Gorman was one of those peculiar characters who, in personal appearance,
are totally devoid of peculiarity. He was a middle-sized, thick-set,
commonplace, grave, quiet man; very powerful--but not apparently so; one
whom it was impossible to "find out" unless he chose to let himself be
found out. Above all, he was a reserved man.
Everybody knew well enough, at least among his intimates, that he was
named Gorman; but not one of the number knew what his Christian name
was. A few were aware that he signed himself "D. Gorman"; but whether
the "D" represented David, dastard, drunkard, or demon, was a matter of
pure speculation to all, a few of his female acquaintance excepted (for
he had no friends), who asserted roundly that it represented them all,
and some were even willing to go the length of saying that it
represented more, and stood for dirty, drivelling, desperate, and a few
other choice words which it is quite unnecessary to mention. Only a
few, and these were among the knowing and peculiarly observant ones of
Gorman's intimates, said that "D" stood for "deep." But then, many of
those who thus pronounced their opinion, were comparatively worthless
characters, given to scandal and slander; so the reader must not allow
himself to be biassed too much by their report.
Certain it is, however, that when Gorman was asked on one occasion what
his Christian name was, he replied that he had no Christian name;
because he didn't believe in Christianity, and that he signed himself
"D," to be distinguished from the other Gormans who might chance to
exist in the universe.
People were not at all shocked at his bold statement of unbelief;
because, in the circle in which he moved, the same disbelief was pretty
general.
Besides many other traits and qualities, definable and indefinable,
Gorman had the power of assuming the appearance either of a burglar of
the lowest type, or a well-to-do contractor or tradesman. A slight
change in dress and manner were sufficient to metamorphose him beyond
recognition.
Everybody knew, also, that Gorman was the landlord of a small
public-house at the corner of a dirty street, not far from London
Bridge; and that he kept a stout, middle-aged man on the premises to do
the duty of host, while he himself went about "other business," which
nobody knew of, and which no one could find out, although many had tried
to do so with all their might.
Every day in the year, Gorman might have been seen at the "Golden Swan";
but never for longer than a few minutes at a time, when he inspected the
books, received the cash drawn the day before; and made an impression on
all in the premises, that tended to convince them they were well looked
after.
"Humph!" ejaculated Gorman, as he finished counting the dirty coppers
and pieces of silver which his agent had delivered to him, and dropped
them from his dirty fingers into a dirty leather bag: "Business is dull,
I think."
"It ain't brisk just now, sir," replied the deputy-landlord of the
"Golden Swan."
Gorman received this reply with another "Humph," and then, putting the
bag in his coat pocket, prepared to leave.
"No one bin askin' for me?" inquired Gorman.
"No, sir; no one."
"I'll be back to-morrow about this time."
The deputy knew that this was false, for his employer invariably came at
a different hour each day, in order to take "the house" by surprise; but
he said, "Very well, sir," as usual.
"And mind," continued Gorman, "that you put the lights out. You're
uncommon careful about that, I hope?"
It is worthy of remark, in reference to Gorman's anxiety about putting
out lights, that he had been burned out of several sets of premises in
the course of a few years. He was quite a martyr, as it were, to fire.
Unaccountably worried, pursued, and damaged by it--no, not damaged, by
the way; because Gorman was a prudent man, and always insured to the
full amount. His enemies sometimes said _above_ it; but neither they
nor we have any means of proving or disproving that.
The deputy protested that he always exercised the utmost precaution in
putting everything out every night--from the last beery lingerer, to the
gas--and that he felt quite put out himself at being asked the question,
as it implied a doubt of his care and attention to business. Hereupon
Gorman said "Good-night," and the deputy returned to the counter, where
besotted men and drunken women awaited his attendance.
Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the
west end of London. Here he sought the well-known precincts of
Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.
That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a
feeling of the deepest misery.
"Anyone inside?" asked Gorman.
"No," said Boone, "'cept the boy. I'll call him to mind the shop, and
then we can be alone."
As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little
room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop,
while he held private consultation with his friend.
The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy. He was a soft-faced,
washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner.
Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such
an idiot as they took him for. He obeyed his master's mandate by
sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in
attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.
"Glad to see you, Mr Gorman," said Boone, seating his tall body on a
low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown
himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire.
"Very glad to see you, indeed, in my--little sanctum, my withdrawing
room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the
intervals of business."
Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor
did not encourage him.
"Pretty long intervals, I should suppose," he growled, pulling out his
pipe and lighting it.
Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was
extremely dull--astonishingly dull.
"Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings' worth
o' goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although
it's gettin' well on for Christmas-time? One would a'most fancy the
childr'n was about to give up such vanities an' devote themselves to
serious business. It's a serious business for the like of us, anyhow."
Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression
on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking
over it, and made up his mind to do it.
Boone's face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade
paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he _had_
been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind _not_ to do it.
"Oh, you have, have you?" said Gorman in a tone of irony. "Very good;
then I'll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by
this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half."
Boone's face became still paler.
"You're a hard landlord," said he.
"You're a soft tenant," retorted Gorman.
"You know what the punishment is by law," continued Boone.
"Yes--death," said the other drily; "but you know as well as I do that
it's never carried out nowadays."
"But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain't much better."
"Some men think it's worse," replied Gorman, with a savage grin; "but
you've no need to fear. If you only take the right precautions it's
impossible to find it out, an' I'll engage to put ye up to doin' it in
such a way that there won't be a scrap the size of a sixpence left to
convict you. Only put a bold face on it and the thing's done, and your
fortune made as well as mine."
The man's voice and manner softened a little as he said this, for he
thought he perceived symptoms of wavering in his tenant, who covered his
face with his large thin hands and sighed deeply.
"Come, don't be hard on me," he said at length; "I really haven't got
courage to go through with this. Only give me a little more time, and
I'll--"
"Very good," interrupted Gorman, with an oath, as he rose and dashed his
pipe into fragments on the hearth; "if you won't burn yourself out o'
this scrape."
"Hush! hush, man!" said Boone in a hoarse whisper; "not so loud; my lad
will hear you. Come, I'll think of it."
"Will you _do_ it?" demanded the other fiercely. "You know the
alternative if you don't?"
"Ruination?"
"Exactly so; and that without delay."
"Ruination either way," murmured Boone sadly to himself, as though he
were counting the cost.
"Tut, man," said his landlord, becoming more gentle, "it's nothing of
the sort. If you only take my advice, it'll be a jolly blaze, which,
instead of ending in smoke will end in some thousands of pounds and
commencing business again on fresh capital. Come, I've not got time to
waste with you. There's no escape for you, so you'd better say yes,
else I'll go and have a talk with a legal friend of mine who is used to
screwing gold out of most unpromising mines."
David Boone's face had by this time become so pale that it could not
become paler, so it turned somewhat green instead. His teeth, too, had
a tendency to chatter when he spoke, but by a strong mental effort he
prevented this, and said in a subdued voice that he was willing to do
whatever his landlord pleased to command.
"That's all right," said Gorman, resuming his seat in front of the fire;
"now you speak like a man. Sit down and I'll go over the matter with
you, and make your mind easy by showing you that it ain't either a
difficult or risky piece of work. Bless you, it ain't the first time
I've been up to that sort o' thing."
It did not require the diabolical leer that accompanied this remark to
convince his hearer of its truth.
"Now, then," said Gorman, with a business air, "first of all, how stands
the stock in the shop?"
"Rather low," answered Boone, who had reseated himself on the stool; "in
fact, I've got little or nothing more than what is visible. I've bin so
hard-up of late that I've had to crowd everything into view an' make the
most of appearances. All the dressed dolls has got their frocks spread
out, and the undressed ones their arms an' legs throwed about to make
'em take up as much room as possible. The lids of all the work boxes is
open, the slates and puzzle boxes stuck up in single rows, with their
broadsides to the front, and the collapsin' worlds is all inflated.
Everything in the front is real, but all behind is sham dummies an'
empty boxes."
Gorman opened his eyes a little on hearing this.
"Good," he said, after a pause; "you're a cleverer fellow than I took
you for. I thought you was well off, and I'm sure the neighbours think
the same, for the place looks pretty full an' thrivin'. I suppose, now,
if it was all sold off you wouldn't have enough to pay up my loans?"
"Nothink like it," said Boone earnestly. "I've slaved night and day,
an' done my best, but luck's again' me."
"Ah, that's 'cause you've bin faint-hearted in time past; you're goin'
to be bold in time to come, my good fellow; you'll have to be bold, you
will. Come, I'll explain how. But first, let me ask how much you think
the stock is worth."
"Not much above fifty pounds."
"Hum! it looks like more."
"That's true, an' the people about think it's worth two or three
hundred, for you see I have a lot o' cheap jewellery, and some of the
inquisitive ones have been trying to pump me of late. They all think
I'm thriving," said Boone, shaking his head sorrowfully.
"So you are, so you are, man," said Gorman jocosely, "and you're going
to make your fortune soon, and so am I, though at present I'm poor
enough. However, that don't matter. Here's your course for the future,
which you're to steer by. You'll go an' begin chatting with your
neighbours at odd times, and your conversation, curiously enough, will
always be about the times bein' better than usual, an' about the
approach of Christmas, an' the stock you mean to lay in against that
festive season. After that you'll lay in the stock--fifty pounds'
worth; and it won't be sham; it'll be real--"
"But where is the money to come from?" asked Boone.
"Oh, don't you trouble about the money; I'll provide that. I've a
curious power of raisin' the wind on easy terms. Fifty pounds' worth of
real goods will be bought by you, my thriving shopman, and you'll let
some of the neighbours, partiklerly these same inquisitive 'uns, see the
goods and some of the invoices, and you'll tell them that you've laid in
150 pounds worth of stock, and that you think of layin' in more. On the
strength of the press o' business you'll get another shop-lad, and
you'll keep 'em employed a good deal goin' messages, so that they won't
get to know much about the state o' things, and I'll take care to send
you a rare lot o' customers, who'll come pretty often for small
purchases, and give the shop an uncommon thrivin' look. Oh, we'll make
a splendid appearance of doin' business, and we'll have lots of
witnesses ready to bother these sharp lawyers if need be--won't we,
Boone?"
Poor Boone, whose colour had not yet improved much, smiled in a ghastly
way, but said nothing.
"Well, then," resumed Gorman, after a few minutes' meditation, "when
this thriving trade is in full swing we'll get it insured. You know it
would never do to risk the loss of such valuable stock by fire--eh,
Boone? common prudence pints that out! You say what you have is worth
fifty, and what you'll lay in is fifty more, makin' a hundred, so we'll
insure for five hundred; there's a clear gain of four hundred per cent,
only think of that! Well, the house I have already insured for five
hundred, that makes nine hundred, and we'll insure the furniture and
fixings for fifty; that'll look business-like, you know. Then the goods
laid in will be carefully removed in the night at various times before
the fire, so you had better see that they are small and portable
objects; that'll make another fifty pounds, if not more. So I see my
way to a thousand pounds. That's a neat sum, ain't it, Boone?"
Still Boone made no reply, but favoured his visitor with another ghastly
smile.
"Well, then," pursued Gorman, "all you've got to do is, on a certain
night that I will fix, to set the shop alight, and the thing's done
quite easy. But that's not all. You've got an old mother, I believe;
well, it would be very unnatural in you to run the risk of being burned
to death, an' leaving her penniless; so you'll insure your life for five
hundred pounds, and I'll pay the first premium on it, and then you'll
die--"
"Die!" exclaimed Boone, with a start.
"Ay; why not, if you're to get a small fortune by it."
"But how's that to be managed?" inquired Boone, with a look of doubt.
"Managed? Nothing easier. You'll be so desperately upset by the fire--
perhaps singed a little too--that you'll be taken ill and won't get
better. I'll look carefully after you as your loving friend, and when
you're about dead you'll get up and clear off in a quiet way. I'll make
arrangements to have a corpse as like you as possible put in your bed,
and then you'll be buried comfortably, and we'll share the insurance.
Of course you'll have to leave this part of the town and disguise
yourself, but that won't be difficult. Why, man, if you were only fond
of a joke you might even attend your own funeral! It's not the first
time that sort of thing has bin done. So, then, you'll have your life
insured, but not yet. Your first business is to set about the purchase
of the stock, and, let me tell you, there's no time to lose, so I advise
you to write out the orders this very night. I'll fetch you fifty
pounds in a day or two, and you'll pay up at once. It'll look well, you
know, and after it's all settled we'll divide the plunder. Now then,
good-night. I congratulate you on your thriving business."
Gorman opened the door of the inner room as he said the last words, so
that the lad in the shop might hear them. As he passed through the shop
he whispered in his friend's ear, "Mind the consequences if you fail,"
and then left him with another hearty good-night.
Poor David Boone, having sold himself to the tempter, went about his
duties like an abject slave. He began by ordering goods from various
wholesale dealers in the city, after which he took occasion to stand a
good deal at his shop door and accost such of his neighbours as chanced
to pass. The conversation at such times invariably began with the
interesting topic of the weather, on which abstruse subject Boone and
his friends displayed a surprising profundity of knowledge, by stating
not only what the weather was at the time being, and what it had been in
time past, but what it was likely to be in time to come. It soon
diverged, however, to business, and usually ended in a display of fresh
goods and invoices, and in references, on the part of Boone, to the
felicitous state of trade at the time.
Do what he would, however, this thriving tradesman could not act his
part well. In the midst of his prosperity his smiles were ghastly and
his laughter was sardonic. Even when commenting on the prosperity of
trade his sighs were frequent and deep. One of his friends thought and
said that prosperity was turning the poor man's brain. Others thought
that he was becoming quite unnatural and unaccountable in his
deportment; and a few, acting on the principle of the sailor's parrot,
which "could not speak much, but was a tremendous thinker," gave no
outward indication of their thoughts beyond wise looks and grave shakes
of the head, by which most people understood them to signify that they
feared there was a screw loose somewhere.
This latter sentiment, it will be observed, is a very common one among
the unusually wise ones of the earth, and is conveniently safe, inasmuch
as it is more or less true of every person, place, and thing in this sad
world of loose screws.