CHARLES PEACE LEAVES DARTMOOR.
We must now return to our hero, who, probably many of our readers may
think has been left too long unnoticed; but it will be remembered that
we left him in good hands. He was well looked after, and month after
month wore sadly away, until at length the time approached upon which
Peace was to regain his liberty.
He had been very diligent and well behaved, and had earned the
requisite number of marks.
Discharges take place in various ways, but Peace was not at all
particular about the method or manner of his liberation, provided he
left the cheerless walls of Dartmoor.
As we have stated in a preceding chapter, when a man is first of all
convicted, his clothing is confiscated, and on his discharge the
prison authorities give him other garments in place of those which
have been taken from him.
This is part of the prison arrangements that requires reform, and
which, doubtless, will be seen before long.
At the present time two courses are adopted.
If a man joins the Prisoners’ Aid Society, he has a small sum allowed
to him, which is handed over to the society to purchase clothing; but
if he does not, an outfit is given him, but this bears upon it
unmistakable evidence that the man has been a convict.
This is neither fair nor just.
It is true the clothes men leave Dartmoor in are cut well, made well,
and in most instances are tolerably good fits, but the material is of
the very worst quality, being a shoddy imitation of tweed, with a
twill or pattern printed on it, and any one would be at no loss to
know where it came from, for there is nothing like it made outside the
walls of a prison, and such stuff is hardly worth making up into
garments, for it is rotten, and will bear no time.
A good serviceable material might be obtained at a trifling more cost,
and the discharged prisoner would then have a rough suit of clothes
which he would not be ashamed of wearing.
It is ridiculous to measure a man, and spend skilled labour in cutting
and making well-fitting garments which will not hang together for a
month.
The under clothes there is very little to find fault with, the
stocking and flannels are as good as need be. The materials of the
boots in general are of a good quality, and the workmanship excellent.
As far as the hat is concerned nothing can be much worse.
But taken altogether the rig out is most unsatisfactory, indeed; so
worthless is it, that if a man were to go straight from prison to
Monmouth-street or Petticoat-lane, and is lucky enough not to be
caught in the rain, the dealers in new and second-hand clothes will
allow him the magnificent sum of six, or at the most, seven shillings
for the whole turn-out of coat, vest, trousers, hat, and
handkerchiefs.
They are sent abroad, as no one in this country will buy such rubbish.
Due attention has not been given to this subject by the executive.
Men when they leave prison should have every possible inducement for
them to return to an honest course of life.
The prisoner who goes to the Prisoners’ Aid Society in London is not
compelled to accept the clothes which the gaol officials provide.
He is sent up to town for discharge, and the society, out of the funds
at their disposal, buy him some decent garments, which he is not
ashamed of appearing in.
Peace, however, did not belong to any society of this nature.
When he was discharged from Dartmoor he had, therefore, no alternative
than to leave the prison in the clothes furnished him by the
authorities.
When he was about to leave he was informed by the governor that a
letter had reached the prison, which was addressed to him. It
contained an enclosure (a Bank of England note for twenty pounds).
The letter was singularly short and ambiguous. It was as follows:――
“Accept the enclosed from an old friend and companion. Turn from your
evil courses, and take heed of the future.”
Peace was surprised at the contents of the epistle, and still more so
at the enclosure. He could not divine from whom it had come. At first
he was under the impression that Earl Ethalwood had sent it, but upon
second consideration he dismissed the thought from his mind. The earl
would not have been so secret――there was no reason for his being so.
It must have been sent by some friend; possibly Laura Stanbridge had
forwarded him the amount, which was, of course, most welcome and
acceptable.
In this, however, he was mistaken. The letter and enclosure had been
forwarded by his quondam companion, Bessie Dalton, who had, however,
at this time changed her name as well as her mode of life. We shall
have to refer to her in a future chapter.
Peace was, as a matter of course, greatly delighted at being so
suddenly and unexpectedly put in possession of the sum, which would
suffice for his more immediate necessaries.
He asked one of the warders if he could get the note changed for him
before leaving Dartmoor.
The warder mentioned the matter to the governor, who gave Peace gold
for the note.
And shortly after this our hero bid farewell to his prison associates,
and was conducted with several others to the station by two warders.
Two of his companions were bound to London. Men who have been
convicted in the metropolis are sent there for discharge. If they are
Prisoners’ Aid Society’s men they travel up in convict’s dress, and
one or more warders go with them, as the case may be. And, strange to
say, a marked difference is made in the treatment of the discharged
prisoners.
Those who are convicted in the provinces leave Dartmoor without
handcuffs, and with the hands and limbs free, as Peace did on this
occasion. Those who have to be taken to London for discharge are
manacled and handcuffed, as if fresh caught. Why is this?
No man going up to London for discharge is likely to run away from a
warder; he would be a fool if he did, for until he is completely
discharged he has no licence, and if he did abscond he would be liable
to arrest as a convict at liberty without leave.
All the convicts know this, and it is not at all likely they would
infringe the rules when they were within a few hours of liberty.
The handcuffing of a man under such circumstances is quite
unnecessary. It is worse than this, being in short an indignity which
is at once cruel and useless. So long as he has any time to serve, and
there is any inducement for him to run away, chains and fetters are
perhaps needful; as a convict in a convict’s dress few would recognise
him.
When he goes to London on his discharge journey he has grown his hair,
beard, and whiskers.
He travels with other people who are also bound for the metropolis,
who, seeing him with the darbies on, know very well that his
ornamental bracelets are not the insignia of honour.
The chances are that they may take particular notice of the man, and
one may possibly see him at work a week or two afterwards, and view
him with repugnance, if not with disgust; anyway they would look upon
him as a person to be studiously avoided.
This is hardly fair to the discharged prisoner, who should certainly,
upon regaining his liberty, be permitted to have a fair start in life,
and every facility should be offered him to return to an honest
course.
Before leaving Dartmoor every prisoner has his photograph taken, and
his carte-de-visite is supplied to the various police offices he has
to go to for report.
On Wednesday all the prisoners for discharge that week have arrived in
London, and in the morning a number of detectives come and take stock
of them. The men stand in a row, and the detectives from Scotland-yard
and Old Jewry, together with policemen from other stations, come and
make themselves fully acquainted with the men who are to be let loose
in their districts.
Each man is compared with his photograph and the written description
of him. Of some men the police take no notice, or very little; others
they take special care to become thoroughly acquainted with in every
particular, and examine them most carefully. They know perfectly well
who are likely to be in their hands again.
This ceremony, until very recently, took place in the Queen’s Bench
Prison in the Borough――that old-fashioned prison for debtors, Chancery
victims, and first-class misdemeanants; the prison from which Johnson,
the celebrated smuggler, escaped; the place of which Sheridan said no
man’s education was completed until he had been in the Bench; but the
place around the walls of which so many associations cling, is now a
thing of the past; its final doom was determined on some time back,
and, like Temple Bar, it will live only in the remembrance of the
public through the agency of contemporary chroniclers.
For a long time before its final doom it had undergone a remarkable
change; it was neglected, forlorn, and its old glories had passed
away.
[Sidenote: No. 37.]
[Illustration: PEACE PAYS A VISIT TO A JEW CLOTHIER.]
No longer were its walls marked out with racquet courts――in the olden
days the imprisoned debtor could not have lived without the racquet
court――but debtors and Chancery victims were no longer confined there.
After the abolishment of the Imprisonment for Debt Act, it was
abandoned, and shorn of all its former attractions――for it had
attractions without doubt. It was used as a soldiers’ prison, and so
it continued for some time, until at length that was discontinued, and
the poor old Bench fell further into decay; it was merely used as a
place from whence to discharge convicts.
Men leaving Dartmoor on Monday night arrived at the Bench, or Queen’s
Bench, on Tuesday morning, where they remain, doing nothing, till the
day of their discharge, which takes place one day during the same
week.
Prisoners on licence, generally termed ticket-of-leave men, have to
report themselves once every month at the police-station of the
district where they reside, and to show how they are earning their
living.
As a matter of course it is not at all likely any of them will
pronounce themselves thieves by trade or profession; and everyone has
what is termed a “stall,” that is, he professes to be some handicraft
or trade by which to designate himself, and which, in most cases, is
mere subterfuge――a blind or stall to his real proceedings.
The police are well aware that the pretext is a shallow one, and that
in all probability the man has returned to the dishonest course of
life which he followed before conviction, but the farce has to be gone
through.
If a man moves from one district in London to another he must within
four-and-twenty hours of his arrival report himself at the nearest
police station, so that watch and ward may be kept over him.
The stoppage of transportation brought the administration of criminal
justice to a dead lock. To meet the difficulty the Ministry prepared
and passed with all speed a measure, since known as the first Penal
Servitude Act.
As a final acknowledgment that it was England’s duty to consume her
own criminality, and for the sanction which it gave to various
important principles, this Act (which became law in the autumn of
1853) has, notwithstanding, many serious flaws, very valuable
provisions.
In the course of execution, however, it was stultified into complete
failure.
Altogether the first Penal Servitude Act was a complete failure, and
in the session of 1856 it was found necessary to reconsider the whole
question. The session was too far advanced to allow the report
presented to be transformed into an Act that year, but when Parliament
met again in February, 1857, the requisite bill was the first
ministerial measure introduced, and in spite of the Chinese wrangle
and the dissolution it became law before the end of June.
There is little fault to be found with the second Penal Servitude Act.
To lengthen the sentences according to the old scale, to make some
portion remittable, to permit the issue of licences, was all required
from the measure, and all this the measure accomplished.
The notion that prevails at the English Home Office is, that a
discharged prisoner’s best chance is to obtain a situation under false
pretences.
That he could never obtain employment if his felonious antecedents
were known, and that his dismissal from any place he had procured
under a false character would be the immediate result of their
discovery, is taken for granted; and perhaps, while the English
convict prisons remain what they are, and the public distrust of their
reformatory power continues in consequence unabated, this belief is
well grounded.
It is probably true, therefore, that the acknowledged ticket-of-leave
and the avowed police surveillance might possibly impede a man’s
return to honesty.
As far as Peace was concerned, however, it was a matter of no moment.
He had numberless opportunities afforded him to pursue an honest
course of life, but it was not in his nature to be otherwise than a
hardened criminal.
There is no question about this; albeit his character in other ways is
of a most indefinite and contradictory nature.
Though Peace has given evidence of having a thorough contempt for
human suffering, it is asserted that “he could not kill a mouse” if he
had been requested to do so.
He further declared that if he had to kill his meat he should have to
go without it all his life. Whether from curiosity or interest he had
studied carefully the major portion of the Scriptural writings, and
read opinions on them, and manifested much skill in controversy on
theological questions. One afternoon, when Peace lived in Brocco, he
had a long conversation with the Rev. Dr. Poller on religious topics.
On the departure of the vicar of St. Luke’s Peace thus summed up his
ideas on the subject――
“I believe in God and I believe in the devil, but I don’t fear
either.”
Peace took his standpoint on this that “man was the creature of
circumstances,” and supported his argument by quoting authorities on
the subject.
From his youth upwards he had been fond of curiosities.
He regularly visited the Museum, and as each addition was made to it
he inspected the new object of interest with care. Anything with
carving upon it came in for a large share of his attention.
But he revelled among the models most, and if there was one branch
more than another in which he excelled it was the making of models of
cathedrals and monuments in cardboad, which he embossed and traced
with a variety of patterns.
There is one at the present time in Sheffield――a memento of the deaths
of four members of his family.
It is about a yard in height, and made of cardboard, the outlines of
the embossed work on it being traced with silver.
It represents a monument after an ecclesiastical design, like the main
turret in Gloucester Cathedral, and has every pinnacle cut as cleanly
as though carved in ivory.
It is mounted on a slab, approached on all four sides by steps――these
and the slab being covered with black velvet.
There are four tablets sunk in the lower squares of the monument, one
on each side, and on these are placed the names of the relatives
deceased.
As a speciman of workmanship, it is without equal in its line in
Yorkshire.
Peace expressed his intention of adding to the attractions in the
Sheffield museum.
He decided on constructing one of these “monuments,” and of presenting
it for exhibition in that institution.
Those whose memories it was to perpetuate were the Rev. Canon Sale,
the Misses Harrison, and the “Christian poet,” Montgomery, whose names
he would have engraved on tablets to be placed in the sides of the
structure as already described.
He actually commenced the work, and would have completed it, had he
not taken to other courses.
After receiving his discharge Peace made the best of his way to
London.
One reason for this was that he was not so well known in the
metropolis as at Sheffield, and before returning to his native town he
was desirous of making a change in his costume; the other reason was
that he had for his companions two convicts who were discharged at the
same time as himself. One of these was the housebreaker who had been
convicted at Manchester for burglary; the other was a regular London
thief, whose acquaintance Peace had made in the parade ground of
Dartmoor――the last named was a cheery gossiping gentleman, who
appeared to be on good terms with himself and everybody else.
“Well, we’ve all done our dose,” said the London thief, whose name was
Baxter, “and are glad enough to leave that blooming place. I hope
neither on us ’ill see its dark walls again, and bad luck to it. I
think it’s the worst prison as ever I was in. Why Millbank’s a king to
it.”
“Ah! I never was at Millbank,” said Peace.
“Oh, no, s’pose not――you aint a London man, and may be that this is
your first lagging. Ye see I’ve had some ’xperience――been to all sorts
of places. Lord, a bloke gets used to it in time. I did a seven year
stretch before this, and was at the Gib three out of it.”
“At where?” inquired Peace.
“At Gibraltar.”
“Ah! indeed. How did you like that?”
“Oh! got on there like a ’ouse a’fire. Bless you, that is somethin’
like a stab. Why I was as jolly and ’appy as a sandboy; had it pretty
much my own way. Why they serves you out bacca there regularly every
week, and precious good stuff it is, and no mistake; but, ye see, I
was fortunate, I was,” said the speaker, in a more confidential
tone――“very fortunate. I was servant to one of the officers, and a
right-down good chap he was. I was as right as the mail till the
cholera came; then it went ’ard with a good many, me amongst the
rest.”
“The cholera, eh?” exclaimed Raynton, the burglar.
“Yes, an’ a blooming time I ’ad of it. Ugh, it makes my blood run cold
to think on it now; Ye see, it aint like no other disease――it’s down
upon you like a thousand of bricks afore you know where you are. It
don’t give a fellow no time, and I tell ye I was that frightened at
the sights I seed that I didn’t know whether I stood on my ’ead or my
’eels――it’s a fact. You’ve no idea what it is like at the Gib. I’m
told it was bad enough here, but it couldn’t be anything to compare to
what it was there. I never seed anything like it. Why I’ve stood next
to a bloke in the morning at early muster, and helped to bury him the
same night.”
“Oh, gammon and all,” cried Raynton.
“No gammon about it, old man. I’ll take my Bible oath on it. You don’t
understand it. Don’t yer know that the place is so blooming hot that a
chap won’t keep, and what’s the consekence? He’s got to be buried at
once.”
“And were you an officer’s servant all the time? inquired Peace.
“No, not all the time. You see, the cholera cleared off a lot of the
prisoners――they died like rotten sheep. And not only the convicts but
the sojers as well; and so as my guv’nor couldn’t find any one else he
took me. Ah! he was a good sort, surely. I was precious sorry when the
time came for me to leave the island. Before I was an officer’s
servant I worked in the galleries a making casements for the guns, and
precious hard work it was; but it was better than the work at the
quarries at Dartmoor; besides, there wasn’t that strictness and cursed
ceremony. At the Gib a fellow could say his soul’s his own, and that’s
more than he can say at Dartmoor. At Gibraltar we also made great
tanks to ’old the water. Some of the boys couldn’t stand the wet, but
I didn’t so much mind it.
“It certainly was owdacious at times, but you see we warnt dressed in
different sort of togs; we had white canvas jumpers and trousers.”
“Ah,” said Peace, “and you needed a costume of that sort, I dare say;
but did anyone ever manage to escape?”
“Did anyone? I should just think they did too. You see the Spaniards
were very good as far as lay in their power; they’d always help a
bloke if he was once over the lines. Say what ye like about the
foreigners, they’re a jolly sight better than our people in many
ways――a precious sight. They aint like the blarney fellows about this
place who pounce upon a poor devil, and give ’im up directly for the
sake of a paltry five quid that the Government gives ’im. It’s every
man for hisself and God for us all in this country. Still Dartmoor is
better than Chatham.”
“I thought you said it was the worst place you were ever in,” observed
Raynton.
“It’s the worst place I’ve been in for a goodish while, but when I
said that I forgot Chatham. It certainly aint so bad as that――leastways,
not to my thinking. There’s many a bloke there as is druv to
suicide――it’s such a ’ell upon earth. I hope I shan’t have to go there
again. One chap, while I was at Chatham, threw hisself down in front
of the engine as works the trucks of earth out of the new dock, and
was cut in two. Poor fellow, he’d been bashed (flogged) twice, and the
warder had been going on at him so that he couldn’t stand it any
longer, and so he ups with his pick and chucks it straight at him on
the shoulder. Just as he’d done this he sees an engine coming, so he
saved ’em the trouble of ‘bashing’ him again. He chucked himself in
front of it, and in a second or so all was over. Poor fellow, he was
not half so bad as they tried to make him out, but he was nervous and
irritable, and couldn’t stand being jawed at during the whole of the
day. Ye see many of the men at Chatham are drove into being regular
devils by being constantly nagged at by the blooming officers. It aint
in the nature of man to stand being continually bullied, as some of
the poor devils are. Them as ’as got pluck in ’em turns savage, and
small blame to ’em; but them as ’aven’t knocks under, and does the
meek and mild bisness, same as I did. But it’s hard lines, either
way――precious hard lines――and no mistake; and lots ov ’em die, and it
is considered to be a ’appy release; but lor, I don’t expect either of
you two know the ins and outs of prison life as yet,” said the
loquacious Mr. Baxter.
“We neither of us profess to have the experience that you appear to
possess,” returned Raynton. “Have you ever been to Portland?”
“Have I? I should rather think I had! Well, let me tell you. Portland
is a precious deal better than Chatham, though Portland aint
altogether what you may call an inviting sort of place――far from
that.”
Peace and the burglar, or the other burglar we ought to say, smiled at
this last observation. The speaker’s manner was so _naïve_, there was
a careless, free-and-easy, confidential tone assumed throughout his
discourse, which was rather amusing than otherwise.
The fellow was as callous, and as utterly devoid of all moral
principle as it is well possible to conceive. He talked of the crimes
he had committed, and of the various terms of punishment he had
undergone, as a soldier might tell of his escapes on the battle-field,
or the wounds he had received in the service.
He was but one of many of the same type to be found at Dartmoor, Spike
Island, Portland, and other convict establishments.
It is true men of this class, while undergoing penal servitude, have
the benefit of the ministration of the chaplain, who in most cases
does his best to impress upon them the error of their ways, but it is
a sad reflection that many, and indeed most, of these wretches are
beyond the reach of moral or religious influence.
At Millbank there is a service, or rather was――for the prison is now
no longer in use――of the Holy Communion once every three months.
At Dartmoor there is a Communion regularly every Sunday, and the
prisoners take it in turns.
Every man was invited to join by the chaplain, who no doubt meant
well, but it is very questionable whether his beating up for recruits
in the way he did was judicious, as many men attended with the idea of
currying favour by so doing.
Peace, who throughout his life professed to be a religious man, was
most constant in his attendance; he affected to be remarkably devout.
The hypocrisy of the man formed a very large element in his strange
and diversified character.
The conduct and language of many of the other convicts gave evidence
that they had no real or sincere appreciation of the solemn and sacred
service they took part in. Indeed, most of them were in entire
ignorance of its nature, and were like a set of puppets going through
a performance.
Disgraceful scenes frequently occurred, even in chapel, but it would
be in no way edifying to the reader for us to give a detailed account.
Of them it will suffice to note that there are at Dartmoor and other
convict prisons in this country wretches, monsters in human form, who
seem to be of a different organisation to ordinary men.
The outside world and inexperienced in matters of this nature can have
no notion of the barbarous nature of some of the prisoners, who are
mere brutes in mind and demons in heart.
To describe them and their crimes when at large and their conversation
and acts within the prison walls would so disgust the reader that he
would throw aside this work with horror and disgust.
Neither is it necessary or proper to pollute the minds of our readers
by entering more fully into a subject which is both painful and
depressing to dwell upon.
There are, of course, degrees of morality, or rather immorality, even
in the most depraved, but it is pretty generally acknowledged by
prison officials that the worst characters generally belong to the
class known as _roughs_, and the worst of all are the _London roughs_.
Their language, habits, and mode of life are so radically bad that
they may be pronounced irreclaimable, and for this reason: they were
debased and utterly lost before they reached man’s estate.
They are literally wild beasts, whose animal instincts predominate to
the almost total exclusion of any intellectual or moral feeling, and
with them kind words or good counsel must necessarily be thrown away.
There is but one mode of effectually dealing with them――brutes they
are, and as brutes only can they be punished and coerced, and that is
by the lash.
We have strong objections to flogging in the army and navy, but
consider it to be the only efficient way in dealing with garrotters
and ruffians who commit savage assaults upon either man or woman; in
short, it is the only punishment that they dread, or that can exercise
any influence as a preventive for crimes of this nature.
The man Baxter had passed through almost every gradation of crime; he
had been a thief from his childhood, and so he remained upon reaching
man’s estate.
He was, however, not an unmitigated ruffian.
To say the truth, there was more of the sneak about him than the
ruffian. As to moral principle, he had none.
His favourite “lay” was pocketpicking, and this he had practised to an
extent which might be said to be almost unlimited.
He was very communicative to Peace and Raynton, the three companions
in crime being the only occupants of the carriage.
“Well, old man,” said Raynton, “you’ll be a little more careful how
you ‘sling your hook’ after this dose, I expect.”
“I shall be as careful as possible, but lor bless ye, a cove may be as
careful and artful as blazes, but he’s bound to be ‘pinched’ sooner or
later. Can’t be helped, it’s part of the business.”
“That’s right enough,” remarked Peace; “but what places do you work as
a general rule?”
“I used to do all sorts of places, but my ‘lay’ lately has been
chiefly in the churches or chapels. I used to tog myself up in black
with a white ‘squeeze’ on Sunday, and go to two or three different
places of worship. I dare say you’ll be a little surprised when I tell
ye that I’ve ’eard all the crack preachers in London, and, except when
the May meetings were on at Exeter Hall I never went crooked any other
day but Sunday. I used to do a bit in the smashing line; that was when
I had a clever partner――but she’s dead and gone now.”
“She! Did you have a woman for a partner?” said Raynton.
“Why, of course; I’ve had several. I never had nothing to do with any
‘Moll’ who couldn’t cut her own grass” (earn her own living).
“Oh, I see.”
“But after she turned me up――which she did long afore she died――I
stuck to the light-fingered business. You see, every man has his own
particular ‘lay.’ Some go to public meetings, to races, fairs, and
such like, but I always stuck to the churches and chapels, and did a
quiet respectable business. A cove does better in the high church,
where there’s a lot of show and singing. The people there have got
plenty of money, but I took precious good care not to go to one place
twice within a month; but then you see there’s plenty of them, and so
there’s no call to be too hard upon one establishment. But you must
have a crowded congregation, else it’s not a morsel of good trying to
work it; besides it aint safe.”
“Safe or not,” said the burglar, “it seems you got ‘pinched’ in one of
your pet places.”
“Well, in course I did; but blokes have been ‘pinched’ everywhere and
anywhere. As I told yer before, we can none on us guard against that.
A cove makes a great haul sometimes at a race-course or railway-station
a deal more than he might do in a church, but he runs greater risks,
unless he’s very fly indeed; but guess both of you have been working
on a different ‘lay.’ I never succeeded in ‘cracking a crib;’ it’s out
of my line. Haven’t got the nerve for it I s’pose.”
Peace and Raynton exchanged glances. They were neither of them bright
specimens of human nature, far from it; but still it seemed to strike
them both at the same moment that they had been listening to a man who
spoke of pocket picking and earning a living at it as if it were a
recognised and legitimate trade.
They both smiled, after which the conversation appeared to lag.
It was presently brought to an end, or rather turned into a different
channel by two passengers who entered the carriage upon the arrival of
the train at the next station.
Upon the three discharged prisoners reaching the metropolis they
repaired to the nearest and most inviting-looking hostelry about.
They drank each other’s health in a most cordial and convivial manner,
which was quite touching to behold.
Mr. Baxter was most profuse in his protestations of friendship and
good fellowship, and said he hoped as how they were not going to part
for good and for all, but that he hoped to meet them, not on the
Rialto, but at some of the accustomed haunts where gentlemen of his
profession were wont to congregate.
Peace and Raynton both declared that they hoped to have the pleasure
of meeting with Mr. Baxter on a future occasion.
That gentleman thereupon said that he might be able to put them up to
a dodge or two, and that if he could it would afford him great
pleasure to be of any service to both of them.
At length they succeeded in shaking him off.
Peace and Raynton walked on together for some little distance――they
were chums or cronies who understood each other pretty well; a sort of
friendship, if it could be dignified by such a term, had sprung up
between them.
“Which way are you going?” said Raynton――“eastwards or westwards?”
“Westwards,” returned Peace.
“Ah, just so, the very opposite direction to the one I am about to
take. Well, old man, we’ve borne our ‘prisonment together, and have
been on pretty good terms, all things considered. I suppose you are
like myself, not quite certain as to your future course of action, but
I suppose you don’t mean to turn me up――cast me on one side now that
you are a free man?”
“Certainly not, Raynton, far from that.”
“Well, then, before we part I’ll just give you my address, or rather
one where a letter will be sure to reach me. If you do write, be
careful how you word it, for I’ve a wife and two kids to look after,
and it’s as well to keep the missus in the dark as to where we first
met.”
“All right,” returned Peace, “you needn’t be afraid of my saying
anything――that is, anything you don’t want me to say.”
Raynton wrote down the address, which he handed to his companion,
after which they repaired to another house, where they had a parting
glass, and wishing each other better luck for the future they
separated.
Peace, as we have already seen, had ample means at his command for his
immediate wants.
He now began to reflect a little, that he might determine how to shape
his course.
He glanced at the suit of clothes which had been furnished him; then
he shook his head. He did not like them, and the first thing therefore
was to get a new rig out.
He walked rapidly on in the direction of a new and second-hand clothes
shop, kept by a gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion.
He knew the shop perfectly well; it was about a mile from the spot
where he had parted with Raynton.
But it was rather late, and possibly it might be closed. There would,
however, be no harm in seeing.
He hastened on, and in the due course of time arrived in front of the
shop, which was open.
Peace entered. An old Jew poked his head out of a small back room in
the rear of the shop, and upon observing Peace came forward.
“Vat can I do thish evening for you, my friend? Coat, vest, troushers,
or vat?”
“I want a suit――a regular rig out,” said Peace; “and you must give me
what you can for the suit I’ve got on.”
The Jew placed his hand on the collar of the coat Peace wore, and then
made a face.
“Yes, I know; that will do,” said our hero. “See what you’ve got. I
want, in the first place, a black frock coat.”
“New, or second-hand?”
“New, if you’ve got one to fit me.”
“Ve alvays manage to fit our customers. Got something to suit
everybody.”
“Well――look sharp.”
Peace tried on one garment after another until he succeeded in finding
one that fitted him.
The same process had to be gone through with trousers and vest, for
the accomplishment of which he was conducted into the private room.
“There,” cried the Jew, in a tone of triumph――“couldn’t be better if
they’d been made for you. Never saw a better fit; you look quite the
gentleman.”
“Stow that! I don’t want any of your gammon,” cried Peace. “I’m not
going to give you three pound ten for duffing things like these, so
don’t you think it.”
“S’help me goodness they were never made for the money!” said the
Israelite. “I shan’t get five shillings out of the bargain. No――I
wouldn’t deceive you――not five shillings.”
“Get out! I shall give you two pound ten and the suit I’ve taken off.”
“Vat, theshe! they’re not vorth carrying avay. Shoddy, nothing but
shoddy. Never saw such rubbish in the whole course of my life.”
“You know where they have come from, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes, I think I can guess. Her Majesty made you a present of
them.”
“Right you are, and that’s why I want you to have them. Now then,
don’t keep tossing them about. What are you going to allow me for
them?”
“Five shillings――not a penny more, and then I shall be loser. Not a
farthing more than five bob. Oh, they are not vorth puying at any
price; only, as you’re a customer――and――――”
“There, that’ll do; shut up. Will you take the two pound ten or not.”
“I can’t――pishness is pishness; but, at the shame time, one mush
live.”
“I’ll take two pound fifteen――there!”
“Peace buttoned up his coat, looked at himself in the glass, and felt
that he cut a respectable figure; so, without further haggling, he
gave the Jew the required sum, and strode into the shop.”
“You look all the gentleman except――――”
“Except what?” exclaimed our hero, freely. “None of your
nonsense――except what?”
“The hat.”
“Ah, that’s true. Have you got one?”
“Yes. A pot hat or a pilly cock?”
“A pot hat.”
When Peace was fitted with a hat he strode out of the shop with all
the airs and graces of a man of fashion.