A curious difficulty sometimes faces the administrators of the law in
dealing with some of that numerous class known as swindlers. A man
calls at various houses and represents that he is a clergyman in want
or distress, and thus gets money. Some one sharper than the rest runs
him down, and he is caught and charged; when, lo! it turns out that
the so-called rogue—and rogue he generally is—has actually been a
clergyman, and of course is, in common with all broken men, actually
in want. The result is clear—there has been no fraud. He has deceived
no one; he has told the truth; and though he might be convicted of
begging, he cannot be charged with swindling or obtaining money under
false pretences.
It is a man of this stamp I have now to introduce. His real name was
Alfred Johnston. He was a college-bred man of great smartness, and
would have soon made a mark as a clergyman had he not been caught and
ruined by a bad woman. Rendered dissolute in his habits and disowned
by his friends, he changed his life and became as great a rascal as
before he had been promising as a man.
Even with talents such as Johnston possessed this life is not all
smooth sailing. There come times of want and danger, when their
dearest companions would betray them without reward, or see them drop
dying of hunger at their feet without putting out a hand to save.
These are the reverses which are never heard of, but which are more
common in a life of crime than any other on the face of the globe.
Johnston had tramped on foot the greater part of the road from
Glasgow to Edinburgh, and had just crossed the boundary of the
shire, which means that he was ten or twelve miles from the capital.
His appearance was very much against him, or his route would have
been easier. His boots were mere shreds of leather, through which
his feet showed conspicuously, and he had no stockings. He had no
shirt, and the utmost ingenuity in buttoning up his ragged coat
could scarcely conceal the fact. The only trace of respectability
remaining about his attire was a shabby and much battered dress
hat. Johnston was a very good-looking fellow, with fine flowing
black hair, and a big beard and moustache, and was still young—about
thirty—but Apollo himself would have had an evil look in such a garb,
so this prodigal’s lines had been hard ones for some time. In this
plight—wearied in body, tired of life, disgusted with himself and
all the world—Johnston lay down on a green bank by the road-side,
wondering whether it were best to lie there and die, or struggle on
over the remaining miles, which seemed to lengthen as they grew fewer
in number.
A lovely sunset was shedding glory on the scene, and all was peaceful
but the mind of that lost man. In looking listlessly around, his eye
fell on a comfortable and well-sheltered residence, the very air of
which proclaimed it, to Johnston’s experienced eye, a minister’s
manse. There was a large garden attached, well stocked with fruit
trees and bushes, and every other appurtenance that could render a
country house snug and attractive. I don’t know whether the thought
struck him that he might have been the comfortable occupant of such
a house—possibly it did, for he was conscious that he had more
talent than dozens of the drones occupying manses of the kind—but
his immediate action was to rouse himself to consider whether he
could not lay the occupant under contribution. A passing field hand,
belonging to the village close by, supplied him with the occupant’s
name and opinions, and, thus armed, he ventured up to the house,
gently rang the bell, and with some difficulty induced the servant to
take up his name—“The Rev. Alfred Johnston”—to her master.
Johnston stood demurely in the lobby, to which he had been admitted
with marked suspicion by the servant, till the Rev. Robert Goodall
appeared, in spectacles and slippers, direct from his study. If
he had been startled to learn that a brother clergyman wished to
see him, he was much more so at seeing the brother clergyman. But
Johnston was fluent of tongue, and he had experience in dealing with
such surprise.
“I am really a clergyman, as I can prove to you, but have been
reduced to this state by my own folly,” he hastened to humbly say.
“And I have not come to beg or ask you for money, as I daresay there
are so many legitimate calls upon your goodness that you can ill
afford to succour strangers. But I have walked all the way from
Glasgow, and am now nearly fainting with hunger. If you could tell
your servant to give me, out on the door-step or at the road-side,
enough broken victuals, no matter how plain or coarse, to support me
till morning, your kindness will never be forgotten.”
The clergyman heard him in silence, and probably scepticism; but
on questioning him closely as to his college career, was surprised
to find every statement agreeing with his own knowledge. Johnston
described the classes; mimicked the Professors; quoted Greek and
Hebrew writings with the utmost ease and correctness, and even showed
that he had made the acquaintance of personal friends of Mr Goodall
who had attended during the same sessions. In this narration Johnston
had only to keep to the truth to make it saddening to listen to, and
this he did, adding a few pathetic touches about a wife and child
left in great want in Glasgow, while he made a struggle to reach
Edinburgh on foot, in hope of securing a tutor’s place, for which he
was well qualified.
“Do you mean to try to reach Edinburgh to-night?” inquired the
clergyman, with some pity in his tones.
“No, that is impossible, for I am quite exhausted,” said the
wanderer, with apparent frankness. “I cannot go much further. I shall
rest under some hedge or hay-stack till morning, and then make my way
thither by daylight.”
“I am sorry for you, a man of education and talent, who might be in
so much better a position,” said the clergyman, in gentle rebuke.
“However, you shall have the food you require, but not out on the
door-step. Come this way.”
Mr Goodall led the way to a comfortable parlour, where he lighted
a lamp, drew the blinds, and then ordered in the remains of his
own dinner—cold, of course, but much better fare than Johnston had
tasted for many a day. When he had eaten his fill, and finished with
a glass of wine brought to him by the kind clergyman, he was in no
hurry to leave, and his entertainer was as willing that he should
linger. Johnston’s tongue was fluent, and he could tell many strange
stories of his ups and downs, and in the present case so suited them
to a clerical ear that the good-hearted man at length felt strong
qualms as to sending such a man out into the darkness. The best plan
would have been to give the needy being a shilling wherewith to pay
for a lodging at some travellers “howff,” but that never occurred
to the minister. He was entertained, flattered, and amused by the
queer waif cast up at his door, and fancied that the best way to show
his gratitude was to invite Johnston to stay there over the night.
The wanderer affected to receive the invitation with unbounded
astonishment, but was at length prevailed upon to accept the offer,
and after patiently listening to some of Mr Goodall’s printed
sermons, and passing very flattering criticisms upon their logic and
learning, he followed the good man upstairs to a spare bedroom, where
an old suit of the minister’s, with a pair of boots and a shirt, made
a considerable improvement in his appearance.
After supper they parted for the night with mutual good wishes,
and the minister lay down to a sound night’s sleep, conscious of
having that day emulated his great Master in doing one good action
to the neediest near his hands. Johnston ought to have slept soundly
too, for he had travelled far and fasted, and then eaten well, but
cupidity was in him stronger than drowsiness. In producing his pet
sermons to read them over for his guest’s edification, the clergyman
had used his keys to a drawer in the writing-table and exposed
something very like a cash-box. When the sermons had been restored
to their place of security, the drawer had been again locked,
but the keys were left in the lock. Johnston, during a momentary
absence of his entertainer, unlocked the drawer and placed the keys
ostentatiously on the top of the writing-table, from which they were
lifted by the owner a few minutes later, all unconscious but that he
had himself left them there.
No opportunity occurred during the evening for testing the contents
of the unlocked drawer; but in anticipation of there being something
in it worth carrying away, he arranged with his kind host that he
should be allowed to leave the house very early in the morning.
The thought of that money-box kept him awake for three hours, by
which time he guessed rightly that both the clergyman and his
housekeeper would be fast asleep. He then slipped down to the parlour
on his stocking-soles—the first use to which he put the gift of Mr
Goodall—and took from the box about £50 in notes and coin. A gold
pencil-case, a silver fruit knife, and a pair of spectacles, which
were lying close by, he was mean enough also to appropriate. He then
slipped upstairs, and lay down and slept the sleep of the unjust till
about seven in the morning.
I don’t know what the man’s feelings had been when he found that Mr
Goodall was up, and had caused the servant to prepare breakfast for
him, and when that was hastily swallowed, insisted on accompanying
the wanderer back part of the way to the nearest railway station, at
which he paid his fare to Edinburgh, and pressed a few shillings
into his hand, merely saying at parting—
“Go in peace, and sin no more.”
Surely his heart must have got a sore twinge at that moment.
Johnston soon reached Edinburgh, and the telegram announcing the
robbery followed an hour or two later. This message contained a brief
description of the man, who, however, was known to me by reputation,
though I had never seen him. My only wonder was that he had given
his real name and antecedents, which, I suppose, may be accounted
for by the robbery being an after-thought. With such a sum of money
in his possession Johnston was practically at the ends of the earth,
and it might be thought foolish to look for him in Edinburgh; but
I reasoned otherwise. Your very needy rascal, who has not fingered
money for a long time, grudges to throw away much of it on railway
fares, or anything, indeed, which does not minister immediately to
his own gratification. Besides, Johnston had spoken of going to
“friends” in Edinburgh, and I had no doubt but he had in his mind
at the moment certain of my “bairns” hailing from Glasgow, and
already known to him, who would be glad to profit by his superior
education and planning power. By telegraphing to Johnny Farrel I had
a list of these “friends” an hour after the receipt of the news,
and immediately went out to seek some of them, sending M^cSweeny in
another direction on the same errand. The brief description from the
robbed clergyman was supplemented by a fuller one from Glasgow, and
thus we were pretty certain of identifying our man, even if we had
met him on the street. Now, behold how, when you are most certain,
you may be most easily deceived. M^cSweeny went to a certain house in
Potterrow, which he entered without ceremony, and then proceeded to
question the inmates. This house had generally a stranger or two in
it at every inspection, and the present occasion proved no exception.
There were two strangers—one a hawker, and the other an evil-looking
character with the hair of his head cropped close to the skull, and
his face as smooth and hairless as the palm of his hand. Neither of
these answering the description, M^cSweeny began to make inquiries
for Johnston, and was even obliging enough to describe his character
and general appearance to those present in that kitchen.
“I believe I saw him not an hour ago,” said the cropped-headed man
sullenly, after a dead silence on the part of all present.
“Where?” eagerly demanded M^cSweeny.
“Where I could get him again in five minutes, I think, if it was
worth my while,” suggestively returned the man.
“Will you take me to him now, then?” cried M^cSweeny.
“No. But I’ll send him up here if you like to wait. Is it worth
half-a-crown?”
M^cSweeny considered for a moment, and then said that it was. The man
slowly rose from his place by the fire and held out his hand for the
money; but the clever and cunning M^cSweeny only winked hard, and
made a few remarks about great detectives, famous all over the world,
not being easily cheated.
“No, no, my jewel,” he added; “ye’ll get the money when ye’ve earned
it—not a minute sooner.”
The man scowled horribly, and slowly slunk out of the room and the
house. Was ever an escape more neatly effected? That clean-shaven,
cropped-haired man was Johnston! The moment he had entered the city
he had gone to a barber and got shaved and cropped—I afterwards spoke
to the man who did it—and the alteration which such an operation
effects on the appearance can be understood only by those who have
seen it performed. Had Johnston been placed at that moment under the
eyes of Mr Goodall he most certainly would not have been able to
identify his late guest; nay, I am not sure but he might have sworn
most positively that that was not the man.
M^cSweeny waited patiently for nearly half an hour, and then it began
to dawn upon him that he had been done. The grins of the occupants
of that kitchen as he went out did not tend to soothe his feelings.
Not a word was said on either side; it was all understood. What had
first roused my chum’s suspicion of the truth was the recollection
that the man had passed out of the room without a head-covering, and
that the remainder of his body was covered with a very loose-fitting
old suit of blacks. Now the clergyman had made Johnston a present of
just such a suit, and being himself a stout man, had not been able to
give him a very good fit. Along with the suit went a broad-brimmed
clerical-looking dress hat; but that Johnston had only assumed when
out of M^cSweeny’s sight. What made the thing more aggravating was
that M^cSweeny had seen the hat hanging on a window-shutter in one
of the rooms in searching the house, yet had never thought of
connecting it with the evil-looking wretch by the fire. Not long
after M^cSweeny’s discomfiture, one of the county police appeared
with a full description of this suit of clothes and broad-brimmed
hat—just too late, of course.
When M^cSweeny had spent a deal of time in hunting for the man who
had so neatly escaped him, and appeared to report to me, I was in a
very bad temper, for I was conceited enough to think that, if it had
been I who had clapped eyes on Johnston, he would not have got off—an
opinion which I changed when I knew the rascal better.
Like Jim Macluskey, [See _Brought to Bay_, page 5] he had the rare
faculty of being able to change the whole expression of his face by
ingeniously contorting his features, and could speak in any kind
of language or tone to suit. M^cSweeny’s mistake was really not so
surprising or stupid as it appeared to me at the moment, or as it now
appears in print.
I had no time to say much, for I felt that Johnston must have
realised that the city was too hot for him, and would get out of it
at his swiftest. If I was to get him it must be at once.
What route or means was he most likely to take? That was the
all-important question with me. First I decided that he would not
go near any of the railway stations, else I should have hopefully
turned in the direction of the Forth and the North—quite a favourite
route for escaping criminals. Then it struck me that, having gone
the length of sacrificing his fine beard and hair, and been so
successful in thus altering his appearance, he might boldly try the
most dangerous route of all, as that on which he was least likely to
be looked for—the road for Glasgow. He was not to know that, when it
was too late, we had penetrated his disguise, and at that moment was
probably exulting over his cleverness. I did not expect him to walk
all the way to Glasgow, but thought he might go out a good distance,
and then take train at some obscure railway station for whatever town
he meant to favour with his presence. My idea was that Glasgow itself
was to be thus favoured, but that point did not concern me for the
present.
Now, there were the three roads all crossed by the railway to choose
from, and I was a little puzzled which to try. He had come by that
leading through East Calder, and I scarcely thought he would take
that. That left the Bathgate and Linlithgow routes to choose from. I
got a gig with a strong stepping horse, and drove out the Linlithgow
road till I came upon one of the county police, who satisfied me that
no such man had passed along that road within the last three hours.
My reason for trying that route was that there was a possibility of
him, when once on the railway skirting that road, branching away
to the north by way of Stirling, and so escaping. However, there
was nothing for it but to drive back in all haste and get on to the
Bathgate road, which is the favourite one for tramps. When I was a
few miles from the city, I could scarcely believe my own eyes when I
saw a man approaching me from the opposite direction, clad in a suit
identical with that I was looking for. There it was—loose-fitting,
shabby, old, and black, with the broad-brimmed hat to crown all. The
man’s face had no beard either, but it was roasted brown with the
sun, and had on the chin a stubbly growth of hair some days old.
Nevertheless, I pulled up and stopped him.
“Here, you!” I said, displaying my staff as I jumped down.
“Alfred Johnston, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve a warrant for all
Scotland, so step up quietly;” and before he had recovered from his
astonishment, or uttered a word, I had the handcuffs on his dirty
wrists.
“My name isn’t Johnston—that I’ll swear,” he said, simply, when he
got his breath; then a light appeared to break on him, and with a
great oath he added, “Now I think I know why the kind gentleman got
me to change clothes with him, though mine were sorry rags and them
is first-class. Whew! who’d have thought it? He’s done something, and
the police is after him for it?”
This seemed not bad at all, and quite worthy of the man who had so
neatly befooled M^cSweeny, but I only grinned unfeelingly in his
simple face, and said dryly that “I believed so,” and bundled him
without ceremony into the gig.
“But—but—ye don’t mean to tell me ye’re going to take me instead of
him?” he at length articulated, with a look of half-comical alarm.
“I am—just.”
“Then the real man’ll get off, and I’ll be hanged in his stead!” he
cried, fairly breaking down with terror; “for he’s footing it out
fast enough, I tell ye.”
“The real man?” I said, thinking to humour him, as I resumed the
reins and turned the horse’s head; “and what was he like, pray?”
“A clean-shaved, smooth-spoken gentleman—for all the world like a
priest or a minister, only that his head’s cropped as close as if
he was just new out of jail,” was the prompt answer; “though, by my
troth, he looked more like a shockerawn in my old duds when I left
him.”
I started, and began to think. Then I pulled off my prisoner’s hat,
and found his hair not at all close cropped. I drove rapidly back to
one of those wayside stations of the county police, and there left my
prisoner safely locked up, every question he answered confirming my
impression that he had been speaking the truth. The only difficulty
I had with him was in getting him to describe the clothes which he
had exchanged for the old blacks he wore. These he either could not
or would not name—in colour, shape, or material—a difficulty which I
only understood when the rags were before me—and then it would have
puzzled _me_ to do what I wondered at him not doing. Even a detective
can be unreasonable at times.
Leaving the Irish-speaking man thus, I turned the horse’s head and
made him spin along the road at a fine rate, being not only anxious
to overtake the wearer of the “duds,” if he existed, but also to
escape a storm of rain which had been threatening for half the day
and was then beginning to descend. When I had gone on thus for
a few miles, and passed a good many on the road—not one of whom
answered the description of my man—I allowed the horse to “breathe”
in ascending one of the braes by laying the reins on his neck and
letting him take his own pace. In thus moving slowly along, I turned
a corner allotted to stone breaking, and there caught sight of a dark
object huddled in to shelter from the rain. I was all but past, and
had just noticed that the figure was that of a ragged tramp, when the
man rose and trotted hurriedly after the gig, saying respectfully—
“If you please, sir, would it be asking too much, sir, for you to
give me a lift?”
I pulled up the horse and scanned him closely, while I appeared to
busy myself pulling up my collar to keep out the driving rain.
“Well,” I said, in a tone by no means gracious or obliging, “how far
are you going?”
“I’m not particular, sir,” he answered with alacrity, “as far as
you’re going yourself, sir.”
“Come up, then.”
I had decided that he might not be my man, but I would be as well to
have him beside me till I saw if there were any others further on.
Besides, it was already growing dark, and I had little time to lose.
The bundle of rags got up, and I had a better view of his face as
he made his ragged legs comfortable under the knee cloth. It was
clean shaven and by no means so loutish as his speech. His hair, I
saw, was cropped to the bone. I drove on till it was dark without
overtaking any other, drawing my companion out on the weather and
other every-day topics.
“What are you when you are at home?” I at length half jocularly asked.
I had kept him at arm’s length, so to speak, all the way, never
allowing him to become familiar in the least.
He paused over his answer, looking up at my face through the darkness.
“I’d astonish you if I told you,” he at last replied, in a somewhat
altered tone.
“Indeed!” I answered, apparently with great indifference, but really
trembling with eager curiosity.
“Yes, I am really a clergyman, but reduced to this state by my own
folly.”
At last I had him! There he was sitting close by me in the dark,
betrayed by his own pet phrase, so truthful, and yet so often used to
deceive. I could have shouted with exultation, but I was too anxious
to see him safe under lock and key. Plenty of time for crowing when I
had him in the cells.
I gave a dissatisfied grunt and a dry “Imphum,” and remained silent
for some time. During that interval a bright thought flashed upon me,
and at the first cross road I purposely turned the horse off the main
road, and went on till we were stopped by a farm.
I had gig lamps, and these I got lighted, and then I mounted and
turned back till we reached the main road, which I boldly turned
into—in the direction leading back to Edinburgh.
“Are you sure you’re not going the wrong way?” said my companion,
after a little.
“I am going my way—this is my road,” I replied, with some gruffness;
“I can’t say anything about yours. I think you said you weren’t
particular?”
“All right—neither I am,” he said, evidently not relishing the
thought of being turned out on the dark road in such a rain. “Just
drive on, please, and never mind me.”
I did drive on at my fastest. I soon reached the little
station-house; but before that I had decided that it might not be
very safe to trust Johnston in such a place for the night, and I
passed it without stopping. At last the lights of the city appeared
in front of us, and my companion roused himself to watch them with
growing interest.
“What town is this?” he at length asked.
“Edinburgh,” I shortly answered.
“What! Edinburgh?” he cried, almost jumping up from his seat. “How
can that be? I thought we were driving towards Bathgate?”
“We were at first, but I changed my mind and turned back. Want to get
down, or will you go further?”
He considered the matter, though I was really laughing at him in my
sleeve while making the suggestion; for, as may be guessed, I had no
intention of allowing him to get down—alone. Then he said ruefully—
“Which way are you going?”
“Round by the back of the Castle towards the High Street,” was my
prompt answer; and he directed me to drive on, signifying that he was
going that way too—which was perfectly true. At the Puseyite Chapel
he touched me on the arm and said—“I’ll get down here, sir, if you
please.”
I was driving along at a great speed and appeared not to hear him,
and in a moment more we were tearing into the brightly-lighted
Lawnmarket and High Street.
“I wanted to get down,” he said reproachfully, and a little angrily,
as we went careering madly down the street.
“It’s all right,” I said; “I’m getting down in a minute myself;” and
sure enough, in less than that time, I pulled up in front of the
Central, where I gave the reins to a man, who delightedly exclaimed—
“Oh, M^cGovan’s got him!”
My prisoner gave me a look—long and steady—which spoke more than a
thousand words, and then I helped him down with the words—
“Come away, Johnston; we’ve had a very successful drive, haven’t we,
though it has been disagreeably wet?”
He replied in the affirmative, but the language in which it was
couched was not clerical. That lift on the road cost him just five
years’ penal servitude. I shall allude to him again.