TIM THE SNAMMER AND JOSH PEDLER OUT ON
BUSINESS.
He who delights in wandering amongst the mazes of this mighty city of
London,—this wilderness of brick and mortar,—and who can view, with the
eye of a philosopher or a moralizer, the various phases in which the
metropolis is to be considered, may find ample food for reflection, and
much changing interest of scene, if he post himself at that point in the
Borough of Southwark, called Newington Butts.
From this point diverge Blackman Street, the Newington Road, the Borough
Road, and Horsemonger Lane.
Blackman Street and the Newington Road constitute the great thoroughfare
between London Bridge and the _Elephant and Castle_ tavern; and
incalculable are the multitudes—innumerable are the vehicles, which pass
along the busy way,—oh! so busy, because the love of money and the love
of pleasure cause all those comings and goings,—those hurryings hither
and thither,—those departures, and those returns!
What a tremendous conflict of interests,—what a wondrous striving to
accomplish objects in view,—what an energy—what an activity—what an
unwearied industry, are denoted by a great thoroughfare like this! Nor
less does that bustle speak of recreation and enjoyment—parties of
pleasure to end in dissipation—amusement, diversion, and holiday, too
often to be dearly paid for thereafter!
Close by Newington Butts you behold a portion of the wall of the Bench
Prison, with its _chevaux de frise_, denoting rather the criminal prison
than a place of confinement for unfortunate persons. What a horrible
cruelty it is to incarcerate men who are unable to liquidate their
liabilities—as if such immurement would place within their reach the
philosopher's stone. Where one dishonest debtor finds his way thither, a
dozen human beings who are enclosed within that gloomy wall, would
gladly—willingly, acquit themselves of their responsibilities if they
had the means. And shall the law be so framed that, in order to punish
one, it must cruelly oppress twelve individuals? Is such a principle
consistent with common sense, justice, or civilisation? Many and many a
heart has been broken within those walls: many and many a fine spirit
has been crushed down to the very dust; and the man who went into that
prison with honourable feelings and generous sympathies, has gone forth
prepared to play the part of a sneaking swindler. For a creditor to lock
his debtor up in prison, is the same as if a master took away the tools
from a mechanic and said, "Now do your work as usual." The Legislature
does not understand this. It allows an expensive process to take place,
so that the debtor who cannot originally pay 50_l._, for instance, has
his liabilities immediately increased to 60_l._: then, when responding
negatively to the demand for this larger sum, he is taken away from the
avocations by pursuing which he might obtain the means to settle with
his creditor, and is thrown into prison. The routine is precisely
this:—If a person cannot pay a debt, you increase it for him: and,
having increased it, you tie his hands so that he shall have no chance
of paying it at all! Merciful heavens! is this common sense?[35]
The system of imprisonment for debt falls trebly hard upon the poor. The
gentleman, though reduced himself, has friends who can assist him; but
the poor are too poor to aid each other. Then money can purchase bail
when a schedule has been filed in the Insolvents' Court; but the poor
man must languish in prison until his hearing. Oh! the advantages of
wealth or wealthy connexions in this mercenary land!—oh! the benefits of
being by birth _a gentleman_!
It was about ten o'clock in the evening, when Tim the Snammer and Josh
Pedler encountered each other, by appointment, at Newington Butts; and,
as it was yet too early for the business which they had in hand, they
repaired to a public-house hard by, where they drank porter, smoked
pipes, and conversed, until the clock in the tap-room denoted the hour
of eleven.
They then rose, paid their score, and took their departure,—bending
their way into Horsemonger Lane.
Tim the Snammer now fell a few paces behind his comrade, Josh Pedler,
who hurried a short distance up the lane, and stopped at the door of a
house of mean, sordid, and sombre appearance.
He knocked at the door, which was opened by an old and hideous-looking
woman, holding in her hand a candle, by the light of which she surveyed
the visitor in a very suspicions manner.
"I want to speak to a genelman of the name of Bones which lives here,"
said Josh, placing his foot, with apparent carelessness, in such a way
over the threshold that the door might not be shut against his
inclination.
"No sich a person don't live here," returned the woman gruffly; and she
was about to close the door, when Josh again addressed her.
"Well," said he, "if he don't pass by that there name, he does by
another—and it's all the same. We ain't partickler, ma'am, as to names;
but my business is partickler, though—and I've got an appintment with
Mr. Benjamin Bones—or Old Death—or whatever else he calls his-self or is
called by others."
"It ain't of no use a standing bothering here, my good man," said the
woman, "'cause vy—no sich a person lives here, I tell you—and I don't
know sich a person by sich a name at all."
"Humbug!" cried Josh and, giving a low, short whistle, he pushed into
the house.
A moment had not elapsed ere Tim the Snammer was at his heels—the door
was forcibly closed—the candle was wrested from the old woman's hand—and
she was threatened with throttling if she attempted to raise an alarm.
The two men bound her with a cord, and carried her into the room opening
from the passage. They then left her, vowing with terrible oaths to
return and "do for her," if she dared make the slightest disturbance.
"There isn't a room on t'other side of the passage, is there, Tim?"
demanded Josh of his companion, who carried the light.
"No. And now let's creep up stairs as gentle as if we was mice," said
the Snammer.
"You've got your barkers, Tim?" asked Pedler.
"Yes—and a damned good clasp knife too," replied the ruffian, with a
significant leer at his accomplice, and speaking in a low whisper. "I
don't think we shall find any one else in the house besides that old
woman and Ben Bones his-self, 'cause Mutton-Face Sal is a devilish keen
one—and she would have found it out if there was any lodgers."
"Well, cut up stairs, Tim," said Josh Pedler, "and don't let us be
a-standing here palavering—or the old scamp may overhear us and get out
by the back windows, or some such a dodge. I'll go fust, if you like."
"No—I'll go fust, Josh," answered the Snammer; "for it's me that has got
the most spite agin the ancient willain."
With these words, Tim Splint crept cautiously up the narrow and dirty
staircase, Josh Pedler following close behind him.
The robbers stopped at the door on the first landing, and knocked; but,
no answer being returned, they broke it open in a few moments by means
of a small stout chisel such as housebreakers are in the habit of using.
"Who's there?" cried the deep, sepulchral voice of Old Death, as he
started from the arm-chair in which he had been taking a nap.
"It's only two of your friends," returned Tim the Snammer; "and _as_
friends you had better treat us, too—or it'll be the wuss for you."
"I don't know that I ever treated you in any way but as friends," said
old Death, glancing somewhat uneasily from the one to the other. "As for
you, Tim—I can guess why you're angry with me; but I wasn't at liberty—I
wasn't my own master, I can assure you—on that Saturday when I promised
to get you out of the Jug; or I should have kept my word. But it's too
long a story to tell you now—even if I was disposed to do so; and so the
shortest way to make us all right, is for me to give you back the money
that was placed in my hands by Josh Pedler."
"And what'll pay me for the two months of quod that I had all through
you, you cheating old fence?" demanded Tim Splint, placing his back
against the door in a determined manner.
"I couldn't help it, Tim—I couldn't help it," returned Old Death with a
hideous grin. "And may be—may be," he added, with the hesitation
habitual to him, "I can put something in your way, that will make up for
the past."
"Well—that looks like business, at all events," observed Tim, exchanging
a rapid glance with his companion; for it struck the two robbers at the
same moment, that they should perhaps act prudently to join Old Death in
any enterprise which he might have in hand, and then plunder him
afterwards—provided that the affair he had to propose, gave promise of a
better booty than that which they stood the immediate chance of
obtaining from him.
Old Death looked leisurely round the small, mean, and ill-furnished
room, as much as to say, "What can you hope to get out of me?"—for the
meaning of the glances which he had observed to pass between the two
robbers, was perfectly well understood by him.
"Is the business you hinted at for to-night?" demanded Josh Pedler,
after a brief pause.
"For to-night," replied Benjamin Bones. "But sit down, my good friends,
and may be I can find a dram of brandy in the bottle for you."
"Thank'ee, we'll stand, old chap," said the Snammer; "but we shan't
refuse the bingo, for all that."
Old Death regaled his two visitors each with a wine glass full of
brandy, and then took a similar quantity himself.
"Yes," he said, continuing the discourse: "it is for to-night—and a good
thing may be made of it, if you're staunch and resolute. In fact, I
wanted to meet with a couple of such active fellows as you are, for I
have been sadly used lately—in more ways than one."
"Well, what is it?" demanded Tim the Snammer. "You know that we're the
lads to do any thing it ought to be done; and I don't see the use of
wasting time, if the business is really for to-night."
"I have had positive information," continued Old Death, his dark eyes
gleaming snake-like beneath the shaggy brows that overhung them, "that a
gentleman, who lives in a lonely house not many miles off, this morning
received a considerable sum of money at a banker's, on a cheque which he
get cashed there; and in a few days he will pay it all away to his
creditors—for he has been building a great number of houses at Norwood;
and so I think," added Bones, with a horrible chuckle, "that it would be
just as well to anticipate him."
"And can you rely on this information?" asked Tim the Snammer. "Come—let
us know all the particklers."
"Two or three days ago he took into his service a man named John
Jeffreys—a groom who was lately in the household of a certain Sir
Christopher Blunt," said Old Death; "and this person sells his secrets
to those who pay him best."
"In plain terms he's in your pay," exclaimed Josh Pedler. "Well—that's
all right. What next?"
"Nothing more than that if you like to crack that crib, you can do it
to-night; and I'll smash the notes, which will be of no use to you till
they're melted into gold," answered Old Death; thereby intimating to
them, first that he should take no active part in the business, and
secondly that it would not be worth their while to cheat him of his
share of the plunder, inasmuch as they were totally dependent on him for
rendering the hoped-for booty at all available.
Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler consulted together for a few moments in
low whispers.
"But how do we know," said the former, suddenly turning round upon Old
Death, "that this isn't all a cursed plant to get us out of the house
here—or may be to inveigle us into some infernal trap—eh? Answer us
that."
"Read John Jeffreys' note," said Old Death coolly, as he produced the
letter from the pocket of his capacious old grey surtout coat.
Tim the Snammer, and Josh Pedler, accordingly read the contents of the
paper, which ran as follow:—
"This cums to tel you, sir, that Master resceved a chek for about
twelve undred pouns yesterday from Sir enry courtenee, a
barrow-night, and that master got it keshed this mornin at the benk,
wich I no becos I had to go with him in the gigg to the benk, and I
see him cum out of the benk a-countin the notes, and I no he will
pay it all away in 2 or 3 days to his bilders and arkitecks and
carpinters at norwood. anny thing you leeve for mee in a broun paper
parsel at the ushoul crib will reech mee. Yure fatheful servant,
"J. J."
"Satisfactory enow," exclaimed Tim the Snammer, with an appealing glance
to his comrade, who nodded his head approvingly. "Well," continued the
thief, "give us the necessary description of the place; and we'll be off
at once. It's fortnit that we've got our tools about us."
"Which you have used against my miserable lodging," observed Old Death,
with a grim smile. "However, I would rather you'd have introduced
yourselves in that way, than not come at all; for I should have let this
matter," he added, pointing to Jeffreys' note, which now lay on the
table, "go by without attending to it. So it's lucky for us all that you
did make your appearance; and if you serve me well in this case, you
shall not want employment of my finding."
[Illustration]
"Good again, old tulip," said Tim the Snammer; "and now tell us where
this Mr. Torrings lives—or whatever his name is—and we will lose no
time."
Old Death gave the necessary explanation; and the two men took their
departure, having first acquainted their employer with the condition in
which they had left the old woman down stairs—a piece of information
which made him hasten to her rescue.
-----
Footnote 35:
The records of the Insolvent Debtors' Court prove that the average
dividend paid upon the estates of persons who take the benefit of the
Act is _one farthing_ in the pound!