THE SECOND COLUMN OF "THE TIMES" OF THIS DATE, WITH OTHER MATTERS.
"TOMATO. Slam the door!"
"EDWARD. Come at once; poor Maria is in sad distress.
Toodlekins stole!!!!"
"J. B. can return to his deeply afflicted family if he
likes, or remain away if he likes. The A F, one and all,
will view either course with supreme indifference. Should
he choose the former alternative, he is requested to be as
quick as possible. If the latter, to send the key of the
cellaret."
"LOST. A little black and tan lady's lap dog. Its real name
is Pussy, but it will answer to the name of Toodlekins
best. If any gentleman living near Kensal Green, or Kentish
Town, should happen, perfectly accidentally of course, to
have it in his possession, and would be so good as to bring
it to 997, Sloane Street, I would give him a sovereign and
welcome, and not a single question asked, upon my honour."
It becomes evident to me that the dog Toodlekins mentioned in the second
advertisement, is the same dog alluded to in the fourth; unless you
resort to the theory that two dogs were stolen on the same day, and that
both were called Toodlekins. And you are hardly prepared to do that, I
fancy. Consequently, you arrive at this, that the "Maria" of the second
advertisement is the "little black and tan lady" of the fourth. And
that, in 1854, she lived at 997, Sloane Street. Who was she? Had she
made a fortune by exhibiting herself in a caravan, like Mrs. Gamp's
spotted negress, and taken a house in Sloane Street, for herself,
Toodlekins, and the person who advertised for Edward to come and comfort
her? Again, who was Edward? Was he her brother? Was he something nearer
and dearer? Was he enamoured of her person or her property? I fear the
latter. Who could truly love a little black and tan lady?
Again. The wording of her advertisement gives rise to this train of
thought. Two persons must always be concerned in stealing a dog--the
person who steals the dog, and the person who has the dog stolen;
because, if the dog did not belong to any one, it is evident that no one
could steal it. To put it more scientifically, there must be an active
and a passive agent. Now, I'll bet a dirty old dishcloth against the
_New York Herald_, which is pretty even betting, that our little black
and tan friend, Maria, had been passive agent in a dog-stealing case
more than once before this, or why does she mention these two
localities? But we must get on to the other advertisements.
"LOST. A large white bull-dog, very red about the eyes:
desperately savage. Answers to the name of 'Billy.' The
advertiser begs that any person finding him will be very
careful not to irritate him. The best way of securing him
is to make him pin another dog, and then tie his four legs
together and muzzle him. Any one bringing him to the Coach
and Horses, St. Martin's Lane, will be rewarded."
He seems to have been found the same day, and by some one who was a bit
of a wag; for the very next advertisement runs thus:
"FOUND. A large white bull-dog, very red about the eyes;
desperately savage. The owner can have him at once, by
applying to Queen's Mews, Belgrave Street, and paying the
price of the advertisement and the cost of a new pad groom,
aged 18, as the dog has bitten one so severely about the
knee that it is necessary to sell him at once to drive a
cab."
"LOST. Somewhere between Mile-end Road and Putney Bridge,
an old leathern purse, containing a counterfeit sixpence, a
lock of hair in a paper, and a twenty-pound note. Any one
bringing the note to 267, Tylney Street, Mayfair, may keep
the purse and the rest of its contents for their trouble."
This was a very shabby advertisement. The next, though coming from an
attorney's office, is much more munificent. It quite makes one's mouth
water, and envy the lucky fellow who would answer it.
"ONE HUNDRED GUINEAS REWARD. Register wanted. To parish
clerks. Any person who can discover the register of
marriage between Petre Ravenshoe, Esq. of Ravenshoe, in the
county of Devon, and Maria Dawson, which is supposed to
have been solemnised in or about the year 1778, will
receive the above reward, on communicating with Messrs.
Compton and Brogden, Solicitors, 2004, Lincoln's Inn
Fields."
Tomato slammed the door as he was told. Edward dashed up to 997, Sloane
Street, in a hansom cab, just as the little black and tan lady paid one
sovereign to a gentleman in a velveteen shooting-coat from Kentish Town,
and hugged Toodlekins to her bosom. J. B. came home to his afflicted
family with the key of the cellaret. The white bull-dog was restored to
the prize-fighter, and the groom-lad received shin-plaster and was sent
home tipsy. Nay, even an honest man, finding that the note was stopped,
took it to Tylney Street, and got half-a-crown. But no one ever answered
the advertisement of Lord Saltire's solicitor about the marriage
register. The long summer dragged on. The square grew dry and dusty;
business grew slack, and the clerks grew idle; but no one came. As they
sat there drinking ginger-beer, and looking out at the parched lilacs
and laburnums, talking about the theatres, and the war, and the cholera,
it grew to be a joke with them. When any shabby man in black was seen
coming across the square, they would say to one another, "Here comes the
man to answer Lord Saltire's advertisement." Many men in black, shabby
and smart, came across the square and into the office; but none had a
word to say about the marriage of Petre Ravenshoe with Maria Dawson,
which took place in the year 1778.
Once, during that long sad summer, the little shoeblack thought he would
saunter up to the house in South Audley Street, before which he had
waited so long one night to meet Charles, who had never come. Not
perhaps with any hope. Only that he would like to see the place which
his friend had appointed. He might come back there some day; who could
tell?
Almost every house in South Audley Street had the shutters closed. When
he came opposite Lord Ascot's house, he saw the shutters were closed
there too. But more; at the second storey there was a great painted
board hung edgeways, all scarlet and gold. There was some writing on it,
too, on a scroll. He could spell a little now, thanks to the
ragged-school, and he spelt out "Christus Salvator meus." What could
that mean? he wondered.
There was an old woman in the area, holding two of the rails in her
hands, and resting her chin on the kerb-stone, looking along the hot
desolate street. Our friend went over and spoke to her.
"I say, missus," he said, "what's that thing up there?"
"That's the scutching, my man," said she.
"The scutching?"
"Ah! my lord's dead. Died last Friday week, and they've took him down to
the country house to bury him."
"My lord?" said the boy; "was he the one as used to wear top-boots, and
went for a soger?"
The old woman had never seen my lord wear top-boots. Had hearn tell,
though, as his father used to, and drive a coach and four in 'em. None
of 'em hadn't gone for soldiers, neither.
"But what's the scutching for?" asked the boy.
They put it for a year, like for a monument, she said. She couldn't say
what the writing on it meant. It was my lord's motter, that was all she
knowd. And, being a tender-hearted old woman, and not having the fear of
thieves before her eyes, she had taken him down into the kitchen and fed
him. When he returned to the upper regions, he was "collared" by a
policeman, on a charge of "area sneaking," but, after explanations, was
let go, to paddle home, barefooted, to the cholera-stricken court where
he lived, little dreaming, poor lad, what an important part he was
accidentally to play in this history hereafter.
They laid poor Lord Ascot to sleep in the chancel at Ranford, and Lady
Ascot stood over the grave like a grey, old storm-beaten tower. "It is
strange, James," she said to Lord Saltire that day, "you and I being
left like this, with the young ones going down around us like grass.
Surely our summons must come soon, James. It's weary, weary waiting."