Thus far the outward and visible signs of the Napper wealth were these:
the separate house; the barrel of beer; a piano--not bought as a musical
instrument, but as one of the visible signs; a daily paper, also
primarily a sign; the bonnets and dresses of the missis; and the
perpetual possession of Bill Napper by a varying degree of fuddlement.
An inward and dissembled sign was a regiment, continually reinforced,
of mostly empty bottles, in a cupboard kept sacred by the missis. And
the faculties of that good lady herself experienced a fluctuating
confusion from causes not always made plain to Bill: for the money was
kept in the bedroom chest of drawers, and it was easy to lay hands on a
half-sovereign as required without unnecessary disturbance.
Now and again Bill Napper would discuss the abstract question of
entering upon some investment or business pursuit. Land had its
advantages; great advantages; and he had been told that it was very
cheap just now, in some places. Houses were good, too, and a suitable
possession for a man of consideration. Not so desirable on the whole,
however, as Land. You bought your Land and--well there it was, and you
could take things easily. But with Houses there was rent to collect, and
repairs to see to, and so forth. It was a vastly paying thing for any
man with capital to be a Merchant; but there was work even in that, and
you had to be perpetually on guard against sharp chaps in the City. A
public-house, suggested by one of his old mates on the occasion of
wetting it, was out of the question. There was tick, and long hours, and
a sharp look-out, and all kinds of trouble, which a man with money would
be a fool to encounter. Altogether, perhaps, Land seemed to be the
thing: although there was no need to bother now, and plenty of time to
turn things over, even if the matter were worth pondering at all, when
it was so easy for a man to live on his means. After all, to take your
boots off, and lie on the bed with a pipe and a pot and the paper was
very comfortable, and you could always stroll out and meet a mate, or
bring him in when so disposed.
Of an evening the Albert Music Hall was close at hand, and the Queen's
not very far away. And on Sundays and Saturday afternoons Bill would
often take a turn down by the dock gates, or even in Victoria Park, or
Mile End Waste, where there were speakers of all sorts. At the dock
gates it was mostly Labor and Anarchy, but at the other places there was
a fine variety; you could always be sure of a few minutes of
Teetotalism, Evangelism, Atheism, Republicanism, Salvationism,
Socialism, Anti-Vaccinationism, and Social Purity, with now and again
some Mormonism or another curious exotic. Most of the speakers denounced
something, and if the denunciations of one speaker were not sufficiently
picturesque and lively, you passed on to the next. Indeed, you might
always judge afar off where the best denouncing was going on by the size
of the crowds, at least until the hat went round.
It was at Mile End Waste that a good notion occurred to Bill Napper. He
had always vastly admired the denunciations of one speaker--a little
man, shabbier, if anything, than most of the others, and surpassingly
tempestuous of antic. He was an unattached orator, not confining himself
to any particular creed, but denouncing whatever seemed advisable,
considering the audience and circumstances. He was always denouncing
something somewhere, and was ever in a crisis that demanded the
circulation of a hat. Bill esteemed this speaker for his versatility as
well as for the freshness of his abuse, and Bill's sudden notion was to
engage him for private addresses.
The orator did not take kindly to the proposal at first, strongly
suspecting something in the nature of "guy" or "kid"; but a serious
assurance of a shilling for an occasional hour and the payment of one in
advance brought him over. After this Squire Napper never troubled to go
to Mile End Waste. He sat at ease in his parlor, with his pot on the
piano, while the orator, with another pot on the mantelpiece, stood up
and denounced to order. "Tip us the Teetotal an'
Down-with-the-Public-'Ouse," Bill would request, and the orator (his
name was Minns) would oblige in that line till most of the strong
phrases had run out, and had begun to recur. Then Bill would say, "Now
come the Rights o' Labor caper." Whereupon Minns would take a pull at
the pot, and proceed to denounce Capital, Bill Napper applauding or
groaning at the pauses provided for those purposes. And so on with
whatever subjects appealed to the patron's fancy. It was a fancy that
sometimes put the orator's invention to grievous straits; but for Bill
the whole performance was peculiarly privileged and dignified. For to
have an orator gesticulating and speechifying all to one's self, on
one's own order and choice of subject, is a thing not given to all men.
One day Minns turned up (not having been invited) with a friend. Bill
did not take to the friend. He was a lank-jawed man with a shifty eye,
who smiled as he spoke, and showed a top row of irregular and dirty
teeth. This friend, Minns explained, was a journalist--a writer of
newspapers; and between them they had an idea, which idea the friend set
forth. Everybody, he said, who knew the history of Mr. Napper admired
his sturdy independence and democratic simplicity. He was of the people
and not ashamed of it. ("Well, no, I ain't proud," Bill interjected,
wondering what was coming.) With all the advantages of wealth, he
preferred to remain one of the people, living among them plainly,
conforming to their simple habits, and sympathizing with their sorrows.
("This chap," thought Bill, "wants to be took on to hold forth turn
about with the other, and he's showing his capers; but I ain't on it.")
It was the knowledge of these things, so greatly to Mr. Napper's honor,
that had induced Minns and Minns's friend to place before him a means by
which he might do the cause of toiling humanity a very great service. A
new weekly paper was wanted--wanted very badly: a paper that should rear
its head on behalf of the downtrodden toilers, and make its mighty voice
heard with dread by the bloated circles of Class and Privilege. That
paper would prove a marvellously paying investment to its proprietor,
bringing him enormous profits every week. He would have a vast fortune
in that paper alone, besides the glory and satisfaction of striking the
great blow that should pave the way to the emancipation of the Masses
and the destruction of the vile system of society whose whole and sole
effect was the accumulation of wealth in the hands of the Grasping Few.
Being professionally disengaged at present, he (the speaker), in
conjunction with his friend Minns, had decided to give Mr. Napper the
opportunity of becoming its proprietor.
Bill was more than surprised: he was also a little bewildered. "What,"
he said, after two draws of his pipe, "d'ye mean you want me to go in
the printin' line?"
That was not at all necessary. The printing would be done by contract.
Mr. Napper would only have to find the money. The paper, with a couple
of thousand pounds behind it--or even one thousand (Minns's friend read
a difficulty in Bill's face)--would be established forever. Even five
hundred would do, and many successful papers had been floated with no
more than a couple of hundred or so. Suppose they said just a couple of
hundred to go on with, till the paper found its legs and began to pay?
How would that do?
Bill Napper smoked a dozen whiffs. Then he said: "An' what should I 'ave
to do with the two 'undred pound? Buy anythink?"
Not directly that, the promoters explained. It would finance the
thing--just finance it.
"'Oo'd 'ave the money then?"
That was perfectly simple. It would simply be handed over to Minns and
his friend, and they would attend to all the details.
Bill Napper continued to smoke. Then, beginning with a slight chuckle at
the back of his throat, he said: "W'en I got my money, I went to a
lawyer's for it. There was two lawyers--one layin' low. There was two
fust-rate lawyers an' a lot o' clurks--City clurks--an' a bank an' all.
An' they couldn't 'ave me, not for a single farden--not a farden, try
an' fiddle as they would.... Well, arter that, it ain't much good _you_
a-tryin' it on, is it?" And he chuckled again, louder.
Minns was indignant, and Minns's friend was deeply hurt. Both protested.
Bill Napper laughed aloud. "Awright, you'll do," he said; "you'll do. My
'abits may be simple, but they ain't as simple as all that. Ha--ha!
'Ere, 'ave a drink--you ain't done no 'arm, an' I ain't spiteful.
Ha--ha!"
It was on an evening a fortnight after this that, as Bill Napper lay,
very full of beer and rather sleepy, on the bed--the rest of his
household being out of doors--a ladder was quietly planted against the
outer wall from the back-yard. Bill heard nothing until the window,
already a little open, was slowly pushed up, and from the twilight
outside a head and an arm plunged into the thicker darkness of the room,
and a hand went feeling along the edge of the chest of drawers by the
window. Bill rolled over on the bed, and reached from the floor one of a
pair of heavy iron-set boots. Taking the toe in his right hand, and
grasping the footrail of the bedstead with his left, he raised himself
on his knees, and brought the boot-heel down heavily on the intruding
head. There was a gasp, and the first breath of a yell, and head, arm,
shoulders, and body vanished with a bump and a rattle. Bill Napper let
the boot fall, dropped back on the bed, and took no further heed.
Neither Minns nor his friend ever came back again, but for some time
after, at Victoria Park, Minns, inciting an outraged populace to rise
and sweep police and army from the earth, was able to point to an
honorable scar on his own forehead, the proof and sign of a police
bludgeoning at Tower Hill--or Trafalgar Square.