THE “LIVELY STUNNERS.”
AFTER the first greeting between Frank Maynard and his friend
Prescott, upon the former's return from Staffordshire, and when they
had fairly sat down in Frank's room for a talk, Prescott said,—
“Now, Frank, let me hear all about what you have been doing. Your
letters were not long, and you seemed enjoying yourself down there,
Frank. I suppose Teddy is just about the same as he used to be.”
“Just the same,” Frank laughed; “he pretends to assist his father
in the business, but I fancy the material advantage, derived by
Painter and Co. from Teddy's services, is slight indeed. He went
round the manufactory with me, and I find that his knowledge upon
the subject of china is absolutely nil. I question if he would know
the difference between Dresden and Sèvres, or between Limoges and
Etruscan; and I should imagine his ideas on the subject of accounts,
are, if possible, even more vague. No, he is just what he used to
be—a careless, warm-hearted Irishman, and the best fellow in the
world.”
“But Mr. Drake is not Irish, Frank?”
“Not the least in the world. A particularly practical, long-headed,
sensible Englishman. His Celtic blood all comes from his mother. She
is as Irish in her way as he is in his, and so is his sister.”
“Is Miss Drake pretty, Frank?”
“Yes,” Frank said, “very pretty; an awfully jolly girl, Prescott, not
the least bit of nonsense about her—downright and straightforward,
you know.”
Prescott glanced up. But he saw that Frank was too outspoken in his
praise to be the least in love.
“Tall or short, Frank?”
“Tall,” Frank said; “a good deal like Teddy; fancy Teddy a pretty
girl, and you've got Sarah.”
“And there was a cousin with an Irish name, Frank, wasn't there? You
mentioned her in your first letter, but you did not allude to her
afterwards. What was she like?”
Frank was longer in giving his answer this time.
“Well,” he said, slowly, “Miss O'Byrne would hardly be considered
very pretty, at least I don't think most people would call her so.
No, I should say not. She was rather short; and, yes, I should say,
and plump.”
Prescott glanced across again at Frank, and a little amused smile
came across his face at the cautious way in which he had spoken. But
Frank was looking thoughtfully into the fire, and did not notice it.
“There were other young ladies staying in the house you said, Frank.
Was there anything special about any of them?”
“No,” Frank said, carelessly; “they were a very jolly lot of girls; I
had great fun down there.”
“Lots of dancing, and music, and so on, I suppose, Frank?”
“No end,” Frank said.
“Any of the girls sing well?”
“Katie sang splendidly; one of the finest voices I ever heard in my
life,” Frank said, enthusiastically.
“Katie?” Prescott repeated questioningly.
“Miss O'Byrne,” Frank explained.
“Ah,” Prescott said, with a smile, “the stout little cousin.”
“Good heavens, Prescott,” Frank said, turning round with great
indignation, “what are you talking about?—stout little—by Jove,
what put such a ridiculous idea in your head?”
“Why, my dear Frank, you said she was rather short and plump.”
“Pooh, nonsense,” Frank said; “she is rather short, perhaps, but has
a charming little figure; just a little plump; but—” and muttering
the obnoxious word over to himself, he smoked away in short angry
puffs.
Prescott could hardly help laughing aloud at the success which
attended his ruse.
“So Miss O'Byrne is not to be talked of lightly, eh, Frank?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Frank said. “Of course one doesn't like to hear a
girl like Katie talked of as a stout little—but there, of course you
couldn't tell.”
“And do you ever mean to repeat your visit, Frank?”
“Well, yes, Prescott, I expect I shall go down there again; at least
I hope so.”
“And may I ask, Frank, if you have any intention of bringing Miss
O'Byrne back with you?”
Frank put his pipe down, and looked at Prescott, who was evidently
greatly amused; then, after a moment's pause, he said,—
“You have guessed it, Prescott, sure enough. If Katie will come, I
will bring her up.”
“Really, Frank?”
“Really, old man. I should have told you sooner or later. I am quite
in earnest. I will marry Katie O'Byrne if she will have me.”
“I am very glad, Frank, very glad indeed;” and Prescott shook his
friend warmly by the hand. “I always hoped you would do it sooner or
later, Frank. You are only leading an idle useless life, and a wife
will be the making of you. Of course she is very nice, Frank.”
“My dear fellow,” Frank said, quite inclined to be communicative now
that the ice was broken, “she is the most loveable girl in the world.”
Prescott laughed.
“But not pretty, eh, Frank?”
“Well, Prescott, I suppose most men wouldn't call her pretty at
first; I don't think I did; but I think her so now. Not pretty,
perhaps, but loveable; that's the only word that expresses it,
Prescott; just loveable, with the most trusting eyes you ever saw.
She is full of fun, Katie, and has got a very decided will of her
own. Not a bit of a muff, you know, Prescott.”
“No, I don't think you would be likely to fall in love with a muff,
Frank. Well, and what does the young lady think of you, Frank? Was it
a very strong flirtation?”
Frank laughed.
“No, Prescott, not a bit of it. It was perpetual war. I am afraid
I was very hard on her, but I did like teazing her, and making her
indignant. Katie has rather a will of her own, you see, and can hit
very hard when she likes; and she was immensely angry at being made
fun of. I do think, sometimes, she almost hated me. I don't think she
has the least idea I care for her; but I don't know, Prescott, I hope
that in the end I shall win her.”
Prescott smiled at Frank's description of his love-making.
“Well, Frank, and what do you propose doing with yourself this
evening?”
“I hardly know, Prescott. I feel too restless to sit still, and a
theatre would be just as bad. What with drives, and dinners, and
parties, and a constant state of light skirmishing when I was with
Katie, and an extreme amount of thought and restlessness when I was
alone, I have been kept in a state of constant excitement for the
last three weeks. I was always wondering whether anything would come
of it; whether it was a mere case of strong flirtation, such as I
have been engaged in fifty times before, or whether I was seriously
in earnest. And then at last I arrived at the fixed and settled
determination that of all the women I ever met, Katie was the one
most certain to make me perfectly happy. Altogether I have been
regularly worked up, and it would be quite impossible for me to sit
still. I want something to let off the steam. A row would suit me
admirably. It would be an immense satisfaction to hit out from the
shoulder. Suppose we go to the ‘Stunners.’ There is sure to be some
sparring going on; and if there's no one else, I can put on the
gloves with Perkins. What do you say, Prescott?”
“Anything you like, Frank, so that I am not called upon to bail you
out.”
So after dinner they went up to the “Lively Stunners.” The “Stunners”
was a public-house, situated in one of the small streets lying above
the top of the Haymarket. Not an aristocratic neighbourhood, indeed
the reverse; but the “Stunners” did a good business, as even Perkins
was ready to allow. Perkins was behind the bar in his shirt-sleeves,
and was very busy indeed when the young men entered.
“Ah, Mr. Maynard, I am glad to see you, sir.”
“How are you, Perkins? Anything going on upstairs?”
“Not much, sir. It's not the night for sparring. We've got harmony
to-night, sir.”
“I want a set-to with the gloves, Perkins. What do you say?”
“Well, sir, I should be willing enough, but I am going out for a
spree. Just the thing to suit you if you are in the humour.”
“What is it, Perkins?”
“Well, sir, you must keep it dark, or it wouldn't do me any good in
my business; but the Slogger and I are going,”—and here he bent over
the bar with an air of great mystery,—“we're going to a Chartist
meeting to-night. The Slogger knows a fellow who is hot about it, and
he's put him up to the pass-word. So we're going, and if you and Mr.
Prescott are game, you can go with us. We can easily get up a row if
we like, and it's hard if us four can't fight our way out of it.”
“The very thing, Perkins; as you say, it's hard if we can't get up a
row somehow. What do you say, Prescott?”
“Anything you like, Frank. A black eye will not look strictly
professional, but as I have no case on in court it won't much matter.
I have not used my fists since that last town and gown row we were in
together at Cambridge; and I have no objection to a row for once in a
way.”
“Well, Mr. Maynard, we are not to start till half-past nine, it's no
use getting there too early, so if you don't mind going upstairs for
an hour, I will tell you when it is time to be off.”
“If there's no sparring going on, Perkins, I think we'll go out for
a stroll, and come back at the time you name. I can't stand the bad
tobacco smoke, and the bad singing.”
“Now, gentlemen, if you're ready,” Perkins said, when they returned,
“I'm with you.”
They went into the bar-parlour, where the Slogger, a powerful man,
with the unmistakeable look of a prize fighter, was awaiting them.
“You are not thinking of going like that?” he asked. “Lor', they'd
never let you in, not if you'd twenty pass-words, and if they did,
they'd pitch into us directly we were in the light. No; if you mean
to go, you must go like working men.”
“Have you any clothes you could lend us, Perkins?”
“Well, sir, I've an old greatcoat which would cover you well enough,
and I dare say I can rummage out something for Mr. Prescott. As
for hats, your best way is to send out and buy a couple of cheap
billycocks. You can pull them down over your eyes. I think that with
that, and if you take off your collars, and put a black handkerchief
or a bird's eye round your necks, you will pass well enough.”
The transformation was soon effected, and the two young men could not
help laughing at each other's altered appearance.
“You'll pass very well for a bricklayer out of employ, Frank.”
“Well, Prescott,” Frank retorted, “I could swear to you as a
disreputable-looking tailor anywhere.”
A cab was at the door, and the party were soon off.
“Now,” Perkins said, “if there is a shindy, we must all keep
together, and then we shall be as right as ninepence, whatever comes
of it. I'd back the Slogger and you and I, Mr. Maynard, to clear
the roughs out of any room in London in about five minutes. Mr.
Prescott's very handy with the gloves, but he hasn't weight, and in a
close fight weight tells.”
“Where is the place, Perkins?”
“In the New Cut, sir. It's a penny gaff at ordinary times.”
Arrived at the New Cut, they discharged the cab, and went on foot
through the busy crowd with which that locality is always filled
of a Saturday evening. Hundreds of men were standing about, their
week's work finished, smoking and talking together. The women were
busy shopping, and were engaged in examining the various goods before
purchasing, and in chaffering with the shopmen and costermongers. The
pleasure of shopping is by no means a monopoly of the rich, the poor
enjoy it to at least an equal extent; and no lady can more carefully
examine the texture of the silk dress which the shopman temptingly
holds out before her, or turn over one article after another before
making her selection, than does her poorer sister scrutinise the
markings and colour of a piece of bacon, or turn over the heaps
of cauliflowers and cabbages upon a costermonger's cart. Great is
the noise. The touts at the second-hand furniture and Jew clothing
shops, the butchers, and the itinerant vendors, vie with each other
in their efforts to obtain customers. Half-price has just begun at
the Victoria Theatre, which stands large and black at the corner of
the New Cut, and numbers are flocking in to see the tragedy of “The
Hangman's Stepdaughter; or the Murdered Mother of the Blind Alley.”
Views of this drama, of thrilling interest and in bright colours, are
placed beside the doors, and, illuminated by the bright gaslight,
exhibit scenes of bloodshed and murder, highly enticing to the
frequenters of the threepenny gallery. A few policemen are scattered
among the crowd, but their services are seldom required, except when
some drunken man insists upon fighting everyone, and, refusing all
persuasion to return home, has to be taken to the station-house, in
spite of his struggles and shouts, by two policemen. In the discharge
of this duty, although undertaken solely for the protection of the
public, the police are greeted with much jeering and hooting on the
part of that ungrateful body. And then all goes on quietly for a
time. The gaslights shine brightly out from the gin-palaces, and
great business is in course of being there carried on. Numbers go in
and out, and the glass-doors are ever on the swing. Through these
doors glimpses can be caught of crowds of men and women standing at
the bar drinking, and waiting to be served; while through the open
windows of the room above sounds of singing and of violent thumping
of pewter pots and glasses upon the table come out. Through all this
the four companions slowly made their way, and presently stopped at
the door of one of those establishments popularly known as a penny
gaff,—theatres at which a suicide, three murders, four combats, two
comic songs, and a ballet, are condensed into the space of a quarter
of an hour, and are to be heard for the charge of a penny; dens in
which a perspiring audience inhale a pestilential atmosphere and
vicious ideas together, and which the strong arm of the legislature
should either reform or sweep away altogether.
At present the establishment was apparently closed. The appalling
pictures no longer stood before the doors. The illumination which
usually blazed upon it was extinguished. No sound of music or
laughter came through into the street. The doors were closed, and
the whole place seemed deserted. Now and then, however, a man went
up, knocked, and after a short parley was admitted, and then all was
quiet again. At this door the party knocked. It was partially opened,
and a voice said,—
“What do you want?”
“Universal suffrage,” the Slogger answered.
The door opened a little wider, and they all entered. They found
themselves in perfect darkness, but the man who had let them in
turned on the light of a bull's-eye lantern.
“You are late, mates,” he said, leading the way along the passage.
Opening a door, he admitted them into the main apartment, a sort of
covered room or theatre. At one end was a raised stage, with the
usual front and drop scene. The latter was now raised, however, and
four or five chairs and a table were on the stage, and some ten or
a dozen men were standing or sitting there. The aspect of the place
was tawdry and dirty beyond description. The walls, originally white
and decorated with flower wreaths, were now black with smoke and
filth. What the ornamentation of the ceiling had once been, it was
impossible to say. The place was lighted by two gas chandeliers,
without glasses, and by a row of footlights in front of the stage.
The room was full of men, who were mostly smoking short pipes, and
the fog of tobacco smoke made it seem dingier and darker than it
really was, while the close, noxious atmosphere, and the entire
absence of any ventilation whatever, rendered it difficult for any
one unaccustomed to such noxious atmosphere to breathe at all.
The new comers took their stand close to the door where they entered,
and the seats having been removed and everyone standing, their coming
was altogether unnoticed by anyone.
“I say, Prescott, the air here is poisonous; it makes me feel quite
faint.”
“So it does me, Frank. We'd better light our pipes; we shan't feel it
so much.”
They accordingly followed the example of all around them, and began
to smoke, but even then they found the atmosphere almost overpowering.
“We can't stand this long, Prescott. We'll just listen to a speech or
two, and then we will have some fun.”
The meeting, they soon found, was principally held for the object
of informing the people of the arrangements which had been made
for the great meeting to take place in a few days. All in the hall
were evidently in their way leaders, and the speakers urged them
to bring up their forces to the appointed place, to keep them well
in hand, and to be prepared in case of resistance, for barricade
fighting. Each was requested to notice particularly the addresses of
the gunsmiths' shops, and even of second-hand dealers where a few
firearms might be exhibited in the windows, and to tell off men upon
whom they could rely to seize the arms. General instructions, too,
were given as to forming barricades; and the noble example of the
French was cited to them again and again.
“This is rather a serious business, Frank.”
“It's all talk, my dear fellow; an English mob has no idea of street
fighting; a few hundred policemen would drive ten thousand of them.”
The speaker now finished amid a low murmur of applause. The man
who followed him was of a less practical turn, and simply strove
to excite his hearers by a speech calling upon them to strike for
liberty, and to cut off the chains in which they were bound by a
pampered aristocracy.
“Look out, Perkins, I'm going to begin,” Frank said; and then, at the
top of his voice, he shouted out, “That's a lie!”
An immense confusion at once took place in the hall. There were
shouts of “A spy!”—“Turn him out!”—“Hang him!”—“Lock the doors!”
But those nearest who turned to carry these threats into execution,
hesitated a moment at the sight of the three powerful men who
guarded the door, which Prescott, as previously agreed, had opened,
to prevent the man in the passage locking it on the other side. The
hesitation was momentary, and then a tremendous rush was made by the
exasperated crowd. Those in front, however, as speedily recoiled, or
were beaten back by the tremendous blows of Frank Maynard and the
two prizefighters. The assault of the Slogger, however, was not in
the first place directed against those who attacked him, but against
a man who was standing in front of him, and who had evinced no
intention of taking part in the fray. He was a tall man, dressed as
a bricklayer, with large whiskers and black hair. Soon after he had
entered, the Slogger had noticed with surprise that these whiskers
were false, for the upper part of one of them, owing probably to the
heat of the room, had become detached from his face. The Slogger
would not have thought much of this, as he supposed at first it was
some one who had disguised himself, and come merely from curiosity,
as he had himself, but something in the man's figure, and in his
peculiar way of holding his head, reminded him of a man against
whom he had a particular grudge, for having, only the week before,
been the means of transporting the Slogger's brother. He determined
immediately the fray began to find out if his suspicions were
correct. Accordingly, the instant the rush was made, he commenced the
assault, by striking the unsuspecting man in front of him a violent
blow on the ear, which would have sent him to the ground had not he
been kept on his feet by the crowd around him. His false whiskers,
however, fell off, and the smoothly shaven cheeks were visible.
“Ha! Mr. Barton,” the Slogger shouted, as he dealt tremendous blows
right and left at the assailants who rushed at him, “it's my turn
now. You shan't go out from here with a whole skin. A spy!—a spy!”
he shouted; but the tumult was too great for his voice to be heard.
For some little time the three men had easily beaten off their
assailants, but matters were momentarily becoming more serious. The
men on the platform were breaking up the chairs and tables, while
others tore down portions of the woodwork to form weapons. These now
pressed forward through the crowd as they fell back in dismay from
their formidable opponents.
“I think it's about time to make a bolt, sir.”
“All right, Perkins,—come along.”
In the meantime, Prescott had had a quiet encounter of his own with
the door-keeper—who had been signally worsted, and had run out into
the street—and was now holding the door ready to close it as the
others retreated. After a rush upon the assailants, in order to drive
them back, and gain time for the manœuvre, the three men made a
hasty retreat through the door, which Prescott instantly closed and
locked behind them, and in another instant they were out in the New
Cut.
“Come the other way, sir,” Perkins said, “there's a cab-stand under
the railway-arch, and if them fellows get out and find us, they'd be
as likely to knife us as not.”
In another minute they were in the cab.
“That was a sharp fight, Perkins.”
“And no mistake, sir. As good a turn-up as I've had for a long time.
There'll be some smartish black eyes in the morning.”
“Do you think there is really going to be a row with these Chartists,
Perkins?”
“I don't think so, sir. They don't mind the bobbies, but they'll
never stand against the red coats. I'm going to-morrow to get
sworn in as a special. I ain't going to have them coming in to the
‘Stunners’ to help themselves without pay. I don't know, and I don't
care, a rap about the charter, and I don't believe one in fifty of
them knows theirselves. What they want isn't the charter so much as
their neighbour's goods. Well, they won't get my beer till some of
'em have gone down. They'll find that they have to pay for it one way
or the other. Here we are, sir, and I ain't sorry, for I don't know
that I was ever so dry in my life.”
“So am I, Perkins; the heat and stench in that place was tremendous.
The fighting, too, was warm while it lasted. I don't think any of us
got hit.”
“Hit!” said Perkins, contemptuously; “no, nor we shouldn't have been
if we had stopped there all night. Not as long as we could have kept
them at arm's length. The worst of that sort of row is, that the
fellows who are behind always want to get close, and they push the
chaps in front on so that at last one gets jammed up into a heap, and
can't use one's arms. No, I think we just stopped long enough. The
leg of a table is a nasty sort of thing to come down on your guard.
Now then, sir, what's your liquor?”