The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
href="#litres_trial_promo">[6] and put the white-poodle up the spout[7] for a drop of max."[8]
"And because you would'nt let him he doubled you up with a wallop in your dumpling-depot,[9] did'nt he?"
"Yes—but I bruised his canister[10] for him though."
"This'll be the third time he's been up afore the beaks[11] at the Old Bailey."
"Consequently he's sartain sure to be lagged."[12]
"Ah! it must be a clever nob in the fur trade[13] who'll get him off."
"Well—talking makes me thirsty," said Crisp. "I wish I'd someot to sluice my ivories[14] with."
Markham entertained a faint idea that Mr. Crisp was athirst; he accordingly offered to pay for anything; which he and his brother policemen chose to drink.
The officer in plain clothes was commissioned to procure some "heavy-wet"—alias porter; and even the pompous, and magisterial inspector condescended to take what he called "a drain," but which in reality appeared to be something more than a pint.
The harmony was disturbed by the entrance of a constable dragging in a poor ragged, half-starved, and emaciated lad, without shoes or stockings.
"What's the charge?" demanded the inspector.
"A rogue and vagabond," answered the constable.
"Oh! very well: put that down, Crisp. How do you know?"
"Because he's wandering about and hasn't no where to go to, and no friends to refer to and I saw him begging."
"Very good; put that down, Crisp. And I suppose he's without food and hungry?"
"I have not tasted food—" began the poor wretch, who stood shivering at the bar.
"Come, no lies," ejaculated the inspector.
"No lies!" echoed the constable, giving the poor wretch a tremendous shake.
"Have you put it all down, Crisp?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, let him have a bit of bread, and lock him up. He'll get three months of it on the stepper to-morrow."
The poor creature was supplied with a cubic inch of stale bread, and then thrust into a filthy cell.
"What do you think that unfortunate creature will be done to?" enquired Markham.
"Three months on the stepper—the treadmill, to be sure."
"But what for?"
"Why, for a rogue and vagabond."
"A vagabond he may be," said Markham, "because he has no home to go to; but how do you know he is a rogue?"
"Why—he was found begging, wasn't he?"
"And does that make a man a rogue?"
"Certainly it do—in the eye of the law."
"Ah! and that eye can see without spectacles too," added Mr. Crisp with a laugh.
Markham was reflecting profoundly upon the law's definitions of rogue and vagabond, when another constable entered, leading in an elderly man, belonging to the humbler class, but very cleanly in appearance.
"Well, what's the charge?" demanded the inspector.
"This fellow will come upon my beat with his apple-cart, and I can't keep him off. So I've sent his cart to the Green Yard, and brought him here."
"Please, sir," said the poor fellow, wiping away a tear from his eye, "I endeavour to earn an honest living by selling a little fruit in the streets. I have a wife and seven children to support, and I only stayed out so long to-night because I had had a bad day of it, and the money is so much wanted at home—it is indeed, sir! I do hope you'll let me go, sir: my poor wife will be ready to break her heart when she finds that I don't come home; and my eldest boy always sits up for me. Poor little fellow! he will cry so if he don't kiss Father before he goes to bed."
There was something profoundly touching in this poor man's manner and language; and Markham felt inclined to interfere in his behalf. He, however, remembered that he was only allowed to sit in that room by suffrance, and that he was at the mercy of the caprice of ignorant, tyrannical, and hard-hearted men: he accordingly held his tongue.
"Come, Crisp—have you got that down?" said the inspector.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, let the man be locked up: the magistrate must decide in the morning."
And the poor fellow, in spite of his remonstrances, was removed to a cell.
"I could not exactly understand what this new prisoner has done," said Markham.
"Obstructed the way and created a nuisance," replied the inspector pompously.
"But he is endeavouring to earn his bread honestly, I think; and the road is open to every one."
"Oh! no such thing. Those little carts frighten the horses in the great folks' carriages, and can't be allowed. He must have a month of it—he's been warned several times, and is incorrigible. I'll tell the magistrate so."
"And what will become of his family?"
"Family! why, go to the workhouse, to be sure!" Presently a third constable made his appearance, accompanied by a poor miserable-looking woman and three small children—all wretchedly clad and careworn.
"What's the charge now?"
"Charge from the workus. This here o'oman was admitted to-night to the Union with them three children; and 'cos the master ordered her to be separated from her children, she kicked up hell's delight. So the master turned 'em all out together, called me up, and give 'em in charge."
"Put that down, Crisp."
"Yes—and it is true too," sobbed the poor woman. "I am not ashamed to own that I love my children; and up to this blessed hour they have never been separated from me. It would break their poor little hearts to be torn away from me—that it would, God bless them! I love them all, poor—miserable as I am!"
A flood of tears drowned the voice of this wretched mother.
"Inspector," said Markham, touched to the quick by this affecting scene, "you will allow me——"
"Silence, young man. It's a charge from the workus, and the workus is paramount."
"So it appears, indeed!" cried Richard bitterly.
"Silence, I say. Don't interfere, there's a good lad. Crisp, have you got it all down?"
"Yes, sir."
"Lock 'em up, then."
"At least we shall be together!" exclaimed the unfortunate mother, to whom the three little children clung with all the tenacity of sincere affection.
An hour elapsed, when another policeman entered, bringing in a man dressed as an ostler, and whose face was all covered with blood.
"Well—what now?"
"Fighting in the Blue Dragon: the landlord turned him out, and so I took him up."
"Put that down, Crisp. What's your name, my fine fellow?"
"John Snoggles."
"Put that down, Crisp. He's a nice bird, isn't he, Mr. Markham?" added the inspector.
"Markham!"