Without .a moment's loss of time he is up and over the walls that intervene, and, in less time than it has taken to record the fact, he stands breathless but exultant, at tihe back door of the tap^room of "The Feathers."

•Someone has jusit finished a song, and the quart pots are rattling on the tables in applause, or as a sign that they need replenishing. Under cover of the din, Tom opens the door and slips in unnoticed. The air is dense with fog and tobacco smoke, and fairly reeks with a stench that is a compound of sawdust, stale beer and filth.

On the north side of the room, near the open fire-place, there is a Wide, heavy door, covered with green-baize and studded with brass-headed mails. Tom, after a rapid glance ait the noisy occupants of the tap-roosm, walks boldly over to this door and, pushing it open, he enters <a short, dim-lit passaige. On through a smaller door <at the farther end he goes, and stands in the presence of his father.

CHAPTER HI.

THE TRIO AT THE FEATHERS.

p~~] HERE are three men in the room, seated at a table. As the door swings open, two of them start hurriedly to their feet. Recognizing* the boy, however, one of them slowly seats himself again.

"Wfhat's up, Tom?" says Fogarty. As he asks the question, George Bid die tighitens his belt and moves toward a smaller door in the corner of the rooim.

"Cops in the 'ouse," is the boy's answer. Then he rapidly relates his story, while every nerve in his body seems to throb with delight because he feels that he is aiding in the defeat of the representatives of the law.

"What does this mean, Brocky? This is a new caper." Fogarty, as he speaks, turns his eyes on the coarse, ill-looking man Who has just settled back into his chair, watchful and attentive of every word and action of the others. His bloated, pendulous cheeks are deeply scarred from ttihie ravages of small-pox. His whole form is indicative of gross nesis and sensuality, the evil effect of which is further heightened by tihe vicious gleam of Ms deep-sunken, be^ady eyes.

Without rising", he turns his face liabor* iously towards Tom and, in a hoarse, wheezy tone, he asks :

"Vos they Bed Lion Square, Tommy?"

The boy look's at his father as he answers quickly and with decision:

"No, they're Peelers."

Fogarty and Biddle look knowingly ait each other.