up his feet and turning so as to face the stranger, by way of evincing the
interest which he felt in his melancholy situation.
The man shook his head, and was so affected that he was troubled with a
temporary cold in his head; which, having alleviated by the aid of his
handkerchief, he said: 'Poor woman! She undertook to present me with a
fine boy, last week, and it proved too much for her. It exhausted her
animal natur', and she decamped on a sudden. She was a very fine woman--a
very fine woman. I always _said_ she was.'
'And the child?' inquired Kornicker; 'I hope it's well.'
'Quite well, I thank you. It went along with her. They are both better
off; saints in heaven, both of 'em; out of this wale of tears.'
Mr. Kornicker told him to cheer up. He said that every man had a crook in
his lot. Some men had big crooks, and some men had little crooks; and
although this crook made rather a bad elbow in his lot, that perhaps all
the rest was square and straight, and he could build on it to advantage,
especially if it was twenty-five feet by a hundred, which was the ordinary
width and length of 'lots in general.'
Having delivered himself of this rather confused allegory, Mr. Kornicker,
by way of farther consolation, drew out his snuff-box, and stretching out
as far as was possible without falling from his chair, tendered it to the
stranger, who in return leaning so far forward as slightly to raise his
person from the chair, gently inserted his fingers in the box, and helped
himself to a pinch, at the same time remarking, that it 'was a great
comfort, in his trying situation, to find friends who sympathized with his
misfortunes. That he _had_ found it so; and that Mr. Kornicker was a man
whose feelings did credit to human natur'.'
Kornicker disclaimed being any thing above the ordinary run of men, or
that his feelings were more than every other man possessed, or ought to
possess. But the stranger was vehement in his assertions to the contrary;
so much so, that he rose from his seat, and drawing a chair to the
opposite side of Kornicker's table, proposed that they should breakfast
together.
Kornicker shook his head:
'It's against the agreement,' said he; 'it can't be done.'
'But it _can_, Sir--it _shall_, Sir! A man of your sympathies is not to be
met with every day, and must be breakfasted with, whether he will or
not--agreement or no agreement. Don't agreement me!' said the stranger,
lifting up his chair and setting it down opposite Kornicker, with great
emphasis. 'What's the natur' of this agreement?'
Mr. Kornicker assumed a very grave and legal expression of countenance,
and without replying, asked:
'What's your name?'
'Ezra Scrake.'
'I, Edward Kornicker, forbid you, Ezra Scrake, from breakfasting with me,
telling you that it is contrary to a certain agreement, referred to but
not set forth; and I now repeat the request, that you forthwith retire to
another table, and that I be permitted to take my meal by myself.' He
threw himself back in his chair, and looked Mr. Scrake full in the face.
'And I, Ezra Scrake, say that I _won't_ leave this table, and that I
_will_ breakfast with a fellow whose benevolence might warm the witals of
a tiger.'
'Very well, Sir,' said Kornicker, relaxing from his former severe
expression; 'I've done my duty. Old Rust can't blame me. The breach of
contract is not on my part. I'm acting under compulsion. Just recollect
that I desired you to leave me, in case it gets me into hot water, and
that you refused; that's all. Now old fellow, what'll you take? Only
recollect, that each man rides his own pony.'
The stranger nodded, and said that of course he would 'foot his own bill.'
These preliminaries being settled, the boy, who had been standing at their
elbow in a state of ecstatic delight at the proceedings of Mr. Kornicker,
with whom he had become familiar, and whom he regarded as a gentleman of
great legal acumen, and in all other respects as rather a 'tall boy,' was
desired by the stranger to hand him the bill of fare, and not to keep him
waiting all day. Having been gratified in this respect, Mr. Scrake
commenced at the top and deliberately whispered his way to the bottom of
the list.
'Beef-steak; shall I say for two?' asked he, looking up at Kornicker.
'Yes, but always under protest, as to our breakfasting together,' said Mr.
Kornicker, winking at him. 'Don't forget that.'
'Of course. Now, my son, what trimmings have you got?' said he to the boy.
''Taters.'
'Are they kidneys, blue-noses, or fox?--and will they bu'st open white and
mealy?'
'They'm prime,' replied the boy.
'Bring one for me; or, stop--are they extra?'
'We throws them in with the steak, gratis.'
'Then bring a dishful, with coffee, bread, and whatever else adds to the
breakfast, without adding to the bill.'
The boy, having no other interest in the establishment than that of
securing his own wages and meals, was highly delighted at this considerate
order of Mr. Scrake, and forthwith disappeared to obey it.
In the meanwhile Mr. Scrake, after having deliberately re-perused the bill
of fare, and not observing any thing else which could be got for nothing,
laid it down, and looking at Mr. Kornicker, who was gazing abstractedly at
the table-cloth, said that he hoped he (Mr. Scrake) was not going to be
impertinent; and as Mr. Kornicker made no other reply than that of looking
at him, as if he considered it a matter of some doubt whether he was or
was not, he elucidated the meaning of his remark, by inquiring who Michael
Rust was.
'The old gentlemen that caters for me,' replied Kornicker, carelessly.
'And does he make you eat alone?'
'If I dine double, he'll stop the prog, that's all.'
'A sing'lar bargain--quite sing'lar; very sing'lar, in fact. Does he keep
a tight eye over you?'
Mr. Kornicker did not exactly know what kind of an eye a tight eye was,
but he replied: 'Sometimes he does, sometimes he don't. He's nigh enough
to do it. His office is overhead.'
'Lawyer, I suppose?--_must_ be,' said Mr. Scrake, drumming carelessly on
the table.
'You're out, old fellow. I'm with him, and should know something of him;
and he isn't.'
'Ah!' said the stranger, leaning back and yawning, and then sharpening his
knife on the fork. 'What is he then?'
Mr. Kornicker raised his finger gently to his nose, winked so violently at
Mr. Scrake that he caused that gentleman to stop short in his performance
to look at him; after which he shut both eyes, and gave vent to a violent
inward convulsion of laughter.
'What _is_ he?' repeated Kornicker, in a tone of high surprise; then
sinking his voice, and leaning over the table, he whispered confidentially
in Mr. Scrake's ear: 'He's hell.'
'No! he isn't though, is he?' said Mr. Scrake, dropping his knife and
fork, and sinking back in his chair.
'Yes he is,' repeated Mr. Kornicker; 'and if you was a certain gentleman
that I know, you'd find it out. _He_ will some day, I rather think.'
'Are _you_ that individual?' inquired Mr. Scrake, with an air of deep
interest.
'No, I ain't, but I suspect some one else is. But come,' said he, 'there's
the breakfast, so let's be at it, and drop all other discussion.'
This remark found an answering echo in the stomach of Mr. Scrake, who
resumed the sharpening of his knife, as the breakfast entered the room,
and did not desist until the steak was on the table, when he immediately
assaulted it.
'Shall I help you? What part will you take?'
'Any part,' replied Kornicker, carelessly.
'Well, it's sing'lar; I never could carve. I'll help you as I would help
myself,' said Mr. Scrake, in his ignorance depositing on Mr. Kornicker's
plate an exceedingly tough piece of dry meat, and upon his own a cut which
was remarkably tender and juicy.
'Do you always help yourself as you have helped me?' said Mr. Kornicker,
snuffing with great deliberation, and eyeing his portion with no very
contented eye.
'Always, always.'
'Then you do yourself d----d great injustice.'
'Ha! ha! good--very good; sheer ignorance on my part, upon my soul. But
you were telling me about this man, this Rust,' said Mr. Scrake, mashing
his potatoes, and entombing a lump of butter in the heart of a small
pyramid of them. 'You said he was hell, or the devil, or something of that
sort. What then? Eh?'
Kornicker, though not at all pleased with the ignorance of his companion,
in the particular branch in which it had just displayed itself, was not of
a sulky disposition, and was easily won into a communicative mood,
particularly as Mr. Scrake begged him, with tears in his eyes, to tell him
which was the best part of a beef-steak, so that he might avoid in future
the mortification of being guilty of a similar error.
As the coffee went down, and the beef-steak followed, Mr. Scrake seemed to
relax, and to forget that his hat hung over his head, commemorative of the
recent retirement of Mrs. Scrake from this 'wale of tears,' and became
quite jocular on the subject of the fair sex, congratulating Kornicker
upon his looks; calling him a lucky dog, and telling him that if _he_ were
him, he'd 'make up to some charming young woman with a fortune, and be off
with her.' He then went into a detail of his own juvenile indiscretions,
relating many incidents of his life; some of which were amusing, some
ridiculous, some tragic, some pathetic, and not a few quite indecent. It
was wonderful what a devil that fat-cheeked, little-eyed, round-stomached
fellow had been. Who could resist the influence of such a man? Not poor
Kornicker; it gradually had its effect upon him, for he in turn grew
communicative; talked freely of Rust, and of every man, woman and child of
his acquaintance. He grew merry over the rare doings which had taken place
in Rust's den. He then descanted upon the peculiarities of the old man;
his fierce fits of passion, his cold, shrewd, caustic manners, his coming
in, and his going out; how long he was absent; how profoundly secret he
kept himself, his doings, his whereabouts, and his mode of life. 'And,'
said he, in conclusion, 'I know nothing of him. He's a queer dog, a
wonderfully queer one. It would take a long time to fathom him, I can tell
you. I've been with him for a long time; and am his confidential adviser,
his lawyer, and all that sort of thing; and yet I've never done but two
things for him.'
'You don't say so!' exclaimed Mr. Scrake, laying down his knife and fork;
and looking at him with his mouth open; 'and pray what _were_ those
things?'
'I sued one man,' (being a lawyer you know,) said he, nodding in an
explanatory way at Mr. Scrake, 'and carried a letter to another.'
'Ah! and who were those fortunate individuals?'
'Poh! I suppose there's no secret about it. The man sued, was one Enoch
Grosket. The other was one Henry Harson; a jolly old boy he _was_ too. I
breakfasted with him; a prime fellow; keeps a d----d ugly cur, though.'
'Enoch Grosket, Henry Harson!' said the stranger, musing; 'I've heard of
them, I think. Who are they?'
'It is more than I can tell,' replied Kornicker. 'That's the mystery of my
situation. I know nothing about any thing I'm doing, or of him, or his
acquaintances.'
'Why, you must know what you sued the man for,' said Mr. Scrake,
earnestly; 'you must know _that_, surely.'
'Yes, but it's a height of knowledge which don't carry much information
with it,' replied Mr. Kornicker. 'I sued him on a promissory note. What he
made it for, or how Rust got it, or any thing more about him, or it, or
Harson, or Rust, I know as little as you.'
The stranger drew himself up, and looking at him gravely, said in a
serious and even stern tone: 'Do you mean to say that you are entirely
ignorant of every thing respecting this Rust; his family, his business,
his acquaintances, his associates, his habits, his plans and
operations?'--in short, that you know nothing more than you have mentioned
to me?'
The other nodded.
'Waiter, my bill,' said he in a peremptory tone.
The boy brought him a slip of paper, on which was written the amount.
He paid it without a word; walked across the room, took down his hat, put
it on his head, and turning to Kornicker, said in a tone of solemn
earnestness: 'Young man, you're in a bad way, a _very_ bad way. Had I
known with what people you were in the habit of associating before I sat
down at that table, Ezra Scrake's legs and yours would never have been
under the same mahogany. A man in the employ of another and know nothing
of him! It's enormous! He might be a murderer, a thief; a man-slaughterer;
a Burker, an arsoner, or any thing that is bad. Young man, in spite of the
injury you've done me, I pity you; nay, I forgive you.'
Mr. Kornicker, was merely waiting for an opportunity to suggest to him
that his company had not only been unsought, but actually forced upon him,
and even under his solemn protest. But before he could do so, Mr. Scrake
was in the street; whereupon, on ascertaining that he was out of the
hearing of Mr. Kornicker, he muttered to himself: 'It was no go. Waited
for him two hours; then spent an hour in pumping a dry well. Enoch
Grosket, has sent me on a fool's errand. Michael Rust knows too much to
trust that addle-headed fool.'
Having given vent to these observations, he deliberately buttoned up his
coat, and walked off.
CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
In a dark room into which even in the day-time the light struggled in such
scanty streams that a kind of twilight was the nearest approach that it
ever made to broad day, but which was now only lighted by a single candle,
that flared and dripped in the currents of air, as they eddied and whirled
about, seeking an escape, sat Tim Craig, and his comrade Bill Jones, the
men with Rust's interview with whom the reader is already acquainted. They
were sitting cheek by jowl on two wooden benches in front of a fire, which
they from time to time nourished with sticks from a heap of wood on the
hearth. The fire however would not burn, but kept smouldering and smoking,
now and then springing up into a fitful blaze, which threw a spectral air
over the room, peopling its dim recesses with all sorts of fantastic
forms, and then expired, leaving it more gloomy than ever. The appearance
of the men, their subdued, whispering voices and startled looks, showed
that at that particular time they were not altogether in a frame of mind
to resist the gloomy influence of the place. The dark, lonely room, with
its large shadowy corners and gaping seams, through which the wind sighed
and wailed, and the pattering of the rain as it swept heavily against the
side of the house and on the roof, all tended to add to the melancholy and
sombre tone of their feelings. Bill drew his bench to the fire, looked
suspiciously about him, and then, as if half ashamed of having done so,
said:
'It's a h-ll of a night! I don't know how it is, but I'm not in trim
to-night. Blow me, if the sight of that old fellow don't make one's blood
cold. I can't get warm; and this bloody fire keeps sputtering and smoking,
as if to spite one.'
Tim Craig, to whom this remark was addressed, turned and looked him
steadily in the face, without speaking; and then his eyes wandered about
the room, as if he were fearful of being watched or overheard, in what he
was going to say.
'Bill,' said he in a low voice, his thin lips quivering; but whether from
anger or any other emotion, was a matter of much doubt; 'd----d if I know
which way to leap! Enoch pulls one way and Rust another. Either of them
could send us to kingdom come. Ugh! how cold it is! Something comes over
me to-night--I can't tell what. I don't half like the job. Bill,'
continued he after a pause, drawing nearer his comrade and lowering his
voice, 'I'm haunted to-night. You know that fellow, the man up town, the
cartman----' He hesitated, and leaned his mouth close to the ear of the
other, while in the dim light his face seemed ghastly; 'the--the man, last
year----'
Jones looked at him significantly; and then drew his finger across his
throat. 'Do you mean that fellow?'
'Yes,' replied Craig in a husky tone, and scarcely able to articulate, for
the choking in his throat. 'He's been _here_ to-night. Three times I've
caught him looking over my shoulder! GOD! There he is again! Light! light!
light!' shouted he, springing up; 'make the fire burn, I say--make it
burn! Heap on wood! heap it on! Do _anything_--but keep HIM off!'
'Why, Tim, you seem to be took bad,' exclaimed his companion, at the same
time getting on his knees, and setting assiduously to work to blow the
fire. 'Come, this is worse than ever. We've got to work to-night; and it
wont do to go into your fantastics.'
He paused in his remarks to apply his breath to the fire, and with such
success, that in a few minutes a bright blaze was dancing up the chimney,
lighting the whole room, and dispelling at once that shadowy appearance
which its great size and dilapidated state had tended to give it.
'There now, that's as comfortable a fire as you can want; and arter all,
what you was just talking of was all fancy,' said he, resuming his seat.
'Dead men stay where you put 'em.'
Craig had been pacing furiously up and down the room, as if to out-walk
some demon that _would_ keep at his side; but he stopped short, and going
up to his comrade, placed his hand on his shoulder and said: 'Bill Jones,
that's a lie! Whoever says so, lies! Dead men _don't_ stay where you put
'em. I've had that man walking with me for hours together. I've had him at
the same table with me, when I ate; I've had him in bed with me--ay, all
night long; and to-night he's been here with his face almost touching
mine. Blast him! if I could but get him by the throat, I'd throttle him!'
'Come, come, Tom, none of this,' said Jones, with more gentleness than his
appearance indicated. 'I'm sorry for you; you must feel bad enough, or you
wouldn't go on so. I've know'd you since we were boys together; and I know
it's not a little matter that works you up, like you are now. Come, sit
down.' He led him to a seat, and kneeling at his feet, took his hand in
both of his. 'Don't give in so, my old feller. Don't you know, when we
were boys, how we all looked up to you; and although I could have doubled
you up, with my big limbs, yet you always had the mastery over me. Ha! ha!
Tim, don't you remember the old schoolmaster, too? Hallo! what now?'
Craig leaned his head upon Jones' shoulder and sobbed aloud. Don't talk of
those days, Bill; it'll drive me mad. Oh! if I was a boy again! But no,
no; I'm a fool,' exclaimed he, springing up, apparently swallowing his
emotion at one fierce gulp, and in an instant becoming as hardened as
ever. 'Am I crazy, to-night, or _what_ ails me, that I've become as
white-livered as a girl? Where's the grog? Give us a sup; and we'll see
what's to be done.'
'There, now you talk right,' said Jones, putting his hand in his
coat-pocket and drawing out a small bottle, cased in leather; 'that'll
wake you up; and now to business. You hav'n't told me what's to be did,
and who you'll go with, Grosket, or Rust.'
'Rust,' said Craig, abruptly; 'he's our man. He can bleed; Enoch can't.
_He_ never fails in what he wants to do; Enoch _does_; but they are both
devils incarnate. I'd rather fight against ten other men than either of
them; but rather against Enoch than Mike Rust.'
'Well, what is it? He told you all about it. I couldn't hear what he
said.'
'He's been on the prowl for two days: God knows what he's arter; but he
wants us to break in a house and steal a girl.'
'The profligate willain!' exclaimed Mr. Jones, with an air of great
horror; 'I'll tell his father of him!'
'It's only a child.'
'Oh! that alters the case,' said Mr. Jones, 'Then I'll tell his wife.
Well?'
'We are to go to the house, get the girl at all hazards, rob the house if
we choose, and bring _her_ here. What he wants of her, who she is, is more
than I know. 'You are to get her, and ask no questions,' that's what he
said.'
'Who's in the house?'
'Only an old man and a woman.'
'The man?--is he used up, or what?'
'He's a bull-dog,' was the laconic reply.
'We'll want _them_ then,' said Jones, pointing to a closet which was
partly open, showing several pairs of pistols on a shelf.
'I suppose so. Bring 'em out, and look at the locks; not the
flintlocks--it's a wet night; get the others. We must have no trifling.'
Jones made no other reply than to take out a pair of pistols, which he
carried to the light, and examined their locks.
'Are they loaded?' inquired Craig.
Jones nodded: 'Two bullets in each! Suppose they twig us?--are we to fight
or run?'
''You had better die than fail.' He said that,' replied Craig, in a low
tone; 'and when I saw his look I thought so too. D--n him! I'm afraid of
him. It'll be no baby-work if they discover us.'
The other robber made no reply, but continued to examine the pistols,
carefully rubbing the barrels, to remove any trace of rust, and working
the hammers backward and forward; after which he put two fresh caps on the
cones. 'All right! I'm ready as soon as it's time. When do you go?'
'Not till an hour after midnight. That's the time when folks sleep
soundest. You could cut a man's throat then without waking him. Don't let
the fire get down,' said he, turning an apprehensive eye toward the
fire-place. 'It's cold, and we've three hours to be here yet.'
Jones, with the same good-natured alacrity which he had before displayed,
threw several sticks on the fire, and then turning to his comrade, said:
'Suppose we rattle the dice till midnight?'
Craig shook his head.
'What say you to the paste-board?'
'No cards for me,' replied the other, seating himself and leaning his
cheeks between his hands, with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes
fastened on the fire. 'I want to be on the move. God! How I wish it was
time! This cursed room is enough to suffocate one. Curse me, but it smells
of coffins and dead men, and is as cold as a church-vault. It goes to a
fellow's very bones.'
There was something so unusual in the mood of his comrade, that Jones at
last started up and said:
'Blast me, Tim, but you must stop this. You're making me as wild and
frightened as yourself. Talk of your beaks, and courts, and prisons, and
bullets, and pistols, as much as you like; but d--n it, leave your dead
men, and coffins, and vaults, and all them 'ere to themselves, will you!
Curse me, if you ain't enough to make a sneak of any man. So just stop,
will you? If you can't talk of something better, don't talk at all.'
Craig took him at his word; and drawing his bench closer to the fire,
maintained his position, without moving or speaking for more than an hour.
Jones, in the mean while, for want of employment, again examined the
pistols; drew out the loads, and reloaded them; then going to the closet,
he brought out two very dangerous-looking knives, and after trying the
points on his finger, proceeded to oil them. This over, he betook himself
to whistling, at the same time, keeping time to his music by drumming his
heel heavily on the floor. This, however, could not last forever; and
finally, wrapping a heavy coat around his shoulders, he stretched himself
at full length in front of the fire, and was soon sound asleep.
Not so his companion. In silence, without stirring, and scarcely
breathing, yet wide awake, with ears alive to every sound, and distorting
every sigh of the wind into the voice of a human being, he sat with white
lips and a shaking hand until the faint chime of a clock, which reached
him even above the noise of the storm, told him that the hour was come.
'Wake up!' said he, touching Jones with his foot. 'It's time to be off.'
Jones, with instinctive quickness, obeyed the call by springing to his
feet, apparently as wide awake as if he had not closed his eyes during the
night.
'All right!' said he, looking hastily about the room. 'Hey! but what's all
this noise?'
'It's a horrible night; all hell seems abroad,' said Craig. 'But come; get
ready, and let's be off.'
'Will we want any of _them_?' asked Jones, pointing to an upper shelf in
the closet, on which was lying a number of uncouth-looking instruments,
the nature of which was best known to themselves.
'Take the small crow; we may want _that_, but nothing more.'
'The bag, too?' inquired Bill.
'No; it's a girl we've to steal; d--n it, I wish it wasn't!'