But indeed Josh Perrott's luck was worse than he thought. For the gross,
pimply man was a High Mobsman--so very high a mobsman that it would have
been slander and libel, and a very great expense, to write him down a
mobsman at all. He paid a rent of a hundred and twenty pounds a year,
and heavy rates, and put half-a-crown into the plate at a very
respectable chapel every Sunday. He was, in fact, the King of High
Mobsmen, spoken of among them as the Mogul. He did no vulgar thievery:
he never screwed a chat, nor claimed a peter, nor worked the mace. He
sat easily at home, and financed (sometimes planned) promising
speculations: a large swindle requiring much ground-baiting and
preliminary outlay; or a robbery of specie from a mail train; or a bank
fraud needing organization and funds. When the results of such
speculations consisted of money he took the lion's share. When they were
expressed in terms of imprisonment they fell to active and intelligent
subordinates. So that for years the Mogul had lived an affluent and a
blameless life, far removed from the necessity of injudicious bodily
exercise, and characterised by every indulgence consistent with a proper
suburban respectability. He had patronised, snubbed, or encouraged High
Mobsmen of more temerarious habit, had profited by their exploits, and
had read of their convictions and sentences with placid interest in the
morning papers. And after all this, to be robbed in his own house and
knocked downstairs by a casual buster was an outrage that afflicted the
Mogul with wrath infuriate. Because that was a sort of trouble that had
never seemed a possibility, to a person of his eminence: and because the
angriest victim of dishonesty is a thief.
However, the burglar had got clean away, that was plain; and he had
taken the best watch and chain in the house, with the Mogul's initials
on the back. So that respectable sufferer sent for the police, and gave
his attention to the the alleviation of bumps and the washing away of
blood. In his bodily condition a light blow was enough to let a great
deal of blood--no doubt with benefit; and Josh Perrott's blows were not
light in any case.
So it came to pass that not only were the police on the look-out for a
man with a large gold watch with the Mogul's monogram on the back; but
also the word was passed as by telegraph through underground channels,
till every fence in London was warned that the watch was the Mogul's;
and ere noon next day there was not one but would as lief have put a
scorpion in his pocket as that same toy and tackle that Josh Perrott was
gloating over in his back room in Old Jago Street.
As for Josh, his ankle was bad in the morning, and swelled. He dabbed at
it perseveringly with wet rags, and rubbed it vigorously, so that by one
o'clock he was able to lace up his boot and go out. He was anxious to
fence his plunder without delay, and he made his way to Hoxton. The
watch seemed to be something especially good, and he determined to stand
out for a price well above the usual figure. For the swag of common
thieves commanded no such prices as did that of the High Mob. All of it
was bought and sold on the simple system first called into being seventy
years back and more by the prince of fences, Ikey Solomons. A breast-pin
brought a fixed sum, good or bad, and a roll of cloth brought the fixed
price of a roll of cloth, regardless of quality. Thus a silver watch
fetched six shillings, never more and never less; a gold watch was worth
twice as much; an uncommonly good one--a rich man's watch--would bring
as much as eighteen shillings, if the thief were judge enough of its
quality to venture the demand. And as it commonly took three men to
secure a single watch in the open street--one to 'front,' one to snatch,
and a third to take from the snatcher--the gains of the toy-getting
trade were poor, except to the fence. This time Josh resolved to put
pressure on the fence, and to do his best to get something as near a
sovereign as might be. And as to the chain, so thick and heavy, he would
fight his best for the privilege of sale by weight. Thus turning the
thing in his mind, he entered the familiar doorway of the old clothes
shop.
'Vot is id?' asked the fence, holding out his hand with the customary
air of contempt for what was coming, by way of discounting it in
advance. This particular fence, by-the-bye, never bought anything
himself. He inspected whatever was brought on behalf of an occult
friend; and the transaction was completed by a shabby third party in an
adjoining court. But he had an amazingly keen regard for his friend's
interests.
Josh put the watch into the extended hand. The fence lifted it to his
face, turned it over, and started. He looked hard at Josh, and then
again at the watch, and handed it hastily back, holding it gingerly by
the bow. 'Don' vant _dot_,' he said; 'nod me--nod 'im, I mean. No, no.'
He turned away, shaking his hand as though to throw off contamination.
'Take id avay.'
'Wot's the matter?' Josh demanded, astonished. 'Is it 'cos o' the
letters on the back? You can easy send it to church, can't ye?'
A watch is 'sent to church' when it is put into another case. But the
fence waved away the suggestion. 'Take id avay I tell you,' he said.
'I--'e von't 'ave nodden to do vid id.'
'Wot's the matter with the chain, then?' asked Josh. But the fence
walked away to the back of the shop, wagging his hands desperately, like
a wet man seeking a towel, and repeating only:--'Nodden to do vid
id--take id avay--nodden to do vid id.'
Josh stuffed his prize back into his pocket, and regained the street. He
was confounded. What was wrong with Cohen? Did he suspect a police trick
to entrap him? Josh snorted with indignation at the thought. He was no
nark! But perhaps the police were showing a pressing interest in Cohen's
business concerns just now, and he had suspended fencing for a while.
The guess was a lame one, but he could think of none better at the
moment, as he pushed his way to the Jago. He would try Mother Gapp.
Mother Gapp would not even take the watch in her hands; her eyes were
good enough at that distance. 'Lor', Josh Perrott,' she said, 'wot 'a'
ye bin up to now? Want to git me lagged now, do ye? Ain't satisfied with
breakin' up the 'ouse an' ruinin' a pore widder that way, ain't ye? You
git out, go on. I 'ad 'nough o' you!'
It was very extraordinary. Was there a general reclamation of fences?
But there were men at work at the Feathers, putting down boards and
restoring partitions; and two of them had been 'gone over' ruinously on
their way to work, and now they came and went with four policemen.
Possibly Mother Gapp feared the observation of carpenters. Be it as it
might, there was nothing for it now but Weech's.
Mr Weech was charmed. 'Dear me, it's a wonderful fine watch, Mr
Perrott--a wonderful fine watch. An' a beautiful chain.' But he was
looking narrowly at the big monogram as he said it. 'It's reely a
wonderful article. 'Ow they do git 'em up, to be sure! Cost a lot o'
money too, I'll be bound. Might you be thinkin' o' sellin' it?'
'Yus o' course,' replied Josh. 'That's wot I brought it for.'
'Ah, it's a lovely watch, Mr Perrott--a lov-erly watch; an' the chain
matches it. But you mustn't be too 'ard on me. Shall we say four pound
for the little lot?'
It was more than double Josh's wildest hopes, but he wanted all he could
get. 'Five,' he said doggedly.
Weech gazed at him with tender rebuke. 'Five pound's a awful lot o'
money, Mr Perrott,' he said. 'You're too 'ard on me, reely. I 'ardly
know 'ow I can scrape it up. But it's a beautiful little lot, an' I
won't 'aggle. But I ain't got all that money in the 'ouse now. I never
keep so much money in the 'ouse--sich a neighb'r'ood, Mr Perrott! Bring
it round to-morrer mornin' at eleven.'
'Awright, I'll come. Five quid, mind.'
'Ah yus,' answered Mr Weech, with a reproving smile. 'It's reely more
than I ought!'
Josh was jubilant, and forgot his sore ankle. He had never handled such
a sum as five pounds since his fight with Billy Leary, years ago; when,
indeed, he had stooped to folly in the shape of lavish treating, and so
had not enjoyed the handling of the full amount.
Mr Weech, also, was pleased. For it was a great stroke of business to
oblige so distinguished a person as the Mogul. There was no telling what
advantages it might not lead to in the way of trade.
That night the Perrotts had a hot supper, brought from Walker's
cook-shop in paper. And at eleven the next morning Josh, twenty yards
from Mr Weech's door, with the watch and chain in his pocket, was tapped
on the arm by a constable in plain clothes, while another came up on the
other side. 'Mornin', Perrott,' said the first constable, cheerily.
'We've got a little business with you at the station.'
'Me? Wot for?'
'Oh well, come along; p'raps it ain't anything--unless there's a gold
watch an' chain on you, from Highbury. It's just a turnin' over.'
'Awright,' replied Josh, resignedly. 'It's a fair cop. I'll go quiet.'
'That's right, Perrott; it ain't no good playin' the fool, you know.'
They were moving along; and as they came by Weech's shop, a whiskered
face, with a patch of shining scalp over it, peeped from behind a
curtain that hung at the rear of the bloaters and plumcake in the
window. As he saw it, Josh ducked suddenly, wrenching his arm free, and
dashed over the threshold. Mr Weech, whiskers and apron flying, galloped
through the door at the back, and the constables sprang upon Josh
instantly and dragged him into the street. 'Wotcher mean?' cried the one
who knew him, indignantly, and with a significant glance at the other.
'Call that goin' quiet?'
Josh's face was white and staring with rage. 'Awright,' he grunted
through his shut teeth, after a pause. 'I'll go quiet now. I ain't got
nothin' agin _you_.'