KING CRACK
THE TOAD WITHOUT THE JEWEL--AN INCLINED PLANE--TWO HEADS ARE
BETTER THAN ONE--THE FIRST PARALLEL--THE FAMILY GONE OUT--A
PLAN OF THE CITADEL--HOW TO GET IN--NO QUARTER--A TRIP BY
RAIL--STRANGE COMPANY
“Sweet are the uses of adversity” to some malleable natures, which,
bending to the storm, rise from it softened and refreshed as from an
April shower; but there are desperate and rebellious spirits on whom
grief and misfortune seem to have an exactly opposite effect. Such are
more prone to kindle into resistance or smoulder in despair, and
whilst the humbled penitent kneels meekly to kiss the rod, the
hardened offender gnashes his teeth in impotent fury, and glories in
his mad career as he forces himself from bad to worse, even to the
very threshold of destruction--“game,” as the poor fool calls it,
“game to the last.”
Such was the disposition of Tom Blacke. When his child died, the whole
of his better nature seemed to have followed the infant to the grave.
He had nothing now to care for in the world; and it is needless to
enlarge upon the danger of such a state. His wife’s misconduct--for
she, poor woman, maddened by despair, had but followed her husband’s
example, in drowning sorrow with drunkenness--added fuel to the
flames; and Tom was descending, just as gradually and as surely as one
who walks step by step into a cellar, down into the lowest abyss of
infamy and crime. The gradations are imperceptible, there are many
windings in the path, but it never fails to terminate in the black
gulf. At first the wayfarer may be easily checked and turned aside;
but every onward step increases his velocity and his helplessness (the
laws of gravitation are no less true in the moral than the physical
world), and though a gossamer might have held him at starting, a chain
of iron shall not break his fall as he nears the bottom. The
beginning, too, is as insidious as it is effectual. The cheerful
glass, the harbinger of good fellowship and kindliness, who would be
such a churl as to deny a man the harmless pleasure of indulging in
moderation with a friend? But one cheerful glass creates a craving for
another, and ere long the liquor begins to have a charm of its own
independent of the company. Then the dose must be increased, or it
loses its power, and nightly indulgence begins to be followed by daily
reaction; so a trifling stimulant is taken in the morning, just to
steady the nerves and keep the cold out--a salutary precaution in this
damp climate! Then the pleasure becomes a necessity, and partial
intoxication begins to be the normal condition of the man. Meanwhile
the habit is expensive, but who can doubt that the moral sense becomes
blunted in so unnatural a state? and the drain on his means is
supplied by the toper’s application of his wages or other resources to
his own brutal gratification. Self-indulgence soon destroys the sense
of self-respect, and the temptation to procure money is irresistible,
for without money how can he purchase drink? So the man first begins
to lie, then to cheat, and lastly to steal. He has now arrived at the
second stage in his downward journey. He has enlisted in a profession
which has its rules, its customs, its triumphs--nay, to a certain
extent, its pleasures--but from which there is no release. The
drunkard is now a thief, and, to deaden the stings of conscience, no
less a drunkard still. Then comes madness, for a state of habitual
excitement can but be called madness, and visions of daring
recklessness rise in the brandy-sodden brain--perhaps a sort of false
ambition to triumph amongst his fellow-ruffians impels him to crimes
of deeper dye than any he has yet contemplated, perhaps a vague
longing for peril, perhaps a morbid thirst for blood. The wretch plots
under the inspiration of brandy, and spurs himself to action with the
same maddening stimulant. His nerves fail him at the critical moment,
or the frenzy of despair dyes his hand with the ineffaceable stain of
murder. In the one case a living death in the hulks separates him for
ever from his fellow-men; in the other, the just retaliation of the
law leaves his body quivering on the gallows, whilst his name becomes
a byword and a curse in the mouths of generations yet unborn. This is
the third and last stage of the downward journey; further we dare not
follow the culprit; but few arrive at this awful ending without having
gone regularly through all the previous gradations. Tom Blacke had
only reached the second stage. He was now a professional thief and
receiver of stolen goods. The lodgings in the Mews could now show
curiosities and valuables that any one but a policeman would have been
surprised to find in such a place. Gold watches, silks and shawls and
trinkets, yards of brocade, ells of lace, and last, not least, a
caldron always on the boil for the manufacture of that all-absorbing
fluid which is called “white soup,” and sold by the ounce, surrounded
the once virtuous Gingham in her once respectable home. She, too, was
on the downward track, and she drank to stupefy the sense of guilt,
which she could not altogether stifle, and from which she had not
energy to extricate herself. Mr. Blacke, however, as he began again to
be called, allowed no conscientious scruples to interfere with
business. He dressed well now, always had plenty of money at command,
might be seen at many places of public resort, and though aware that
the police had their eye on him--to use a common expression, that they
were only giving him “rope enough to hang himself,” and would
undoubtedly “want” him ere long--he appeared resolved to live out his
little hour with the usual blind recklessness and infatuation of his
kind.
Blacke was a plotting villain, and he had been for some time
meditating a daring sweep that should eclipse all his previous doings,
_and, if not thwarted_, realise a share of booty that would place him
above want for the rest of his life. In order to discover and
frustrate his plans, we must take the liberty of overhearing a
conversation carried on between him and his confederate, in a small
snug parlour off the bar of that very public-house in which
Hairblower had been so shamefully hocussed and robbed on his former
visit to the metropolis--an excursion he was not likely soon to
forget.
“Bring a quartern of gin,” said Tom to the flaunting maid who waited
on him, as he took his seat at the council-table, with a bloodshot eye
and shaking hand, that showed such a stimulus was by no means
unnecessary. “Shut the door, girl,” he added, in a threatening voice,
as the undiluted spirit was placed on the table between him and his
companion; “this gentleman and me has matters of business to talk
over; see that we’re not disturbed--d’ye understand?” The girl gave a
saucy smile of intelligence, and left the two worthies to their
consultation.
“My service to you,” said Tom, abruptly, as he lifted a brimming
wine-glass full of gin to his shaking lips.
“Here’s luck,” laconically replied the gentleman addressed, wiping his
mouth on the back of his hand, and turning his glass down upon the
table to show how religiously he had drained every drop.
There was an ominous silence--Tom felt the moment had arrived to
explain the whole of his plans, and he paused a little, like some
skilful general, as he ran over in his mind how he should impart them
in the clearest manner to his companion, a man of somewhat obtuse
intellect, though strong and resolute in action, and who was indeed no
other than Mr. Fibbes. That worthy’s appearance had decidedly changed
for the worse since we had the honour of making his acquaintance at
the truly British game of skittles, or even since we last took leave
of him in earnest conversation with his patron, Major D’Orville. He
had sustained two domestic afflictions, from each of which he had
suffered severely: the one in the loss of his little black-eyed wife,
who had been suddenly taken from him, and who, although, as he himself
said, she was a “rum ’un when she was raised,” had certainly kept him
out of a deal of mischief; the other, in the premature death of his
pride and prime favourite, Jessie, whose sufferings during distemper
and subsequent dissolution he averred would have moved “a ’eart of
stone.” Under the influence of these combined sorrows Mr. Fibbes had
neglected his person, and taken more decidedly to drinking than
formerly, and was now seldom or never in his right senses; a fact
sufficiently attested by his bloated red face, his dull leaden eye,
and general appearance of dissolute recklessness. He was indeed ripe
for mischief, or, to use his own words, “up to anythink, from skinning
a pig to smothering a Harchbishop,” a frame of mind very likely to
lead to dangerous consequences. Tom filled his glass once more, and
opened the plan of his campaign.
“It must be done to-night, Mr. Fibbes,” he remarked, with polite
energy; “this is the last night we can manage it cleverly, on account
of the moon. See now--I’ve been down in the neighbourhood to make
sure. My missus, she knows the place as well as I know you. Bless you!
she was bred and born there. But I wouldn’t trust to that. I’ve been
waiting down about there for a week. At last, the family they all goes
out a hairin’ in the phaeton or what not--I walks boldly up to the
front door and rings the bell. Up comes the housekeeper, all in a
fluster, settling of a clean cap--thinks I, the footman’s gone with
the carriage, and the butler’s out shootin’, and directly his back’s
turned, the under butler he’s off courtin’, and the boy when the
coast’s clear, he runs out to play cricket, so there’s no one left but
the women--trust me for managin’ of _them_.”
“Good,” said Mr. Fibbes, approvingly, as he filled and emptied his
glass.
“‘Is the General at home?’ says I, quite promiscuous, and looking up
and down the portico like a harchitect.
“‘No, sir,’ says she, politely enough; ‘did you wish to see him?’
“‘It’s of no consequence,’ says I, pulling a bundle of prints and a
measuring-line out of my pocket, ‘merely a small matter of business;
the General’s confidential servant would do as well.’ Ye see I knowed
the butler was out, else he’d have answered the door.
“‘Perhaps you’ll leave a message, sir,’ says she.
“‘O ma’am,’ says I, ‘it’s a matter of no importance, only I _am_ going
to town by the train to-night. Perhaps, ma’am, as you seem to be the
governess, or a relative of the family, you might give me permission
to do all I want.’
“‘What is it?’ says she, looking as pleased as Punch.
“‘Well, ma’am,’ says I, ‘the fact is, I’m engaged in preparing a work
for publication that shall comprise all the principal seats of the
nobility and gentry in the Midland Counties; would you oblige me by
glancing over the proofs? and if there are any that strike your fancy,
pray favour me by acceptin’ of them,’ says I. ‘Your noble family owns
one of the finest residences we have yet surveyed, and we shall be
proud to do justice to it.’”
“Good,” again grunted Mr. Fibbes, who was beginning to weary of the
detail, and wanted more gin to keep him awake.
“Well,” resumed Tom, “with that she takes me into the hall, and shows
me over the drawing-room, and the dining-room, and the conservatories;
and she stops and pints out a statue--rank indecent, I calls it,
without a rag of clothin’ to bless itself--and the pictures, and what
not; but I wasn’t satisfied with this here; what I wanted was to know
where the plunder was stowed, and though pictures may be very
profitable to them as sells ’em, the plate-basket’s more in my line of
business than those shammy gold frames that make such a show, and
isn’t worth half-a-crown a yard. ‘You’ll excuse me, miss,’ says I
(they likes to be called miss when the bloom’s off ’em a little), ‘but
I’ve always understood as the offices in this house is a perfect
pattern as regards servants’ accommodation and general arrangement.
Now, my governor, he’s building a country residence for the Earl of
Aircastle, and if it wasn’t takin’ too great a liberty, I might ask to
be allowed to inspect the basement; I could get a hint or two that
would please his lordship, who’s a very particular man--uncommon.’
With that she hesitated a little, and looked hard at me, so I goes at
her again: ‘I wouldn’t detain _you_, miss,’ says I, ‘but perhaps you’d
be so good as to ring for any of the hupper servants, and they could
do all I want.’
“‘Oh,’ says she, smiling again, ‘I’ll show you over the offices
myself.’ With that, blessed if she didn’t take me down-stairs, and
walk me through the sculleries, and the kitchen, and the
pantry, and the servants’ hall, and the back-kitchen, and the
housemaid’s closets--precious corners they was, too, for a game of
hide-and-seek--and the butler’s room, where he sleeps the nights he
isn’t off to Bubbleton on the sly; and I could put my hand on the
plate-chest in the dark, and I know where the General keeps his money,
and there’s gold watches and such like in the drawing-room, that would
make a matter of a hundred pounds directly they saw old Sharon’s
back-shop; and I kept my eyes open, as you may easily believe, and
I’ve got it all in my head now, let alone a bit of a plan I’ve taken
of the place just in the rough;” and with this Tom pulled a sheet of
paper out of his pocket, and proposed with its aid to elucidate the
manœuvres he proceeded to put in practice. “You and I can do it
all,” said Tom, “just the same as we stripped the old hall near
Devizes. I don’t relish more than two, not if a job’s any way
ticklish, and I do like to finish off my work neatly, I confess. Now,
look ye here, Mr. Fibbes, this is how we’ll act--the station’s not ten
minutes’ walk from the house, and the mail-train stops there about
12.50. There’s a luggage-train comes by about three in the mornin’
that would bring us back quite handy, and we should have plenty of
time to finish off handsome, and so be home to breakfast. Take another
drain, Mr. Fibbes: talking’s dry work.”
Mr. Fibbes seemed to think the same of listening, and acquiesced with
great good-will.
Tom Blacke got up, opened the door to see no one was eaves-dropping,
peeped into the cupboard, and into a red-curtained snuggery off the
bar, commanded by a small window in the room he now occupied; and
having satisfied himself that both were empty, proceeded to unfold his
plans.
“We’ll leave the trap behind us this turn, Mr. Fibbes. We can carry
all _we_ shall want; there’s my light valise and the blue bag will
hold everything; we shan’t take anything that’s very hot, nor yet very
heavy. You mind to put on the green spectacles, just for the journey,
and I’ll be the man with the prospectuses, the same as before, for the
station-master’s a smart chap, and maybe he’ll know me again.”
“I mustn’t forget the jemmy,” grunted Mr. Fibbes.
“The jemmy!” replied Tom, in a tone of injured feeling; “what’s the
use of the jemmy? This ain’t a rough job, Mr. Fibbes; you seem to take
no pride in your profession! No, no; you just put the centre-bit in
your coat-pocket for a precaution, and leave the rest to me. The
back-scullery’s our place; it’s got a regular sash window, and opens
with a common hasp; there’s a shutter, too, but I see a cobweb across
it when I was there, and I think maybe they sometimes forget to fasten
it. So you and me we alights at the station as though to walk into
Bubbleton, then we come quietly up to the house, takes a bit of brown
paper and treacle, and so breaks a pane in that scullery window
without a chink of noise, then in goes a hand to unhasp it, and you
and me, Mr. Fibbes, we walks in without a hinvitation. Now, look you
here,” and Tom produced his chart of the interior, “we goes quietly
into the butler’s room--he’s safe to be at Bubbleton, because it’s a
theatre night--we takes a piece out of the cupboard with a
centre-bit--none of your noisy jemmies--and we stows away the plate in
the blue bag; then we creeps along the passage, and so up the
back-stairs there” (pointing to the plan with his finger) “into the
drawing-room; and here, Mr. Fibbes, I shall want your assistance, in
case of haccidents. Ye see one of the ladies she sleeps above the
drawing-room, and ladies is mostly light sleepers. Now, from what I’ve
heard tell of this one--the governess she was--she’s as likely as not
to come down if she hears any disturbance. She might know _me_, for
she’s seen me along of my missus in Grosvenor Square. If she should
walk in--. Take another drain, Mr. Fibbes--what’s that noise?” broke
off Tom, abruptly, his white face beaded with perspiration, and his
lip working in guilty trepidation.
“Noise? there’s no noise,” replied his confederate, looking doggedly
up to him, though a strange light shone too in his bloodshot eyes; “if
she _should_ walk in, what then?”
“Why, run the long knife into her,” hissed out the less daring
villain; “it makes no noise, and she’ll tell no tales.”
“Share and share alike, and it’s a bargain,” said Mr. Fibbes, dashing
his great hand heavily down on the table. “D----n me, Tom, you’re a
deep ’un; you put me in front in that last job, and so help me I didn’t
clear five pounds. I’ll have none of these games this turn, and if I
_have_ to whip out the ‘bread-winner,’ I’ll be allowed something
handsome over and above, see if I won’t.”
“Of course, Mr. Fibbes,” replied Tom, “honour amongst gentlemen. You
understand the plan now, I think, or would you like me to go over it
once more?”
“Bother the plan,” remarked Mr. Fibbes, who was a man of action rather
than a man of science; “let’s have another quartern and be off--why,
it’s getting dark now.”
“Easy,” said Tom, “we’ll just call at my place for the instruments,
and so walk on to the station. It’s a nice fresh night for a jaunt
into the country; but what a thing it is when gentlemen can combine
business with pleasure!”
Mr. Fibbes grunted a hoarse laugh of approbation, and, having finished
their gin, these two worthy members of society walked off, arm-in-arm,
on their nefarious expedition. It is needless to say that
Newton-Hollows was the house for which they were bound. General Bounce
and his unconscious family, resting peacefully and securely as usual,
were to be robbed, and, if any resistance arose, were to be murdered
before daylight, and this because Tom Blacke, being, as he said,
connected with them by marriage, and having received many acts of
kindness from the warm-hearted old General, had obtained a sufficient
knowledge of the inside of his dwelling and the habits of his
household to make a descent upon his property with every prospect of
success. After a vehement discussion with Mr. Fibbes, who was
extremely anxious to travel first class, and whose aristocratic
prejudices were so shocked when he found his confederate would by no
means consent to this imprudent arrangement, that he nearly threw up
the job altogether, the worthy couple stowed themselves away in a
roomy compartment of the second class, and were soon steaming along
from the lights of London, into the dark, broken masses of the cool,
fresh country.
Though, in this instance, the power of steam seemed friendly to the
purpose of these two finished ruffians, they could not divest
themselves of certain superstitious misgivings, which probably they
would not have entertained had they been bounding along on two
free-going horses, like the gentlemen highwaymen of the olden time,
or even bowling merrily down the road in the light spring-cart, and
behind the “varmint” bay mare that made the pride of a cracksman in
the early part of the present century. But the rail! there was a deal
of insecurity about the rail. That electric telegraph, too, was the
devil. At every station they almost expected to see the face of some
too well-known detective glaring in behind the station-master’s lamp,
and to hear the unwelcome though civil greeting with which he would
request the favour of their company. Then might he not be even now in
the next carriage, separated from them by that half-inch of woodwork?
Mr. Fibbes scowled as he contemplated the possibility of such
proximity, and clutched more than once at the long knife. Still they
sped on, uninterrupted; half the journey was already satisfactorily
performed. A succession of respectable good-humoured second-class
passengers got in and out, and handed their bundles and pattens and
umbrellas across the two housebreakers, and entered into conversation
with them, and thought the dark smaller man a vastly accommodating
person, and his morose companion a stout well-to-do grazier coming
home from Smithfield, judging of them just as we cannot help judging
of our temporary companions, particularly when travelling, and making
probably no worse shots than we all do in these fancy biographies _à
la minute_. But there was a man in the next carriage to the two
professionals who puzzled everybody. A stout fellow he was, with a
shiny hat, but no power on earth could get him to utter a syllable.
Some thought he was dumb, and some made sure he was drunk.