‘Make a careful search,’ said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more
valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be greatly surprised.’
Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon came to light. One after
another the sailor brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken,
gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink of gold.
Fenwick presently, after opening one of these bags, held it up before
Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. ‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you?
Why, a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class passenger, not a
steerage. How did you manage to accumulate such a heap of gold?’
Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: ‘Let me alone. I’m an
honest workman. Mr Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking his
pardon.’
‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all this gold?’
‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, with the perspiration
rolling down his face. ‘So help me. By the sweat of my brow.’
‘That will do,’ continued the detective. ‘Take my advice, and don’t say
another word.—Come, Tiltcroft. The sooner we get back to the city the
better. There is work to be done there to-night.’ With these words,
Fenwick beckoned to two constables. These men, at a sign from the
detective, seized Joe Grimrood and handcuffed him before he had time to
suspect their intention. Meanwhile, the sailor had packed up the box,
gold and all, and had corded it down as quickly as he had uncorded it.
The constables went first, with Joe Grimrood between them. The man
showed no resistance. Behind him followed the sailor with the valuable
chest. The detective and Tiltcroft brought up the rear. The boat which
had brought Walter and his companions alongside the emigrant ship was
still waiting under the bow when they came on deck. In a few minutes,
without noise or confusion, they were once more in their places, with
the chest and Joe Grimrood—still between the two constables—by way of
additional freight. Once more the boat moved across the dark river and
carried them to the shore.
Having deposited Joe Grimrood and his luggage at the police station,
the detective turned to Walter and said: ‘Now, my lad, let us be off.
This business in the city is pressing. Every moment is precious; it’s a
matter of life and death.’
THE RATIONALE OF HAUNTED HOUSES.
That a very old house should gain the reputation of being haunted
is not surprising, especially if it has been neglected and allowed
to fall out of repair. The woodwork shrinks, the plaster crumbles
away; and through minute slits and chasms in window-frames and
door-cases there come weird and uncanny noises. The wind sighs and
whispers through unseen fissures, suggesting to the superstitious the
wailings of disembodied spirits. A whole household was thrown into
consternation, and had its repose disturbed, one stormy winter, by a
series of lamentable howls and shrieks that rang through the rooms.
The sounds were harrowing, and as they rose fitfully and at intervals,
breaking the silence of the night, the stoutest nerves among the
listeners were shaken. For a long time the visitation continued to
harass the family, recurring by day as well as night, and especially
in rough weather. When there was a storm, piercing yells and shrieks
would come, sudden and startling, changing anon into low melancholy
wails. It was unaccountable. At length the mystery was solved.
Complaints had been made of draughts through the house, and as a
remedy, strips of gutta-percha had at some former time been nailed
along the window-frames, while its owners were at the seaside. This,
for some reason explainable upon acoustic principles, had caused
the disturbance. Even after the gutta-percha had been torn away, a
sudden blast of wind striking near some spot to which a fragment still
adhered, would bring a shriek or moan, to remind the family of the
annoyance they had so long endured.
Meantime, the house got a bad reputation, and servants were shy of
engaging with its owners. A maid more strong-minded than the others,
and who had hitherto laughed at their fears, came fleeing to her
mistress on one occasion, saying she must leave instantly, and that
nothing would induce her to pass another night under the roof. There
was a long corridor at the top of the house, and the girl’s story was,
that in passing along it, she heard footsteps behind her. Stopping and
looking back, she saw no one; but as soon as she went on, the invisible
pursuer did so too, following close behind. Two or three times she
stood still suddenly, hoping the footsteps would pass on and give her
the go-by; instead of which, they pulled up when she did. And when
at last, wild with terror, she took to her heels and ran, they came
clattering along after her to the end of the passage!
The mistress suspected that some one was trying to frighten the girl,
and she urged her to come up-stairs and endeavour to find out the
trick. This the terrified damsel refused to do, so the lady went off
alone. On reaching the corridor and proceeding along it, she was
startled to find that, as the maid had described, some one seemed to be
following her. Tap, tap, clack, clack—as of one walking slipshod with
shoes down at heel—came the steps, keeping pace with her own; stopping
when she stopped, and moving on when she did. In vain the lady peered
around and beside her; nothing was to be seen. It could be no trick,
for there was nobody in that part of the house to play a practical joke.
Ere long the cause was discovered in the shape of a loose board in the
flooring of the corridor. The plank springing when pressed by the foot
in walking along, gave an echoing sound that had precisely the effect
of a step following; and this, in the supposed haunted house, was
sufficient to raise alarm.
It happened to us once to be a temporary dweller in a mansion that had
a ghostly reputation. We were on our way to Paris, travelling with an
invalid; and the latter becoming suddenly too ill to proceed on the
journey, we were forced to stop in the first town we came to. The hotel
being found too noisy, a house in a quiet street was engaged by the
week. It was a grand old mansion, that had once belonged to a magnate
of the land; fallen now from its high estate, and but indifferently
kept up. Wide stone staircases with balusters of carved oak led to
rooms lofty and spacious, whose walls and ceilings were decorated with
gilded enrichments and paintings in the style of Louis XIV. At the side
of the house was a covered-way leading to the stables and offices.
This was entered through a tall _porte cochère_; and at either side of
the great gates, fixed to the iron railings, were a couple of those
huge metal extinguishers—still sometimes to be seen in quaint old
houses—used in former times to put out the torches or links carried at
night by running footmen beside the carriages of the great. The stables
and offices of the place were now falling into decay, and the _porte
cochère_ generally stood open until nightfall, when the gates were
locked.
We had been in the house for some little time before we heard the
stories of supernatural sights and sounds connected with it—of figures
flitting through halls and passages—the ghosts of former occupants;
of strange whisperings and uncanny noises. There certainly were
curious sounds about the house, especially in the upper part, where
lumber-closets were locked and sealed up, through whose shrunken
and ill-fitting doors the wind howled with unearthly wails. In the
dining-hall was a row of old family pictures, faded and grim; and
the popular belief was that, at the ‘witching hour,’ these worthies
descended from their frames and held high festival in the scene of
former banquetings. No servant would go at night into this room alone
or in the dark.
We had with us a young footman called Carroll, the son of an Irish
tenant; devoted to his masters, under whom he had been brought up. He
was a fine young fellow, bold as a lion, and ready to face flesh and
blood in any shape; but a very craven as regarded spirits, fairies, and
supernatural beings, in whom he believed implicitly. One night, after
seeing the invalid settled to rest and committed to the care of the
appointed watcher, I came down to the drawing-room to write letters. It
was an immense saloon, with—doubling and prolonging its dimensions—wide
folding-doors of looking-glass at the end. I had been writing for some
time; far, indeed, into the ‘small-hours.’ The fire was nearly out;
and the candles, which at their best had only served to make darkness
visible in that great place, had burnt low. The room was getting
chilly, dark shadows gathering in the corners. Who has not known the
creepy, shivering feeling that will come over us at such times, when
in the dead silence of the sleeping house we alone are wakeful? The
furniture around begins to crack; the falling of a cinder with a clink
upon the hearth makes us start. And if at such a time the door should
slowly and solemnly open wide, as doors sometimes will, ‘spontaneous,’
we look up with quickening pulse, half expecting to see some ghastly
spectral shape glide in, admitted by invisible hands. Should sickness
be in the house, and the angel of death—who knows?—be brooding with
dark wing over our dwelling, the nerves, strained by anxiety, are
more than usually susceptible of impressions. I was gathering my
papers together and preparing to steal up-stairs past the sick-room,
glad to escape from the pervading chilliness and gloom, when the door
opened. Not, this time, of itself; for there—the picture of abject
terror—stood Carroll the footman. He was as pale as ashes, shaking all
over; his hair dishevelled, and clothes apparently thrown on in haste.
To my alarmed exclamation, ‘What _is_ the matter?’ he was unable, for
a minute, to make any reply, so violently his lips were trembling,
parched with fear. At last I made out, among half-articulate sounds,
the words ‘Ghost, groans.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘what nonsense! You have been having a bad dream. You
ought to know better, you who’——
My homily was cut short by a groan so fearful, so unlike anything I had
ever heard or imagined, that I was dumb with horror.
‘Ah-h-h!—there it is again!’ whispered Carroll, dropping on his knees
and crossing himself; while vehemently thumping his breast, he, as a
good Catholic, began to mumble with white lips the prayers for the
dead. Up the stairs through the open door the sounds had come; and
after a few minutes, they were repeated, this time more faintly than
before.
‘Let us go down and try to find out what it is,’ I said at last. And in
spite of poor Carroll’s misery and entreaties, making a strong effort,
I took the lamp from his trembling hands and began to descend the wide
staircase. Nothing was stirring. In the great dining-room, where I
went in, while the unhappy footman kept safely at the door, casting
frightened glances at the portraits on the walls, all was as usual.
As we went lower down, the groans grew louder and more appalling.
Hoarse, unnatural, long-drawn—such as could not be imagined to proceed
from human throat, they seemed to issue from the bowels of the earth,
and to be re-echoed by the walls of the great dark lofty kitchens.
Beyond these kitchens were long stone passages, leading to cellars
and pantries and servants’ halls, all unused and shut up since the
mansion’s palmy days; and into these we penetrated, led by the fearful
sounds.
All here was dust and desolation. The smell of age and mould was
everywhere; the air was chill; and the rusty hinges of the doors
shrieked as they were pushed open, scaring away the spiders, whose webs
hung in festoons across the passages, and brushed against our faces as
we went along. Doubtless, for years no foot had invaded this dank and
dreary region, given over to mildew and decay; or disturbed the rats,
which ran scampering off at our approach. The groans seemed very near
us now, and came more frequently. It was terrible, in that gruesome
place, to hearken to the unearthly sounds. I could hear my agonised
companion calling upon every saint in the calendar to take pity upon
the soul in pain. At length there came a groan more fearful than any
that had been before. It rooted us to the spot. And then was utter
silence!
After a long breathless pause, broken only by the gasps of poor Carroll
in his paroxysm of fear, we turned, and retraced our steps towards the
kitchens. The groans had ceased altogether.
‘It is over now, whatever it was,’ I said. ‘All is quiet; you had
better go to bed.’
He staggered off to his room; while, chilled to the marrow, I crept
up-stairs, not a little shaken, I must confess, by the night’s doings.
Next day was bright and fine. My bedroom looked to the street; and soon
after rising, I threw open the window, to admit the fresh morning air.
There was a little stir outside. The _porte cochère_ gates were wide
open, and a large cart was drawn up before them. Men with ropes in
their hands were bustling about, talking and gesticulating; passers-by
stopped to look; and boys were peering down the archway at something
going on within. Soon the object of their curiosity was brought to
light. A dead horse was dragged up the passage, and after much tugging
and pulling, was hauled up on the cart and driven away.
It appeared that at nightfall of the previous day the wretched animal
was being driven to the knacker’s; and straying down into our archway,
while the man who had him in charge was talking to a friend, he fell
over some machinery that stood inside, breaking a limb, and otherwise
frightfully injuring himself. Instead of putting the poor animal out
of pain at once, his inhuman owner left him to die a lingering death
in agonies; and his miserable groans, magnified by the reverberation
of the hollow archway and echoing kitchens, had been the cause of our
nocturnal alarm.
Carroll shook his head and looked incredulous at this solution of the
mystery, refusing, with the love of his class for the supernatural, to
accept it. Though years have since then passed over his head, tinging
his locks with gray, and developing the brisk, agile footman into the
portly, white-chokered, pompous butler, he will still cleave to his
first belief, and stoutly affirm that flesh and blood had nought to do
with the disturbance that night in the haunted house.
UMPIRES AT CRICKET.
Cricket has undergone many changes during its history, but, as far as
we can tell, one thing has remained unaltered—the umpires are sole
judges of fair and unfair play. The laws of 1774, which are the oldest
in existence, say: ‘They (the umpires) are the sole judges of fair and
unfair play, and all disputes shall be determined by them.’ Various
directions have been given to them from time to time, but nothing has
been done to lessen their responsibility or destroy their authority.
An umpire must not bet on the match at which he is employed, and only
for a breach of that law can he be changed without the consent of both
parties. It is probable that the reason why an ordinary side in a
cricket-match consists of eleven players is that originally a ‘round
dozen’ took part in it, and that one on each side was told off to be
umpire. An old writer on cricket says that in his district the players
were umpires in turn; so, though there might be twelve of them present,
only eleven were actually playing at once. This may have been a remnant
of a universal custom; and it would explain why the peculiar number
eleven is taken to designate a side in a cricket-match.
It is not always possible for an umpire to give satisfaction to both
parties in a dispute, and very hard things have sometimes been said by
those against whom a decision has been given. Mobbing an umpire is not
so common in cricket as in football, but it is not unknown. Nervous
men have sometimes been influenced by the outcries of spectators, and
have given decisions contrary to their judgment. But occasionally the
opposite effect has been produced by interference. A bowler who has
been unpopular has been clamoured against when bowling fairly; and the
umpire has not interfered even when he has bowled unfairly, lest it
should look as if he was being coerced by the mob.
For some years there has been a growing demand for what may be called
umpire reform. It has been said that in county matches umpires favoured
their own sides. A few years ago, a Manchester paper commenced an
account of a match between Lancashire and Yorkshire with these words:
‘The weather was hot, the players were hotter, but the umpiring was
hottest of all.’ This kind of danger was sought to be obviated last
year by the appointment of neutral umpires. The Marylebone Cricket Club
appointed the umpires in all county matches; but this did not remove
the dissatisfaction which had previously existed, as it was said that
the umpires were afraid to enforce the strict laws of the game.
Some people who think there will not be fair-play as long as
professional umpires are employed, would have amateurs in this
position, and they predict that with the alteration there would be
an end to all unfairness and dispute. But Lord Harris, who is the
chief advocate for greater strictness on the part of umpires, says he
believes they would never be successful in first-class matches; he has
seen a good many amateur umpires in Australia, and, without impugning
their integrity, he would be sorry to find umpires in England acting
with so little experience and knowledge of the game.
Dr W. G. Grace has told two anecdotes of umpires whom he met in
Australia. He says: ‘In an up-country match, our wicket-keeper stumped
a man; but much to our astonishment the umpire gave him not out, and
excused himself in the following terms: “Ah, ah! I was just watching
you, Mr Bush; you had the tip of your nose just over the wicket.” In
a match at Warrnambool, a man snicked a ball, and was caught by the
wicket-keeper. The umpire at the bowler’s wicket being asked for a
decision, replied: “This is a case where I can consult my colleague.”
But of course the other umpire could not see a catch at the wicket
such as this, and said so; whereupon our friend, being pressed for a
decision, remarked: “Well, I suppose he is not out.”’
The Australians have frequently said that English professional umpires
are afraid of giving gentlemen out, but this cannot be said of those
who are chosen to stand in the chief matches. A well-known cricketer
tells about a country match in which he was playing. A friend of his
was tempting the fieldsmen to throw at his wicket, until at length
one did throw, and hit it. ‘Not out,’ cried the umpire; and coming up
to the batsman, said: ‘You really must be more careful, sir; you were
clean out that time.’ This reminds us of the umpire who, in answer
to an appeal, said: ‘Not out; but if he does it again, he will be.’
Caldecourt was a famous umpire—‘Honest Will Caldecourt,’ as he was
called. The author of _Cricketana_ had a high opinion of him, and said
he could give a reason for everything. That is a great virtue in an
umpire. Some men in that position will give decisions readily enough,
but they either cannot or will not explain on what grounds their
decisions are formed.
John Lillywhite was a very honest umpire. It was his opinion that
bowling was being tolerated which was contrary to the laws of cricket
as they were then framed. In a match at Kennington Oval in 1862, he
acted according to his opinion, for he was umpire. Lillywhite would not
give way, and another umpire was employed in his place on the third day
of the match. Lillywhite was right, and it was unfortunate that he was
superseded. That was not the way to make umpires conscientious.
When the old All England Eleven were in their prime, and were playing
matches in country places against eighteens and twenty-twos, the
players did not always pay that deference to umpires which was
customary on the best grounds, and advantage was sometimes taken of an
umpire’s nervousness and inexperience. It seemed to be an axiom with
some players, ‘To appeal is always safe.’ If several famous cricketers
cried ‘How’s that?’ it is not to be wondered at that an umpire would
occasionally say ‘Out’ on the spur of the moment, without knowing
why. But a very fair retort was once made to a player who was fond of
making appeals, on the chance of getting a lucky decision. ‘How’s that,
umpire?’ he cried. The reply was: ‘Sir, you know it is not out; so why
ask me, if you mean fair-play?’
The umpire has not an easy post to fill, even if he have all the
assistance which can be rendered by the players. Points are constantly
arising which are not provided for in the laws, and he must be guided
by the practice of his predecessors in the best matches. There is such
a thing as common law in cricket, as well as what may be called statute
law. It is undecided whether the umpire should be considered part of
the earth or part of the air. If a ball hit him, and be caught before
it touch the ground, is the batsman out? Some umpires say Yes, and
others say No. Severe accidents have sometimes happened to umpires who
have been struck with the ball, and there is on record that at least
one has met his death in this way.
When matches were played for money, and when cricket was subject to
open gambling, it was more difficult for umpires to give satisfactory
decisions than it is now. In the account of a match played about sixty
years ago between Sheffield and Nottingham, the Sheffield scorer wrote,
that every time a straight ball was bowled by a Sheffield bowler the
Nottingham umpire called: ‘No ball.’ Many stories arose at that time
about umpires who were supposed to favour their sides. One town was
said to possess a champion umpire, and with his help the Club was
prepared to meet all comers. Only twenty years ago, the following
statement appeared in a respectable magazine: ‘Far north, there is an
idea that a Yorkshire Eleven should have an umpire of their own, as a
kind of Old Bailey witness to swear for Yorkshire through thick and
thin.’
But Yorkshiremen themselves have told some racy stories about some of
their umpires. One was appealed to for a catch, and he replied: ‘Not
out; and I’ll bet you two to one you will not win.’ Another at the
close of a match threw up his hat, and exclaimed: ‘Hurrah! I have won
five shillings.’
It is well known that when Dr E. M. Grace made his first appearance at
Canterbury, Fuller Pilch was umpire. The doctor was out immediately,
but the umpire gave him in. When he was afterwards expostulated with,
he said he wanted to see if that Mr Grace could bat; so, to satisfy his
curiosity, he inflicted an injustice on his own side. If the same thing
had been done in favour of his own county, it would not have offended
a gentleman whom Mr Bolland refers to in his book on Cricket. This
gentleman, referring to an umpire’s decision on one occasion, said: ‘He
must be either drunk or a fool, to give one of his own side out in that
manner.’
At Ecclesall, near Sheffield, there was formerly a parish clerk called
Lingard, who was also a notable umpire. One hot Sunday he was asleep
in his desk, and was dreaming about a match to be played the next day.
After the sermon, when the time came for him to utter his customary
‘Amen,’ he surprised the preacher, and delighted the rustics who were
present, by shouting in a loud voice the word ‘Over.’
PARTED.
Farewell, farewell—a sadder strain
No other English word can give;
But we are parted though we live,
And ne’er may meet on earth again.
My life is void without thy love—
A harp with half its strings destroyed;
And thoughts of pleasures once enjoyed,
Can naught of consolation prove.
We live apart—the ocean’s flow
Divides thy sunny home from mine;
And, musing on the shore’s decline,
I watch the waters come and go.
I trace thy image in the sand;
I call thy name—I call in vain:
The breeze is blowing from the main,
And mocks me waiting on the strand.
I see the mighty rivers roll
To plunge, tumultuous, in the sea;
So all my thoughts flow on to thee,
And merge together in their goal.
But thou hast uttered ‘Fare thee well;’
And I must bid a last adieu,
Nor let the aching heart pursue
The longings that no tongue can tell.
* * * * *
And now, the slow returning tide
No longer murmurs of the sea;
The breeze has changed; it flies to thee
And breathes my message at thy side.