“Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d,
There trick wi’ tumult rages;
Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d,
An’ sense wi’ craft engages.
* * * * *
“Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair,
Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak;
An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware,
Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak.
* * * * *
“Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see,
Advancin’ for a brek,
Just askin’ threyce as much as he
Kens he’ll consent to tek.
‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here,
Ye’s have it chep, believe me;
’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear.
Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’”
_Rosley Fair, by John Stagg._
WE left Mr. Sandboys engaged in the interesting occupation of hunting
after his lost inexpressibles—the very inexpressibles which his wife had
mended previous to his departure from Buttermere, and which that lady
had since exchanged, together with forty pounds in bank notes and her
own marriage certificate in the pockets, for a pot of mignionette and a
couple of cut roses.
His son Jobby, too, was employed upon the same agreeable mission; but
the researches of the youth were neither vigorous nor profitable, for
remembering the unpleasant issue of his previous wanderings in the
metropolis, he feared to travel far from the domestic precincts of
Craven Street, lest his rambles might end in his being flayed; stripped
of his cloth cuticle—his sartorial integuments, once more; the timid boy
therefore kept pacing to and fro within view of his own knocker, or if
he allowed the domestic door-step to fade from his sight, he did so only
when at the heels of the proximate Policeman.
Mr. Cursty, however, was far more venturesome. He thought of his lost
bank notes and missing marriage certificate, and what with the matter o’
money and the matrimony, he rushed on, determined not to leave a paving
nor a flag-stone untrodden throughout the streets of London, till he
regained possession of his lost treasures. So away he went, as the north
country people say, “tappy lappy,” with his coat laps flying
“helter-skelter,” as if he were “heighty-flighty.”
Up and down, in and out of all the neighbouring streets he hurried,
stopping only to ask of the passers-by whether they had met a hawker of
flowers on their way. Not a public-house in the neighbourhood but he
entered to search and inquire after the missing flower-seller; and when
he had explored every adjacent thoroughfare, and bar, and taproom, and,
after all, grown none the wiser, and got none the nearer to the
whereabouts of the floral “distributor,” he proceeded to unbosom himself
respecting the nature and extent of his losses to the police on duty,
and to consult with them as to the best means of recovering his notes
and “marriage lines.”
All the “authorities” whom he spoke to on the subject, agreed that the
only chance he had of ever again setting eyes on his property, was of
proceeding direct to the Old Clothes Exchange in Houndsditch, whither
the purchasers of the united “left off wearing apparel” of the
metropolis and its suburbs daily resort, to get “the best price given
for their old rags.”
Accordingly, Mr. Cursty Sandboys, having minutely copied down, in order
to prevent mistakes—for his care increased with each fresh disaster—the
name and description of the locality which he was advised to explore,
called a cab, and directed the driver to convey him, with all possible
speed, to the quarter in which the left-off apparel market was situated.
He was not long in reaching the desired spot. The cabman drew up at the
end of the narrow passage leading to the most fashionable of the Old
Clothes Marts, and Mr. Sandboys having paid the driver well for the
haste he had made, proceeded at once to plunge into the vortex of the
musty market.
Outside the gateway stood the celebrated “Barney Aaron,” the hook-nosed
janitor, with his hook-nosed son by his side—the father ready to receive
the halfpenny toll from each of the buyers and sellers as he entered the
Exchange, and the youth with a leathern pouch filled with “coppers,” to
give as change for any silver that might be tendered.
As Cursty passed through the gate, the stench of the congregated old
clothes and rags and hareskins was almost overpowering. The place stank
like a close damp cellar. There was that peculiar sour smell in the
atmosphere which appertains to stale infants, blended with the mildewy
odour of what is termed “mother”—a mixture of mouldiness, mustiness, and
fustiness, that was far from pleasant in the nostrils.
Scarcely had Cursty entered the Mart before he was surrounded by some
half-dozen eager Jews, some with long grizzly beards, and others in
greasy gaberdines—each seizing him by the arm, or pulling him by his
coat, or tapping him on the shoulder, as they one and all clamoured for
a sight of whatever he might have to sell.
“Ha’ you cot any preaking?” asked one who bought old coats to cut up
into cloth caps—“cot any fushtian—old cordsh—or old pootsh?”
“I’m shure you’ve shometing vot will shoot me,” cried another.
“You know me,” said a third—“I’m little Ikey, the pest of puyersh, and
always give a cood prishe.”
Such was the anxiety and eagerness of the Israelites, that it was more
than Mr. Sandboys could do to force his way through them, and it was not
until a new-comer entered with a sack at his back, that they left him to
hurry off and feel the old clothes-bag, as they clamoured for first peep
at its contents.
Once in the body of the Market, Cursty had time to look well about him,
and a curious sight it was—perhaps one of the most curious in all
London. He had never heard, never dreamt of there being such a place. A
greater bustle and eagerness appear to rage among the buyers of the
refuse of London, than among the traders in its most valuable
commodities.
Here, ranged on long narrow wooden benches, which extended from one side
of the market to the other, and over which sloped a narrow, eaves-like
roofing, that projected sufficiently forward only to shelter the sitter
from the rain, were to be seen the many merchants of the streets—the
buyers of hareskins—the bone-grubbers, and the rag-gatherers—the
“bluey-hunters,” or juvenile purloiners of lead—the bottle
collectors—the barterers of crockery-ware for old clothes—the
flower-swoppers—the umbrella menders—and all the motley fraternity of
petty dealers and chapmen. Each had his store of old clothes—or metal—or
boots—or rags—or bonnets—or hats—or bottles—or hareskins—or umbrellas,
spread out in a heap before him.
There sat a barterer of crockery and china, in a bright red plush
waistcoat and knee breeches, with legs like balustrades, beside his
half-emptied basket of “stone-ware,” while at his feet lay piled the
apparently worthless heap of rags and tatters, for which he had
exchanged his jugs, and cups, and basins. A few yards from him was a
woman done up in a coachman’s drab and many-caped box-coat, with a pair
of men’s cloth boots on her feet, and her limp-looking straw-bonnet
flattened down on her head, as if with repeated loads, while the ground
near her was strewn with hareskins, some old and so stiff that they
seemed frozen, and the fresher ones looking shiny and crimson as tinsel.
Before this man was a small mound of old cracked boots, dappled with
specks of mildew—beside that one lay a hillock of washed-out light
waistcoats, and yellow stays, and straw bonnets half in shreds. Farther
on was a black-chinned and lantern-jawed bone-grubber, clad in dirty
greasy rags, with his wallet emptied on the stones, and the bones and
bits of old iron and pieces of rags that he had gathered in his day’s
search, each sorted into different piles before him; and as he sat
waiting anxiously for a purchaser, he chewed a piece of mouldy
pie-crust, that he had picked up or had given him on his rounds. In one
part of the Exchange was to be perceived some well-known tinker behind a
heap of old battered saucepans or metal tea-pots, side by side with an
umbrella mender, in front of whom lay a store of whalebone ribs and
sticks. In another quarter might be seen the familiar face of some
popular peep-showman, with his “back-show” on the form on one side of
him, while on the other were ranged the physic phials and wine bottles
and glass pickle jars that he had taken of the children for a sight at
his exhibition; and next to him was located a flower-seller, with his
basket emptied of all its blooming and fragrant contents, with the
exception of one or two of the more expensive plants, and the places of
the missing flowers filled with coats, waistcoats, boots, and hats.
To walk down the various passages between the seats, and run the eye
over the several heaps of refuse, piled on the ground like treasure, was
to set the mind wondering as to what could possibly be the uses of each
and every of them. Everything there seemed to have fulfilled to the very
utmost the office for which it was made; and now that its functions were
finished, and it seemed to be utterly worthless, the novice to such
scenes could not refrain from marvelling what remaining purpose could
possibly give value to “the rubbish.”
The buyers, too, were as picturesque and motley a group almost as were
the sellers—for the purchasers were of all nations, and habited in every
description of costume. Some were Greeks, others were Swiss, while
others were Germans. Some had come there to buy up the old rough charity
clothing, and the army grey great-coats, for the “Irish” market; others
had come to purchase the hareskins or old furs, or to give “the best
price” for old tea-pots and tea-urns. One man, with a long flowing beard
and greasy tattered gaberdine, was said to be worth thousands; thither
he had come to add another sixpence to his hoard, by dabbling in the
rags and refuse, strewn about the ground in heaps, for sale: others were
there to purchase the old Wellingtons, and to have them new-fronted or
their cracks heel-balled over, and then vended to clerks, who are
“expected to appear respectable” on the smallest salaries. That Jewess
is intent on buying up the left-off wardrobes “of the nobility,” so as
to dispose of the faded finery to the actresses of the minor theatres,
or the “gay” ladies of the upper boxes. Yonder old Israelite, who goes
prowling between the seats, is looking out for such black garments as
will admit of being “clobbered” up, or “turned” into “genteel suits” for
poor curates, or half-paid ushers of classical academies. Nor does he
reject those which are worn even threadbare in parts, for he well knows
they will admit of being transformed into the “best boys’ tunics;” while
such as are too far gone for _that_, he buys to be torn to pieces by the
“devil,” and made up again into new cloth, or “shoddy,” as it is termed;
and others, which his practised eye tells him have already done that
duty, he bids for, knowing that they will still fetch him a good price,
even as manure for the ground. Some of the buyers have come principally
to purchase the old silk hats—and as they wander among the heaps of old
clothes, and rags, and metal, they stop every now and then, and crumple
up the shapes in their hands to try whether they have been—as they call
it—“through the fire or not,” and those which will stand the test of
their experienced touch, they buy for the shops, to have converted into
the “best new hats” for the country. Some, again, are there chiefly to
“pick up” the old umbrellas, which they value not only for the whalebone
ribs but the metal supporters—the latter articles furnishing the
material for the greater part of the iron skewers of London; while some
of the buyers, on the other hand, have come to look after the old linen
shirts, which they sell again to the paper-mills, to be converted, by
the alchemy of science, into the newspaper, the best “Bath post,” or
even the bank-note.
As the purchasers go pacing up and down the narrow pathways, and pick
their way, now among the old bottles, bonnets, boots, rags, and now
among the bones, the old metal, the stays, the gowns, the hats and
coats, a thick-lipped Jew-boy spouts from his high stage in the centre
of the market, “Hot vine a ha’penny a clarsh! a ha’penny a clarsh!”
Between the seats, too, women worm their way along, carrying baskets of
“trotters” and screaming, as they go, “Legs of mutton two for a penny!
two for a penny! Who’ll give me a handsell?—who’ll give me a handsell?”
After them comes a man with a large tin can under his arm, and roaring,
“Hot peas, oh! hot peas, oh!” In the middle of the market is another
vender of street luxuries, with a smoking can of “hot eels” before him,
and next to him is a sweetmeat stall, with a crowd of young Hebrews
gathered round the keeper of it, gambling eagerly, with marbles, for
“Albert rock” and “hardbake;” while at one end of the market stands a
coffee and beer-shop, and inside this are Jews playing at draughts, or
settling and wrangling about the goods they have bought of one another.
In no other part of London—and, perhaps, in no other part of the entire
world—is such a scene of riot, rags, and filth to be witnessed. Every
one there is dressed in his _worst_—for none who know the nature of the
place would think of venturing thither in even decent apparel.
Mr. Sandboys was the universal object of observation. What _he_ could
have to do in such a place, every one was puzzling his brains to think;
and as Cursty hurried up and down between the seats, in the hopes of
catching a glimpse of his lost inexpressibles, the buyers and sellers,
one and all delighted, as he passed, to crack some rude jest upon him.
The women wished to know whether he wasn’t hunting after a “nice pair of
stays” for his “missus;” the men would hold up some faded livery, and
request to be informed whether he was looking for “an ’andsome suit for
his Johnny.” But, regardless of their gibes, round and round, like the
hyena at the Surrey Gardens, Mr. Sandboys went, in the hope of
eventually lighting on his precious nether garments. Not a flower-seller
entered the place but Cursty watched him intently, until he had seen
every article turned out of his bag, and satisfied himself that the
anonymous part of his apparel formed no portion of the man’s left-off
stores.
Nor did he think of moving from the place until all the buyers and
sellers had quitted it; and when the hour arrived for closing the gates,
Cursty hardly knew what course of action to adopt.
At one time it struck him that it would not be a bad plan to do as
Aladdin did when he lost his “wonderful lamp,” and go round the town
crying, “New breeches for old ones;” but, on second thoughts, he
perceived that, however feasible such a plan might have been in Bagdad,
it was far from practicable in London; for he felt satisfied, from the
universal habit of wearing such articles of dress among the male portion
of the metropolitan population—(and, indeed, among not a few of the
married females)—that the Londoners’ love of a good bargain, no matter
at whose cost, would render them so particularly anxious to make the
exchange, that the business he would be likely to do in one street alone
would be sufficient, not only to ruin him in pocket, but to break his
back with the burden. If the lady denizens of the capital were to be
attracted to the linen-drapers’ establishments, solely by the enlivening
inducement that somebody was to be ruined by their custom—if, like the
Hindoo widows, they delighted in “awful sacrifices,” (at any other
persons’ expense than their own) how eager, thought the philosophic
Cursty, would wives of London be to deal with him, when they imagined
that they could breech their husbands by stripping him of all he had.
After revolving in his mind many equally sagacious plans for the
recovery of his precious pantaloons, Mr. Cursty decided that, perhaps,
the wisest course to pursue, under all the circumstances, would be to
return to his temporary domicile, and there consult with his wife as to
the future mode of action. Accordingly, he hailed the first omnibus
travelling Strandward, that passed him, and depositing himself within
it, was once more on his way towards home.
* * * * *
While Mr. Sandboys, fagged out with his unprofitable and wearisome day’s
work, is dozing away the distance from Whitechapel to the Strand in the
corner of the long “short stage,” let us take advantage of that
uneventful interval to communicate the circumstances that had occurred
during his absence to mar again the peace and happiness of his family.
Some three or four hours had elapsed after that gentleman’s departure
from home, when Mrs. Fokesell “bounced” breathless into the back attic,
which now constituted the sitting-room, bed-room, dressing-room, and
kitchen, of the united Sandboys.
“Oh, mum,” the landlady exclaimed, gasping as she wiped her forehead
with the corner of her dirty pink cotton apron; “O—oh, mum! here’s a man
come from the Station-’us.”
“From t’ Station-house!” echoed Mrs. Sandboys, who had hardly had time
to recover the shock of the sudden entry of Mrs. Fokesell; but, on
second thoughts, imagining the messenger had brought her tidings of the
missing garments, she added: “So then, thank guidness, they’ve caught t’
man with t’ flowers and t’ trousers at last.”
“They’ve caught _your_ man, you means, mum,” returned Mrs. Fokesell,
shaking her head till the little bunch of vermicular ringlets at each
side of her face swung backwards and forwards, like the “wings” of a
kite in the wind.
“My man!” ejaculated the terrified Aggy, as she began to have a vague
perception that “something dreadful” had occurred to her beloved Cursty.
“What in t’ warl’ do’sta mean—what do’sta mean?”
“Why, it’s just this here, mum—that your good man, as you call him”—here
the circumspect landlady opened the room-door mysteriously, to satisfy
herself that nobody was listening, and then closing it again, advanced
towards Mrs. Sandboys, and said, in a half-whisper, “your good man has
been and got took up for being drunk and disorderly, and oncapable of
taking care of hisself.”
Mrs. Sandboys threw up her hands, and dropped into the nearest chair;
while Elcy came and leant over and tried to assure her that “it must be
some shocking mistake again.”
But Mrs. Fokesell would not hear of such a thing; she had made most
particular inquiries of the “party” below—for at first, she herself
could hardly bring herself to believe that such a thorough gentleman, as
Mr. Sandboys always appeared to be, could so lower hisself as to be seen
intosticated in the public streets—but there couldn’t be no mistake this
time, because the “party” had brought one of the “gent’s” cards with
him. And when she heard Mrs. Sandboys and Elcy both sobbing at the
intelligence, the landlady begged of them “not to go and take on in that
manner,” for after his last voyage, Mr. Fokesell hisself—though he was
as good a man as ever walked in shoe-leather, so long as he was at sea
out of harm’s way—had gone and got overtook by liquor, and been skinned
and robbed of everything he had, for all the world like young Mr.
Sandboys was, by them painted dolls nigh the docks, and, as if that
wasn’t enough to ruin her peace of mind, he must get hisself fined two
pounds, or ten days imprisonment, for an assault on a policeman. Here
the lady digressed into a long account of Mr. Fokesell’s failings,
saying, that ever since their marriage she had never been a penny the
better for his money, and that she didn’t know what would have become of
her if it hadn’t been for her lodgers and the rent of a six-roomed
cottage, that had been left her by her fust husband, who was an
undertaker with a large connexion, but a weak, though an uncommon fine
man, and who might have made her very comfortable at his death, if he
had only done by her as he ought. Whereupon, wholly forgetting the
object of her errand to Mrs. Sandboys, she further digressed into a
narrative of the mixed qualities of Mr. Bolsh’s—her poor dear first
husband’s—character.
Mrs. Cursty, who had been too deeply absorbed in her own family
misfortunes to listen to those of Mrs. Fokesell, at length, on
recovering her self-possession, requested to be informed where Mr.
Sandboys had been “picked up” previous to being taken into custody.
The landlady, anxious to produce as great a sensation as she could, made
no more ado, but informed her that her “good man” had been found lying
on his back in a gutter in Wild Street, Drury Lane, and that it was a
mercy that he hadn’t been druv over by one of them Safety Cabs as was
dashing along, as they always does, at the risk of people’s lives.
The circumstance of the messenger having brought Cursty’s card with him
was sufficient to preclude all doubt from Mrs. Sandboys’ mind;
nevertheless she sat for a minute or two wondering how the misfortune
could possibly have happened. At one moment she imagined that the loss
of his bank notes had produced so depressing an effect on his spirits
that Cursty had gone into some tavern to procure a glass of wine, in the
hopes of cheering himself up amid his many misfortunes, and being
unaccustomed to take anything of the kind before dinner, had perhaps
been suddenly overcome by it. The next minute she felt satisfied that he
had been entrapped into some dreadful place and drugged, like poor dear
Jobby. Then she began to ask herself whether he could have lighted upon
any friend from Cumberland, and in the excitement of the meeting been
induced to take a glass or two more than he otherwise would; and
immediately after this she felt half convinced that Cursty had
discovered the flower-seller, and been so delighted at recovering
possession of his pocket-book, that he had accompanied the fellow to
some “low place” to treat him, and there, perhaps, been imprudent enough
to take a glass of hot spirits and water “on an empty stomach,” and that
this had flown to his head, and rendered him quite insensible to
everything around him; or else she was satisfied that it was owing to
the nasty bit of red herring which he would have that morning for
breakfast.
When Mrs. Sandboys communicated to Mrs. Fokesell the several results of
her ruminations, that lady was far from being of the same opinion, and
did not hesitate to confess that she had long been convinced that the
men were all alike, and that, for herself, she wouldn’t trust anyone of
them—and especially her Fokesell—further than she could see him.
Mrs. Sandboys, however, was in no humour to listen to such harangues,
and starting from her seat, desired to know whether the messenger from
the station-house was still below stairs, so that she might accompany
him back to her husband. On being answered in the affirmative, she
proceeded to “put on her things” with all speed, while Elcy, with her
eyes still full of tears, implored to be allowed to go with her.
When her toilet was finished, she kissed her gentle-hearted daughter
previous to leaving her (for it was not fit, she said, that young girls
should visit such places), and bidding her dry up her tears, for that
all would yet be right, she hastened down the stairs, and in a minute
afterwards she was on her way, in company with the messenger, towards
Bow-street station-house.
* * * * *
The reader must not do poor Mr. Sandboys the injustice to imagine that
he had so far forgotten himself as to have made a pillow of one of the
metropolitan kerb-stones. Nor was he, at the time referred to, the
temporary tenant of one of the Bow-street police cells; for that much
maligned gentleman, far from being then in “durance vile,” was still
enjoying a disjointed kind of nap in the corner of the Mile-end omnibus.
Let us explain.
The flower-seller, immediately on handling the discarded inexpressibles
of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, had discovered that one of the pockets was
not wholly empty; and though he was sufficiently alive to the
impositions occasionally practised upon members of his fraternity by
coachmen, grooms, footmen, and others, to be well aware that
articles—especially buttons and pieces of silver paper—were frequently
inserted in the fob of cast-off pantaloons, with the view of leading
them to imagine that either some notes or coin had been accidentally
left in the garments by their late innocent possessors, and so inducing
them to give a higher sum for the articles than they were really
worth—the flower-seller was, nevertheless, we say, too fully satisfied
of the thorough rusticity and consequent simplicity of Mrs. and Miss
Sandboys, to believe that they could be capable of any such trick. The
hawker, too, was clever tradesman enough to lead Mrs. Sandboys to
suppose that he was in no way anxious to become the purchaser of the
articles offered to him; and he was particularly careful, as he turned
the garments over and over to examine them, never to allow either of the
pockets to fall under the notice of Mrs. Sandboys.
As soon as the bargain was settled, and the street-seller of flowers had
got fairly out of sight of the house, he was joined by the female who
usually accompanied him on his rounds, and of whose services he
occasionally availed himself when any feminine article of dress was
proffered for exchange. To her the hawker did not hesitate to make known
his impression that he had got a “prize.” Accordingly, the two retired
up the first court they came to on their way from the house, to examine
what it was that the pockets really contained. The pocket-book was soon
had out—each compartment being carefully searched—and when the roll of
notes was found, their glee knew no bounds; but the woman, who acted as
interpreter on the occasion—the man himself being unable to read—was
perhaps even more delighted when she discovered the certificate of Mr.
and Mrs. Sandboys’ marriage at Lorton Vale Church, in Cumberland; for,
though not attaching a particularly high moral value to the hymeneal
ceremony, she thought, knowing the prejudices of society in this
respect, that the possession of such a document might prove of some
little service to her on some future occasion. When, therefore, the two
came to divide the proceeds of their good fortune, the lady stipulated
that the marriage certificate should be hers, and that in consideration
of this, she said her mate might take three of the notes, and she would
be satisfied with two. This appeared so advantageous an arrangement to
the gentleman, that, caring nothing for the possession of the “lines,”
he immediately closed with the offer.
The arrangement, however, was far from being so advantageous as it
appeared; for the lady, on proceeding to divide the treasure, availed
herself of her “mate’s” want of education, so as, while giving him the
greater number of notes, to retain for herself those of the higher
value. Accordingly she handed him over three fives out of the forty,
keeping a twenty and a five for her own portion. It was then settled
between them that the man should proceed to the Old Exchange and dispose
of the contents of his bag, while his partner should return home and get
a bit of “summut particular good” against his arrival.
The sense of being the possessor of so large a sum of money, was too
great a temptation for the hawker’s slender sobriety to withstand; while
the treasure remained in his pocket, he could hardly assure himself of
its worth, for people of his grade in life have generally an utter want
of faith in the value of what appears to them to be nothing more than a
strip of silver paper. Besides, he thought it would be prudent to “run
for gold” as soon as possible, for he well knew that the current coin of
the realm, unlike bank notes, bore no numbers by which one sovereign or
shilling could be distinguished from another.
A variety of circumstances, therefore, conspired to lead the man into
the first public-house he came to. Here he entered the taproom, and
placing his basket of flowers on the seat beside him, called for a pint
of “dog’s nose”—a combination of gin and beer, to which the gentleman
was particularly partial.
This had the effect of rendering the hawker indisposed for prosecuting
his journey to Houndsditch. What was the use, he began to ask himself,
of his going all that way to sell a few rags, when he didn’t want for a
pound or two? Accordingly, as the liquor got to make him feel more and
more careless, he commenced tossing and raffling away the remaining
flowers in his basket, among such as entered the taproom during his stay
there; and while the gambling was going on, he partook of a second and a
third quantum of his favourite potion, so that, by the time he had got
rid of all his plants, he felt inclined to enjoy himself, and disposed
to go anywhere but home. Still, however, he entertained some little
difficulty respecting his costume, which certainly was not fitted for
holiday-making, for, like the rest of the old clothes’ dealers, he was
habited in his worst, with the view of attending the Houndsditch
Exchange at the close of his day’s labours; and as he ran over to
himself the several places of amusement that he should like to visit, he
debated in his own mind as to what he should do for a “change.” To
return home and put on his brown Petersham coat and bright “yellow
kingsman” neckerchief, that he delighted to sport in Battersea Fields on
a Sunday, was to go through a greater amount of exertion, at that
precise moment, than he was inclined to undertake; and as he discussed
within himself the several other modes of supplying his deficiency, it
struck him that he had swopped a cactus that morning with a lady up in
Clarendon Square for a “very tidy Pallytott,” and “these,” as he justly
observed, “with the pair of breeches as he took with the pocket-book in
’em, would turn him out fit even for the ‘HEAGLE.’” Accordingly, he
emptied the contents of his clothes-bag on one of the tables, and having
selected therefrom such articles as he thought would suit him for the
occasion, he proceeded at once, amid the laughter of all present, to
indue himself with the garments; then having obtained permission of the
landlord to leave the basket and bag in his charge for awhile, the
hawker sallied forth, determined, like the quondam possessor of the
trowsers he then wore, upon “enjoying himself.”
Still the flower-seller was undecided whither to direct his steps. At
first he thought of Greenwich Park and a feast of tea and shrimps; but,
though Greenwich had attractions, tea had none for him. Next he turned
his attention to the Red House, but he knew of no pigeon match that was
to come off there that day, so _that_ would not suit him. “Then he made
up his mind to pay a visit to the BOWER,” and the minute after he
changed it in favour of “Lord Effingham’s concerts.” Still, what was he
to do with himself till they began? He had it! he wouldn’t go to any of
the places—he’d be off that moment to Rosherville—and yet it was getting
late in the day for a trip to Gravesend, so he’d take a run down to
Hungerford instead, and go on to the roof of the Swan and have a treat
of periwinkles and ale. Accordingly he turned round and proceeded in the
opposite direction to that on which he was before journeying.
But the flower-seller was too fond of halting at each tavern on the way
to get even that far. The money he possessed, as the street people
themselves say, “seemed to burn in his pocket;” and the drink he had
already taken made him crave for more, so that it would have required
greater strength of mind than he was master of to have refrained from
entering the next public house he came to. The liquor that he here
swallowed served as usual only to increase his thirst for more of the
same maddening fluid. So on he went, “dropping in” at every “public” on
his way, and standing at the bar drinking, wrangling, or tossing with
any one whom he could “pick up.” At length, with the many glasses of raw
spirit that he had taken on his road, the drink got to produce so
violent an effect upon his temper, that the more respectable of the
landlords refused to serve him; but this tended only to make him still
more furious, so that at almost every tavern he visited, he was forced
to be turned into the street before he could be got rid of. At one
house, however, it was found impossible to get rid of him without
closing the doors; for each time that he was thrust out, back he came
staggering and offering to fight everybody at the bar. Seeing,
therefore, that it was useless attempting to enter, he sat himself down
on the step and went fast asleep against the door; on being roused by
the pot-boy and desired to go about his business, the hawker grew so
enraged that he jumped from his resting-place and strove to seize hold
of the lad so that he might wreak his vengeance upon him. In the
attempt, however, to catch the youth, the flower-seller stumbled and
fell heavily on his back beside the kerb, and there he lay unable to
raise himself, with a crowd of boys shouting and playing every
imaginable trick upon him.
The arrival of the police at length put an end to the whole affair, and
the hawker, with a dense crowd after him, was carried off, struggling
and bellowing among four of the stoutest of the force, each holding him
by one of his extremities. On being searched at the station-house, Mr.
Sandboys’ pocket-book was found in the hawker’s possession; in one of
its compartments were the cards of address belonging to that gentleman.
The authorities, believing these to be the rightful property of the
flower-seller, proceeded at once to enter, among the list of offenders
of that day, the name of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, of Craven-street,
Strand, as having been found drunk, disorderly, and incapable of taking
care of himself.
The reader knows the occurrences that followed. A messenger was
despatched to the residence of Mr. Sandboys, to apprise that gentleman’s
family of his unpleasant position.
* * * * *
Mrs. Sandboys had been gone but a short while, before Cursty, who had
been “dropped,” as the idiom runs, by the omnibus, at the top of the
street, staggered, half asleep and half awake, up to the door.
He had no sooner set foot on the door-mat, than Mrs. Fokesell, who had
espied him from the kitchen window, and run up to answer his knock,
threw up her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, in a familiar way,
“How in the world did you ever get out?”
The innocent Christopher was unable to comprehend either the cause of
the lady’s surprise, or the meaning of her question. “What do’sta mean,
woman?” he said.
“Oh!” returned Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye as she nudged his elbow;
“you needn’t mind telling me—I knows all about it. There’s been a party
up here, and told us of all your goings on.”
“My gangings an!” exclaimed Cursty. “Ye may well say that, for I’ve been
half ow’r London.”
“Very well turned off”!” retorted Mrs. Fokesell; “but it won’t do. We’re
up to all your tricks, we are: so you’d much better confess at once. Oh,
you’re a sly old fox—though perhaps you ain’t much wuss than the rest of
you men. Fokesell was almost as bad—hardly a pin to choose betwixt
you.”’
Mr. Sandboys, fatigued and vexed with the futility of his journey, felt
in no way inclined for jesting; so, brushing past the unceremonious
landlady, he darted up the stairs to the family garret.
Mrs. Fokesell, however, in anticipation of a “scene,” which she longed
to witness, hastened after him, and was just in time to behold Elcy
throw herself into her father’s arms, and burst into subdued hysterics
at the unexpected pleasure of his return.
For a few minutes the landlady stood unobserved at the doorway, and
while Cursty was wondering within himself why his daughter should
receive him with so unusual an outburst of affection, and coupling her
tears with the mysterious conduct and insinuations of Mrs. Fokesell, he
began to ask himself, half in fear, “What fresh disaster could have
befallen them now?”
Elcy kissed him again and again, telling him each time how happy she was
that she had him home again. “Could she get him anything, or would he
not like to lie down?” she inquired.
“Yes, Miss,” interrupted the busy Mrs. Fokesell, “if your Pa will be
advised by me, he’ll take off his boots, and go and lie on the bed for
an hour or two—and let me get him a bottle of soda water, while you puts
a wet towel round his head, for if you looks at his eyes you’ll see
they’re quite bloodshot.”
“My e’en bluidshot!” ejaculated Mr. Sandboys, growing half enraged at
the apparent unmeaningness of the whole of the landlady’s remarks;
however he went to the glass to see if there were anything odd enough in
his looks to account for the peculiarity of the landlady’s behaviour.
His eyes were a little red, certainly, he thought, as he scrutinized his
countenance, but that arose from the “nap” he had indulged in during his
ride home, and beyond this he could see nothing which could call forth
so much anxiety on his behalf.
“Do, father,” said Elcy, “_do_ go and lie down, or you’ll be ill, I am
sure.”
“Yes;” chimed in Mrs. Fokesell, “I’m sure it’s a wonder you hasn’t got
the ‘_delirious trimmings_‘ as it is. Fokesell, I know, once had ’em
after one of these bouts, and then he fancied he was aboard his ship, in
our back parlour, and that the house was agoing down, all hands, ’cause
I wouldn’t work the pumps. Now, come, there’s a good gentleman, _do_ be
persuaded by Miss Elcy, and go to bed for an hour or two.”
“Go to bed!” echoed Sandboys, tetchily. “I’m not tired—I’ve had a nap.”
“Oh, yes, we know,” retorted Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye and nodding
her head, in a manner that is considered to speak volumes, and which was
certainly meant to insinuate to the unsuspecting Sandboys that the lady
was acquainted with the fact of his having tried to take “forty winks”
in the gutter; “and we know _where_ you had your nap too. Fine times,
indeed, when you gents must needs go falling asleep in the ‘kennel.’”
“In t’ ‘kennel,’” shouted Sandboys, in none of the mildest tones. “What
do’sta mean, woman, what do’sta mean, I say?”
“Oh, you knows what I means, well enough, Mr. Slyboots—going and doing
such things, thinking it ’ud be unbeknown to your missus. A nice time
she’d have on it if she only knowed all, I’ll be bound to say.” And here
Mrs. Fokesell gave herself a jerk, expressive, as she imagined, of the
highest possible indignation.
“How daresta speak to me in that way?” demanded the incensed Cursty.
“Leave t’ room, woman.”
“Father! father! pray calm yourself,” said Elcy, growing alarmed at what
she imagined to be the lingering effect of her parent’s indiscretion.
“Pray be calm, and go and lie down just a little while.”
“Lie down! why, what’s come to you aw’? You seem to be aw’ mad tegidder.
But where’s your mother?”
“Ah! you may well ask that,” answered the pert Mrs. Fokesell—“gone to
look after you; and I suppose you can remember the kind of place you’ve
come from?”
“I come from Houndsditch, I tell tha, woman,” replied Mr. Sandboys,
curtly, for he was afraid to give full vent to his feeling, lest he
might receive “notice to quit,” and then be left without a roof to
shelter himself or family.
“You must tell that to the marines, as my Fokesell used to say,”
retorted the landlady; “for I knows better—so it’s no use your denying
the tricks you have been at no longer; and all I got to say is, the
sooner you has your temples bathed with winegar, the better it will be
for you in the morning. Come, now. I’m a married woman, and knows all
about these matters. Bless you! my Fokesell has taken a drop too much
many a time; so just let me go and get you a Seidelitz powder, or, if
them’s too cold for you, be persuaded by me, and take a couple of
‘Cockles.’”
Poor Mr. Sandboys sat all this time almost “boiling over” with rage. He
bit his lip between his teeth to prevent his saying a word, for he now
began to see that not only the landlady, but his daughter, both imagined
that he had been drinking. Why they should imagine as much was more than
he could conceive, but it was evident that such was their impression.
“I’m sure your head must ache, father,” said Elcy, observing her parent
bite his lip, as she fancied, with pain. “It really burns like a fire,”
she added, as she laid her hand across his forehead.
“Doan’t be a fuil, child!” cried Cursty, as he angrily dragged down her
arm. “I shall go mad among you aw’, I shall. What in t’ warl’s happened,
to put sic notions in tha head?”
Here the girl of all-work tapped at the attic-door, and informed Mrs.
Fokesell that there was a young man below stairs as wanted to speak with
the lady of the house.
The landlady disappeared for a few minutes, and then suddenly darted
back into the room, with cap-strings flying a yard behind her.
“Well, I _do_ declare,” she exclaimed, standing with her hands on her
hips, “if you ain’t all of a piece;—fust it’s you, and then it’s your
missus. Ah, you may stare, but I’ve got a pretty set in my house, it
seems. Here’s a young man below as has come to say that Mrs. Sandboys
has got took up for assaulting a policeman, and that she’s a lying in
the station-house till her case comes on for hearing.”
“Heavens!” cried Cursty, “it canna be true——”
“Oh, father! father! what will become of her?” said the afflicted Elcy,
as her head fell on her parent’s shoulder, in terror at the thoughts of
her mother being in such a place.
“What can it aw’ mean?” shouted Sandboys.
“Why, the lad says, as well as I can make it out, that Mrs. Sandboys
went into the Black Bull public house—of all places in the world for a
lady—to ask for change—and that there some noise or other arose about
the money; that then the police was called in to settle the matter, and
that on his stating that Mrs. Sandboys was not a proper woman, she flew
at him, and nearly tore him to bits. And the young man does tell me,”
continued the landlady, “that the language she used on the occasion was
quite dreadful for decent people to hear—so a pretty set indeed it seems
I’ve let into my house. Well, I always thought you was a queer lot, that
I did—and I said as much to Mrs. Quinine as had my second floor. I’m
sure the house has been like a common bear-garden ever since I’ve had
you in it—what with your screams when a few coals was shot on top of
you—and what with your frightening poor Mrs. Quinine nearly out of her
life, and alarming the whole house with the screams of the dear
thing—and what with your threatening to murder the policeman in my
kitchen with my red-hot poker—and what with the springing of rattles,
and collecting a mob round my _hairy_ rails—and what with your allowing
your son to be brought home here by a common policeman in the
disrespectable state he was; and now what with the two police reports as
there will be in the paper about you to-morrow morning, there’ll be fine
talk about my house and my people all up and down both sides of the
street. You’ll bring a scandal upon me, you will. I’m sure I’ve never
knowed a moment’s peace—never since I was fool enough to be persuaded to
allow you to set foot under my roof. But you’ll please to provide
yourself with some other lodging the moment your week is up, for not
another minute after do you stay here, I can tell you.”
Mrs. Fokesell, who had grown red in the face with the long catalogue of
her grievances, was obliged to come to an end for sheer want of breath.
It was useless for Cursty to seek to obtain any more definite
information from her in the excited state of her mind, for immediately
he ventured to question her as to what had befallen his wife, it was but
the signal for her to renew her vituperations. At last, putting on his
hat, he hastened down stairs to the youth who had brought the
intelligence, and proceeded to accompany him in search of his dearest
Aggy.
* * * * *
Mrs. Sandboys, however, it should be made known, had been no more
concerned in the occurrence above detailed than her lord and master had
been the hero of the scene previously described; for the “lady” who had
passed under that name was none other than the mate of the
flower-seller, who had become possessed of the Sandboys’ marriage
certificate. Proceeding on her way home, it had struck the woman that it
would be as well to convert the twenty pound note into sovereigns as
soon as she possibly could, for on a closer inspection of the valuable,
she had perceived that the name of the gentleman mentioned in the
marriage certificate was inscribed on the back of it. Accordingly she
entered a public house where she was not known, and after having
partaken of a glass of gin-and-rue, and the half of a pork pie, she
tendered the bank note in payment for what she had devoured. The
landlord, however, looked upon the possession of a note for so large a
sum by one of so mean an appearance as a very suspicious circumstance,
and believing that she had not come honestly by the money, began to
question her as to how and where she had obtained it. Finding that her
answers were not particularly lucid or consistent on the subject, he
thought it best to send for a policeman, and leave the officer to decide
upon what course to take. The official, on seeing the woman, was as
confident as the landlord that the note had been got hold of by unfair
means, nor did he hesitate to tell the woman that he was satisfied she
had stolen it from some gentleman, insinuating at the same time that she
was, as the phrase runs, “no better than she should be.” The words were
no sooner uttered than the woman, incensed at being foiled in her prize,
flew at the policeman, and with her clenched fist beat him in the face
so vigorously that before the man had time to defend himself he was
covered with blood.
In a few moments afterwards she was on her way, handcuffed, to the
station-house, while the landlord, who had handed the note over to the
officer, thought it best to send the messenger before mentioned to the
address inscribed on the back of it.
On reaching the station house, the superintendent directed that the
woman should be immediately taken before the sitting magistrate, so that
the charge might be disposed of with the least possible delay.
His worship, on hearing the evidence of the policeman, demanded to know
what proof the woman could adduce as to the note being her own lawful
property, as she asserted; whereupon she drew forth the marriage
certificate of the Sandboys, protesting most loudly that it was her own.
The magistrate, having perused the document carefully throughout, and
satisfied himself of its authenticity, said there could be no doubt that
the woman was really the person whom she represented herself to be.
Finding the magistrate take this view of the case, the female
flower-seller then laid a formal complaint against the policeman,
declaring that he had insulted her in the grossest manner that a
respectable married woman could possibly be insulted, insinuating that
she was a person of immoral character, when his worship could see by the
marriage lines as she had shown him, that she was as honest a woman as
any in London. The man’s conduct, she added, had thrown her into such a
passion that she really did not know what she had done to him after he
had insulted her: and she put it to his lordship whether his good lady
would not have done the same.
The magistrate, though hardly inclined to take that extreme view of the
case, still acknowledged that every excuse was to be made for the woman,
adding that the officer had no right whatever to make any such
insinuation without having indisputable proof of the fact—and that, as
it was, he should dismiss the case, warning the policeman to be more
cautious in future, and ordering the note to be restored to the woman,
upon whose character he was bound to say there was not the slightest
stain.
* * * * *
But to return to our lost mutton—Mr. Christopher Sandboys.
Immediately on learning from the boy of the “Black Bull,” the precise
part of the town in which the lady passing by the name of Mrs. Sandboys
was held in “safe custody,” Cursty called a cab, and having placed the
lad on the box beside the driver, deposited himself within it, ordering
the man to carry him with all haste whither the youth should direct.
On reaching the station-house, to Cursty’s great delight, he was
informed that Mrs. Sandboys had been discharged, as the magistrate said,
“without the slightest stain on her character,” while the policeman, who
had suffered so severely from the lady’s indignation, and who now began
to fear, from the presence of Mr. Sandboys, that the magistrate had been
perfectly correct in his conviction as to the honesty of the woman who
had been brought before him, thought it prudent to apologize for his
mistake, lest an action for something or other might be commenced
against him.
The consequence was, that Cursty hastened back home quite as fast, if
not faster, than he had hastened from it, in the hopes of clutching his
poor injured Aggy to his bosom, and consoling her under her heavy
trials, with the assurance of his undoubting affection.
* * * * *
During the absence of Mr. Sandboys, his better half had returned from
Bow-street, where she had been agreeably surprised to find that Mr.
Sandboys, or rather the gentleman known there by that name, had been
bailed out a few minutes before her arrival, and had left the station
accompanied by his friends. In vain did she make inquiries as to the
name of the bail, in the hope of ascertaining who the friends could have
been that had done her husband so great a service; for she was not aware
of his being acquainted with a single individual in London: nor did the
names and addresses of the sureties, when read over to her, tend in the
least to enlighten her on the subject; so, as she found the authorities
little disposed to enter into that minute account of the proceedings
which was necessary to clear up the mystery, she left the police-office,
and proceeded on her way home, wondering within herself who “in t’ name
of guidness” the friends could be; and coming to the conclusion that
they were some Cumberland people who had come up for the opening of the
Exhibition, and whom her Cursty had stumbled upon in the course of his
rambles through London.
* * * * *
On reaching home, Mrs. Fokesell, who had recognised, from the kitchen,
the skirt of Mrs. Sandboys’ dress as it whisked round the corner of the
door-step, ran up the stairs in immediate answer to her knock; and no
sooner had she closed the door after the lady, than she began wondering
how she could have the impudence to show her face in that house after
what had happened, and begging to assure her, with a significant shake
of her cap, that she was not in the habit of letting lodgings to people
who occasionally occupied an apartment in the station-house.
Mrs. Sandboys imagined, of course, that she alluded to her husband’s
recent incarceration, and not being particularly proud of the
circumstance herself, endeavoured to calm the landlady’s irritation on
the subject.
But Mrs. Fokesell was not to be appeased, and she gave Mrs. Sandboys
plainly to understand, that she ought to think herself highly favoured
to be allowed to set foot within her door again, after her shameful,
unlady-like conduct to the policeman.
Aggy, imagining that the landlady referred to her inquiries at the
station-house, endeavoured to call to mind how she could possibly have
committed herself.
But Mrs. Fokesell soon informed her, that it was useless her attempting
to play the innocent to her, for a man had been down there and told her
about her shameful goings on, and how she had beaten one of the force
within an inch of his life.
Mrs. Sandboys stood aghast at the accusation. At first she wondered how
such a charge could possibly be trumped up against her; then she
imagined it must surely be some jest of the landlady’s; but Mrs.
Fokesell soon put that notion to flight, by not only repeating the
aspersion, but adding, that she had been informed, on the very best
authority, that she was well known to the whole of the police, as not
being the most respectable person in the world.
This was more than the Cumberland blood of Mrs. Sandboys could bear;
and, holding in her breath with the effort of subduing her wrath, she
demanded to know what Mrs. Fokesell meant by such an assertion.
Mrs. Fokesell, who was nothing daunted, did not make the slightest
attempt to mince the matter, but proceeded to tell her lodger, in the
most unequivocal terms, that the policeman had declared that he knew she
was not an honest woman.
Mrs. Sandboys could hardly contain herself for rage. If ever she had
felt inclined to commit an assault upon any one, it was at that
particular moment. Her fingers were all of a work, and it was evidently
as much as she could do to keep her hands from tearing the landlady’s
cap from her head. She could have borne any imputation in the world save
an aspersion on her virtue.
Again she demanded of Mrs. Fokesell an immediate and full explanation.
How dare a low-bred woman like her tell her she was not an honest
woman—when Mrs. Fokesell, herself a married female, (and Mrs. Sandboys
laid a strong emphasis on both of the words,) was without so much as a
husband to show for herself. It was very well to make out that he was at
sea, but nothing was easier than to _say_ as much.
It was now Mrs. Fokesell’s turn to grow scarlet with rage, and the words
were scarcely uttered before she thrust her hands in the huge pocket she
wore at her side, and drawing out an old “housewife,” she took from it a
piece of paper, which, having torn open, she thrust into the face of the
terrified Mrs. Sandboys, saying, as she shook it vigorously, “There’s my
marriage lines, woman! show your’n! show your’n, if you can, and prove
yourself to be what you says you are.”
Poor Mrs. Sandboys felt the helplessness of her position. She knew that
she had parted with her certificate in the act of disposing of her
husband’s old trowsers. It was idle for her to think of an
explanation—of course it could but appear as a lame excuse on the
present occasion; so prudence made her gulp down her indignation, and
try to soothe the infuriated Mrs. Fokesell, who was once more making her
misfortune the laughing-stock of the whole house—for the lodgers,
hearing the wrangling of the two ladies in the passage, had crept one by
one from their respective apartments, and stood with their necks
stretched out over the balusters, giggling at the disputants below.
But the gentle Fokesell was rather anxious to make a public case of the
matter, and finding that she was getting a good audience about her,
shouted at the top of her voice, “Where’s your marriage lines? where’s
your marriage lines?—where’s your marriage lines, I ask again, in the
presence of all these respectable gentlemen.”
This was the unkindest cut of all, and Mrs. Sandboys sought to escape up
stairs, but Mrs. Fokesell was in no humour to let her off so easily. She
could not forget the base insinuations that the lady had presumed to
throw out respecting the apocryphal character of her absent Fokesell,
and feeling satisfied of Mrs. Sandboys’ inability to justify _her_
character, by the production of her marriage certificate, she felt the
more enraged that such a stigma should be cast upon her by such a
person; accordingly, as Mrs. Sandboys endeavoured to get away from her,
she seized that lady by the arms, and with her teeth clenched, proceeded
to shake her violently against the wall, while the terrified Aggy
shrieked “murder!” in her shrillest tones.
At this critical state of affairs, a loud double knock at the street
door made the passage echo with its clamour. This had the effect of
inducing Mrs. Fokesell to relax her hold of the poor trembling Mrs.
Sandboys, to whose great relief, on the door being opened, no less a
person than her own dear Cursty made his appearance.
Immediately that gentleman was fairly in the passage, the exasperated
landlady sought to empty the vials of her wrath on the heads of the
innocent couple, but Mr. Sandboys, observing the agitated state of his
wife, and judging from a glance the nature of the scene that had
transpired, thought it prudent to withdraw to his own apartment; though
as he and Aggy ascended the stairs, they could hear Mrs. Fokesell in the
passage below vowing all kinds of vengeance against them both on the
morrow, and heaping on their names epithets that were not of the most
choice or flattering description.
Once by themselves, each began to console the other. Cursty of course
believed that his beloved Aggy had suffered imprisonment for assaulting
a policeman. Aggy too, in her turn, fancied that her dear Cursty had
been only just released from the station-house, where he had been
confined for being drunk and disorderly, and each sought to learn from
the other what circumstances could possibly have induced them so far to
forget themselves. Elcy, who looked upon them both as martyrs, was
delighted to welcome them back again, for while each of her parents
believed that the other had transgressed, she had been led to imagine
that they both had been incarcerated for violating the law in some way
or other.
Mrs. Sandboys was anxious that Cursty should retire to rest, for she was
afraid that he must have taken cold from sleeping in the street, as she
had been informed he had done; and Cursty begged that she would dismiss
the whole affair from her mind until the morrow, when they would both be
in a better condition to speak calmly on the subject. He was sure a
glass of wine would do her good, after all the violent exertion she had
gone through. But Mrs. Sandboys, alluding to her trip to the
station-house after her husband, begged to assure him that it was solely
on his account that she had done what she had, and all she could say
was, she’d do it again to-morrow for his sake. Cursty, however, who
believed that she referred to her late assault on the policeman, felt
within himself in no way anxious that she should encourage a habit of
resenting any attack upon her honour, in the Amazonian manner in which
she had so recently distinguished herself, lest some day or other, she
might resort to the same unpleasant means of vindicating herself, when
aggrieved, even with him. Then he told how he had gone off to the
station-house merely out of his regard to her. But Mrs. Sandboys was
unable to perceive how his falling asleep in the gutter was calculated
in any way to benefit her; and thus the worthy couple went on for some
time, playing at cross purposes, until at last an explanation became
necessary; and then they both saw clearly that their names had been
assumed by some unprincipled persons, though with what motive they
neither of them could comprehend. Cursty, however, was determined to
sift the affair to the bottom, and hurrying back to the station-house
whither the woman had been conveyed, he obtained a minuter account of
the whole circumstances than he had previously been able to receive, and
soon became convinced that the woman was an accomplice of the
flower-seller, who had got possession of part of the notes, and the
marriage certificate that had been deposited in the missing pocket-book.
When he returned home and cleared up the mystery to his wife, Aggy could
plainly see through it all, and what was more, she felt satisfied that
they’d many more troubles to come, for so long as that certificate was
out of their possession they could not tell what might turn up against
them.
The next morning a climax was put to their distress of mind, in the
shape of a long “comic” police report in all the daily papers, detailing
how Mrs. Christopher Sandboys, of Cumberland, who had come up to town to
see the Great Exhibition, had made a furious attack upon one of the most
active members of the metropolitan police force.
[Illustration:
The OPERA BOXES during the time of the GREAT EXHIBITION!
In consequence of the great pressure for Lodgings, the Proprietor of
Her Majesty’s Theatre, with his usual readiness to meet the wishes
and to give every possible accommodation to the Public, allows
parties visiting the Opera, to rent their Boxes as Dormitories
untill the following day
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------