MISS STANBRIDGE AND HER PROTEGE――A VISIT TO A THIEVES’ HAUNT.
In a few days after our hero’s successful expedition to Denmark-hill
he packed up his things, had them conveyed to the station by his
friend Bill, and after calling upon Laura Stanbridge and bidding her
farewell, he started off to Sheffield.
He gave the gipsy a pressing invitation to pay a visit to him soon
after his return.
We have now to describe another phase in the history of the boy Alf
Purvis. Since the departure of the old lady, Mrs. Gover, his mistress
had been more than usually kind to him, making something like a
companion of him during the hours of relaxation.
One evening she said to him “Alf, I want you to go with me to the east
end of the town. I purpose taking you to a place which I think will be
interesting to you.”
“Thank you, marm. When am I to go?”
“At once――therefore get ready without delay.”
Alf did as he was bid, wondering all the while what was up, but he
said nothing, wisely keeping his thoughts to himself.
When ready his mistress led him to the door. There was a cab waiting
outside, but Alf remarked that the horse was a fine animal and well
groomed, and that the driver wore no badge upon his coat.
“Now, then, jump in,” cried his mistress; he obeyed, and was followed
by Miss Stanbridge.
The driver of the vehicle, without waiting for the usual instructions
as to where he was to drive to, set off at a brisk pace towards
Trafalgar-square.
The cab rattled along down the Strand, which was full of noise and
light, and through the ponderous arch of Temple Bar into the City,
grave, dark, and silent as it is by night alone.
In a short time the vehicle passed along Leadenhall-street, Aldgate,
lighted only by the street lamps, and here and there by a faint gleam
from a window of some cigar shop or tavern; then they entered a street
so broad, so bustling, that one would have fancied oneself in one of
the great thoroughfares of the West-end, were it not for the small
size of the houses and the squalid appearance of the inhabitants.
They had passed the boundary between wealth and poverty, between vice
and crime.
They were now in a new world, among a race of men who were governed by
different customs, by different fashions, by different codes of
morality from those of civilised London.
They had crossed the frontier of Aldgate pump, and had reached the
land of costermongers and thieves.
They were in Whitechapel.
It is strange what distinctive features different parts of London
have.
There is a mixed population in every district, more or less, and there
are unfortunately dishonest people in every quarter of this great
metropolis; but the unrighteous congregate thickly in many districts
which appear to be the homes of the lawless.
At one time Westminster had an unenviable reputation, at another time
Whitefriars, which was known by the name of Alsatia. St. Giles’s, and
the Dials, and many other parts of London have still an unwholesome
odour.
An interesting book might be written by detectives, who are for ever
engaged in searching for thieves in their well-known resorts.
It was Saturday night when the boy and his mistress arrived at
Whitechapel, and the street they were in, which was as broad as
Piccadilly, presented an extraordinary appearance.
Butchers’ stalls extended down to a considerable distance; the
pavements were lined with retailers of fried fish and potatoes, of
fruit and vegetables, and a thousand miscellaneous wares, which were
displayed to view by means of stout brown paper candles, which,
prepared in a peculiar manner, afforded an excellent light.
In some cases the vendors of wares made use of naphtha lamps in lieu
of the candles.
Alf Purvis was watching this scene from the window of the cab with
great delight, for he was familiar with the neighbourhood, which
reminded him of the poor bird-catcher, who had brought him up to
London.
“You know this part of London――don’t you?” enquired Laura Stanbridge.
“Yes, marm, very well. Whitechapel was the first place I came to after
leaving the farmer.”
“Ah――so I think you told me.”
The cab now suddenly wheeled to the right, and went through a
labyrinth of dark and wretched streets, in which nothing could be seen
except a few shops full of rags and bones, and placards offering a
farthing a pound for the bones, and a penny for the rags.
The cab stopped at the corner, and the driver came round and opened
the door.
“Will you get out here,” said he, addressing himself to the young
lady, “or shall I drive further on?”
“I think this will be near enough for my purpose,” she answered. “We
are close to Little Mint-street?”
“Yes――quite close.”
“Good, then, we’ll alight;” and, springing out, the lady walked down
the street with the assurance of one who was well acquainted with the
locality.
Alf followed his mistress. He did not know what was about to happen,
but had some misgivings.
For the locality he had no predilection, for his early experience of
it had taught him that it was a place to be avoided; but, situated as
he was, he had no other alternative left than to merely submit to the
dictates of his patroness.
After a few minutes he heard a whistle and the rumbling of a train. He
started, and said――
“There’s some railway here, I s’pose?
“Yes,” returned his companion, “the Blackwall. We shall get under it
presently.”
By the light of a lamp he saw a smile pass over her features.
A strange feeling of doubt and mistrust took possession of him.
“Why was he brought hither? It seemed most singular.”
They were soon beneath the arch of the railway, when, instead of
passing through it, Miss Stanbridge turned and pointed to the right.
Alf shuddered. They were standing at the mouth of a narrow street, as
black and repulsive as a cavern.
It ran under the railway for some distance, the archway being propped
up by iron posts.
Thus this street was always dark――it was a tomb; its inhabitants were
buried alive, the only sun was the hot blaze of the engines which
passed over their heads.
“What a queer street for people to live in!” exclaimed Alf. “I didn’t
know there was such a street.”
“Didn’t you? Well, we live and learn. The people are as queer as the
habitations,” returned his mistress, with a merry laugh.
Alf thought there was not much to laugh at. In fact, he was more
disposed to feel dispirited and depressed.
This was not to be wondered at, for the locality was a perfect den of
iniquity. The street was inhabited chiefly by women, who were the most
abandoned and criminal of their sex; they were foul abusive creatures,
and here they lived――a republic of demons.
The boy felt intuitively that he was in the unwholesome atmosphere
which was breathed by the very worst of the human species. He
shuddered and crept close to his companion, who took him by the hand
and led him along the street.
“You seem to be a little disconcerted,” said she. “What’s the matter,
Alf?”
“I shall be glad when we are out of this vile street,” he returned.
“Oh, don’t be alarmed, my boy――there’s no one will harm you.”
“I don’t like the place,” cried Alf.
If he had been disgusted with the place upon first making its
acquaintance, he was still more so as he proceeded along.
At the sound of strange steps lights gleamed on all sides, and women
emerged from every door. Many of them were only partially clothed, and
the appearance they presented was perfectly loathsome. Their faces
were swollen with drink, and the expression of their features was
simply disgusting.
They surrounded Alf like a set of harpies, and he became positively
frightened.
Laura Stanbridge, however, came to his rescue. She spoke to them in an
authoritative tone, which could not be misunderstood by them, albeit
the language she made use of was not comprehended by the boy.
Her words, however, seemed to have the desired effect, for the
wretched besotted creatures parted on one side, and let the two
passengers pass without any attempt at further molestation.
Alf Purvis was delighted when they came to a small lane branching out
of the street under the railway. This was as dark as Erebus.
There were no lights and no houses, only a dead wall on each side.
“Well, this beats all,” cried the boy. “This _is_ a place.”
“Yes,” murmured his mistress. “We must be careful how we proceed
along.”
She produced a bull’s-eye lantern from her pocket, and made the light
therefrom precede her as she walked.
“Isn’t there danger?” inquired her companion.
“None in the least.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.”
The lane ended in a yard and in a tall dingy house, which appeared as
if it had been uninhabited for years.
Taking a stone from the ground, Laura Stanbridge knocked several times
against the door, and then, pausing for a moment, gave a single rap.
“Are we to go in here, then?” inquired the boy.
“Yes, certainly. This is our destination.”
The door swung open, and they entered.
But they had not yet gained the unhallowed precincts of the mysterious
habitation.
Alf was watching the movements of his mistress with evident anxiety.
Another door was before them with a glass window above it.
Miss Stanbridge wetted her finger and rubbed it across the window in
such a way as to elicit a loud screeching noise.
The effect of this was magical.
A face appeared at the window, which was protected by huge iron bars.
“Who’s there, and what’s your business?” said a voice.
“A lady and a lad on the fly,” returned Miss Stanbridge.
“It’s the voice of the duchess,” said the voice above.
“Yes, it’s the duchess,” answered Laura. “All right.”
The door was opened, and they went down some steps into a large room.
Alf’s eyes wandered over this with all the curiosity of a lad who
finds himself in a scene which is new and strange to him.
His companion, however, seemed perfectly at her ease, and the most
noticeable features of the apartment were quite familiar to her.
There were two long tables from fireplace to fireplace, running
parallel with each other.
They were laid with greasy napkins, iron plates, chipped tea cups
filled with salt, two small stone jars filled with mustard, and knives
and forks chained to the table.
A number of candles in the shades nailed to the wall, lighted the
room. These being never snuffed were appropriately invested with
_thieves_, which streamed in large flakes upon the floor, the seats,
and the backs of the guests.
In this place professional thieves and ruffians of every description
were accustomed to congregate, and here numberless robberies were
concocted. It was the resort of lawless men, who waged ceaseless war
against society.
Here they were accustomed to boast of their exploits as if robbery was
a thing to be proud of. The place was a foul den, a very
plague-spot――which, however, it seemed out of the power of anybody to
remove.
The police knew perfectly well that it was the resort of thieves, but
for some reason or another it seemed to be beyond the reach of the
law. There are hundreds of similar places in London.
One fireplace was black and empty, but the other blazed with an
enormous fire――the temple of a blear-eyed salamander-like old woman,
upon whom were fixed, in one long look of hunger and anxiety, the eyes
of a vast assemblage of men and women who were seated at two tables,
clad in disguises at once loathsome and appalling.
“He’s not a bad sort,” said a black-bearded man to Miss Stanbridge,
“him as keeps this ’ere establishment――he’ll do a bloke a good turn at
times.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” she answered.
The man went on:――
“He’s one of your rough and ready customers, but he’s none of your
smile-in-the-face-and-cut-your-throat blokes, for all his ugly mug and
swivel eye.”
“Where is he?” inquired Alf, who began to be interested.
“Aint here at present, young shaver,” answered the man; “leastways I
don’t see him anywhere in the room.”
“And who are those persons?” inquired the boy, nodding towards the
group at the table.
“Those? Oh, they are cadgers,” answered the man, with something like
contempt in his tone, “only cadgers.”
The waitress of this delectable establishment, “Limpey Meg,” as she
was usually termed, now came towards them, flourishing in her hand a
brown napkin.
“Well, Meg; still as nimble on your pins as ever?” cried the
dark-bearded man. What’s the news, lass? All quiet? Any ‘crushers’
been here?”
“No, never a one,” answered Meg; “all quiet, plenty of business, and
no inquiries, that’s the way to say it,” she added with another
flourish of the napkin.
In a few minutes after this a yell was raised, the tables were covered
with joints and vegetables served up on iron dishes. It was not long
before they were all served, and it was a strange sound to hear the
noisy clattering of knives and forks upon the iron dishes, and the
tinkling of the chains.
Laura and her protégé watched all these proceedings, none of the
dinner party taking the slightest notice of them――indeed, they did not
appear to be conscious of their presence, albeit, the boy’s companion
was known to the majority if not to all of them.
Presently Limping Meg came forward again and spoke in a respectful
manner, and in an under-tone to Miss Stanbridge.
“Ax yer parding, marm, but perhaps you might be a wanting to see the
Smoucher?”
“Where is he, Meg?”
“He’s up in his room with the cracksman, and a lot more. They be full
o’ b’isness.”
“He’ll find time to see me, I daresay,” returned Alf’s mistress.
She passed through a large apartment and went upstairs to a room on
the first story, which was small and almost filled with ragged men and
women.
In this room also was the dark-bearded man whom Alf had conversed with
below.
“What are they doing, sir?” inquired the boy.
“Making a cadger,” returned the man who then whispered to a short,
thick-set fellow next to him, who whispered to somebody else, and Alf
heard them saying as they glanced at his mistress――
“That’s Laura Stanbridge, the most famous she-fence in London, and she
cuts it fat at the West-end of the town.”
Then the men nodded mysteriously to one another.
Laura, however, did not seem to hear what they said. If she did she
deemed it prudent to keep silent.
The most noticeable person in the room was a thin-featured man with a
bushy beard, seated at a small table; low cunning was depicted on his
ferret-like features. In front of him, on the table at which he was
writing, was a bundle of papers; by the side of the man was a pale boy
in rags.
Alf looked inquiringly at his mistress, who informed him in a low
whisper that the man with the grey beard was known as the Smoucher. He
was a writer of begging-letter petitions, and was employed in
fabricating all sorts of documents for the brotherhood who frequented
the establishment.
He was, in fact, the accredited secretary to thieves of all
denominations. He was thoroughly versed in flash language, and
sometimes the epistles he wrote were couched in language which, to the
uninitiated, would be quite unintelligible.
We give two specimens, with translations of the same, of the
phraseology made use of by thieves, and the reader may rest assured
that these are reprints from documents which have been found on the
persons of criminals.
FLASH LANGUAGE.
“DEAR DICK,――I have seen the swag chovey bloke who christened the
yacks quick. I gave him a double finnip. I am now on the shallow. I
have got the yacks, so do not come it fight cocum. I am at the old
padding ken, next door to puddling crib. I am gadding the hoof, but
quick be a duffer, now on the square. I want a stalsman buttoner to
nail prads. I last week worked the nulls. I have lost my joiner mun
now.”
TRANSLATION.
DEAR DICK,――I have seen the person who bought the watches, and he
altered the name in them immediately. I gave him a ten pound note for
doing it. I am now going half naked to avoid suspicion. I have got the
watches back again――therefore do not turn informer. Be wary and sly. I
am stopping at the old lodging-house, next door to the boys’
lodging-house. Do not say a word, but be very quiet. I am going about
without shoes, but shall soon turn hawker. I am at present honest. I
want a partner. Will you come and join me, and then we will commence
stealing horses? I last week got through a great many bad five
shilling pieces. I have left my fancy girl. Be sure you say nothing.
Another:――
DEAR BILL,――I have seen Cheeks. You must meet us at the old mushroom
faker’s at eleven; if not there go to the old padding ken――bring all
your screws. The case of a bloak is planted, to be cracked, plenty of
finnips, also some long tailed ones; be mum with your joiner, fight
cocum, and be cocum with boozing kens, only a bloak and a shikster in
the case, except a pig. Be cocum crabshells; a goun off was last week
booked by a fly through crabs. I have seen a kidsman, who will fence
two finnips three finnips. There are no flys about.
TRANSLATION.
DEAR WILLIAM,――I have seen “Cheeks” (a flash name for an accomplice),
and you must meet us at the old umbrella mender’s at eleven o’clock,
and if we are not there go to the old lodging house. Bring with you
all your housebreaking instruments. We have arranged to break the
house of a gentleman who has plenty of five pound notes, and also some
large bank notes. Be sure you do not name this to your fancy girl. Be
careful what you do, and keep from drinking shops. There is nothing in
the house but a gentleman and a lady and another person. Do not put on
your own shoes, a brother thief did last week and was taken by a
policeman. I have seen a person who trains boys to thieve, who will
take all the five pound notes at ten pounds for fifteen. There are no
policemen in the neighbourhood.
The den of mystery to which Laura Stanbridge had paid a visit
contained ruffians of every conceivable description.
Lolling in an arm-chair behind the table, with a huge junk of bread
and meat in one hand, and a glass of gin and water in the other, and a
short black pipe in his mouth, was a burly ruffian, with strength
written in his brawny arms and broad shoulders and prominent heaving
chest, with villainy in his deep hollow eyes and his cropped black
whiskers and eyebrows, which were half an inch apart.
This was the cracksman――a famous burglar, and a pal of the Smoucher in
all the lays which the latter devised and the former accomplished.
This huge miscreant had been at one time a boon companion and
accomplice of Gregson, whom he resembled in a remarkable degree.
The untimely end of the Bristol Badger failed to have the slightest
effect in turning this callous criminal from his evil ways.
“Now, young man,” said the Smoucher, looking up from his papers, “you
said you could read, I think?”
“Yes, a little, sir. I’ve been to school.”
“All right, so much the better; nothing like education. Your friends
say you are to try your luck at cadging in the country, where people’s
green and food’s cheap. Take this paper and chalk up on the post of
every door you go to one of these marks, according to the character of
the people you meet with there; that will act as a clue to any brother
cadger who may chance to come after you as to what treatment they are
likely to expect.”
The paper contained a series of marks or signs, which are known only
to cadgers.
The boy took the paper and thrust it into his pocket.
The man at the table then gave him several recipes for disfiguring his
body so as to present the appearance of burns or scalds, together with
other accidents, all of which he laid down to his young pupil in a
most systematic business-like manner.
Alf Purvis was astonished at these mysterious proceedings, but he
remained silent.
A man now came up to the table and said to the Smoucher――
“What do you charge for a petition?”
“Eighteen pence,” was the answer.
“Well, then, let’s have one.”
The Smoucher placed two ink bottles before him――they were filled with
ink of two different shades. He then spread a bit of paper under his
hand and began writing.
“He’s a stunner at using the pen,” said one, looking on. I wish I knew
how to do it.”
“You’d soon find yourself in the ‘steel’ if you did, old man,” cried
one of the party.
The Smoucher, having finished the document upon which he was engaged,
folded up the same, creased the paper as if it had been long written,
and after examining the signatures attached thereto of ministers and
church-wardens, he dipped his fingers under the fireplace, and smeared
it with ashes, to the infinite delight of the lookers on, who swore
that there wasn’t one in twenty who wouldn’t take it for a real
concern.
The man, having folded this precious document in his green _kingsman_
or green silk pocket handkerchief, and placed it in his hat, after the
manner of the Persians, departed.
A little more business was transacted in the same manner, and then the
cracksman, Laura, and the boy were left alone with the smoucher.
“Well, Laura,” said the latter, in a pleased tone, “who would have
thought of seeing you here, and you’ve brought a stranger with you?”
he added, glancing at Alf Purvis. “He looks too genteel for this
place.”
“He’s sharp, and willing to learn.”
“Ah, I see; you want him taught――wish to have him put in training,
eh?”
Laura Stanbridge nodded.
“Well, if you mean business, he must be brought regularly up to the
trade――or profession, more properly speaking.”
“Certainly, that is right enough.”
“And who do you think of binding him to?”
“That’s just the question I was going to ask you.”
“Me? I don’t know what answer to make.”
The Smoucher leant his head on his hand and began to ruminate.
“There’s a gentleman we both on us know,” said the cracksman, “an’
both on us respect. His name is Mathew Furness. He began life as a
half shallow in the streets; from a shiverer he became a cadger, from
a cadger he became duffer (pedlar), from a duffer he became an area
sneak, a shop bouncer, and a fogle-tugger. From a fogle-tugger he
became a swell mobbite, and then a rampsman, and then a cracksman. He
has ascended from the very foot to the very summit of his honourable
and scientific profession. And besides that he is up to all the other
little games of life that are worth knowing. He has been a ‘shoful
man’ and a ‘smasher,’ and a racecourse flat-catcher, and he’s as famed
a fence as Ikey Solomon or Laura Stanbridge, the Swell-street
(West-end) Adam Tiler.”
“There’s no doubt Matt’s a great man――a very great man,” said the
cracksman, meditatively.
“And who so well adapted to take my young gentleman in hand?” cried
Miss Stanbridge.
The Smoucher had not vouchsafed any reply to the adulatory harangue.
“The only question is, will he do so?” said Laura.
“I’ll do my best,” returned the man of many letters.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Not if I know it,” cried a voice from
the further end of the room.
The speaker was the landlord of the establishment. He had short black
crisp hair, a swivel eye, and his features were certainly not
handsome.
“Well I am blest, this beats cockfighting,” cried the burglar. “What
business is it of yourn, Sam?”
“I’ll make it my business,” returned the landlord. “It shan’t be done,
I tell ye. I wont have anything of the sort take place in my house. We
all know what we are, but that’s no reason a younker like that, who in
all likelihood is gently bred and born, should be ruined for life.”
“There’s an end of the matter, Sam,” said the Smoucher. “I for one
wont have any hand in the business.”
The tables were suddenly turned. The landlord’s word was law; he held
the life and liberty of his customers in his hand, and if he chose to
round on them it would go hard with all.
Miss Stanbridge was unprepared for this issue. She took the boy by the
hand and led him out of the room.
“I hope you’ll have a better office when you come here again,” cried
the landlord as she descended the stairs.
She made no reply, but went into the room below.
While all this had been taking place a woman had been stationed
outside the den of iniquity, clinging to the iron railings which ran
round the front of the habitation; her eyes were directed towards the
windows which shone so brightly.
She watched intently, but could not see the groups of persons in the
large room, but she heard the confused sounds as of many voices.
She heard also obscene and blasphemous ribaldry, which were greeted
with shouts of horrible laughter.
She clung closer to the railings, and heaved a deep sigh.
A boy’s voice clear and melodious rang from that abode of infamy and
crime, and soared like a lark’s carol towards the sky; but although
the voice was musical it was sullied by the words which it pronounced.
The woman heard the voice. In her eyes shone a strange and lurid
light. She moaned upon the pavement, and tore her grey hairs while the
tears poured down her cheeks.
Had any one seen this strange woman their hearts would have been moved
to pity, so supremely wretched did she appear.
“He is there with the pestiferous odious crew of wretches,” exclaimed
the woman. “He is there――I hear his voice. Ah, why do I love this boy?
What secret and unknown power is it that draws me like a loadstone to
this accursed spot? I cannot help it. Why do I take an interest in
this poor lad? He is naught to me, and I dare not see him again. I am
in her power, and she has neither pity or remorse.”
The woman arose, pressed her hands to her temples, and shuddered.
Taking one last lingering glance at the thieves’ haunt she turned, and
hastily left the spot.
Laura Stanbridge and Alf passed through the den, and walked on till
they came within sight of the cab, which was waiting for them. They
entered the vehicle in question, and were driven rapidly home.
Soon after this the first streaks of dawn and yellow glimmers of light
appeared above the housetops.
And the creatures of vice were creeping back to their homes with pale
and haggard countenance; and the creatures of labour were rising while
it was yet dark, and the great city was waking once more to its toils
and its sorrows, its pleasures and its sins.